Hi! It has been a minute (or you know over a year) but I am back and, as mentioned in the title and blog rebrand, bookish.
In the past two years (2023 and 2024) I read 947 books, novellas, ebooks, ARCs/ALCs and audiobooks. I have joined several street teams. I have attended several bookish events, boughts lots of book boxes, special editions, signed books, and so much more.
What I am saying is that I am in my bookish era and I am taking this blog with me. I will post about events, review books, talk about authors, post unboxings, and anything else I can think of. Very bookish. Can you tell it is bookish?
Also I am setting a goal to finish my own book in the first quarter of 2025, so I will post sneak peaks, and walk through the editing and publishing process.
This year for one of my classes I wrote a story that I would consider a ghost story. It was inspired by a quote from a high school friend, Jarod Anderson who writes as The Cryptonaturalist. It is not perfect but I liked it and thought you might enjoy.
“The Mind is a Haunted House”
Every memory is a ghost and the house they haunt is you. – The Cryptonaturalist (Jarod K. Anderson)
Delilah screamed as she shot up like a bolt from a deep sleep. She hugged her arms against her chest to slow her heart and to warm herself up. Her breath came out in gasps, visible mist in the cool air and dim light of her bedroom. Despite the chill, she was dripping sweat from the tip of her nose and small rivulets were making their way down her cheeks to puddle in the corners of her mouth leaving her tasting the salty brine of fear and, yes, tears that were steadily flowing from her eyes. She lifted her t-shirt to wipe ineffectually at her face, then swung her legs out from under the blankets. The shock of the cold hardwood under her feet forced a curse from her lips, “Fuck.” She glanced at the time on her phone which was charging silently on her bedside stand, 2:32 A.M. She ran a hand through her long dark hair and then hurriedly scurried into her ensuite bathroom.
She debated for a moment before deciding to turn on the lights in the bathroom. She shuffled to the vanity where she washed her hands and face mechanically, an automaton running the just woke up program. She met her own eyes in the mirror and gasped audibly as she took in the entirety of herself.
On her neck, stark and purple against the paleness of her skin, were a series of bruises. They had not been there three hours ago when she had finally put the book down and gone to bed, so where had they come from. She gingerly touched her neck, examining the bruises closer and realizing that she could make out the outlines of fingers, as though someone or something had tried to strangle her. She tried to remember what had pulled her from her sleep mere moments ago, but she didn’t remember. Her only lingering thought was that her father had been a part of her dreams. But was it a dream? Or a memory?
She knew to her bones that she was not going back to sleep, so she turned out the bathroom lights and padded back into her bedroom this time making her way to the ancient comfy blue overstuffed chair in the corner. The room smelled of sweat, wine, sandalwood, and the ghost of the cigarettes her aunt had once smoked here. There was another scent here as well, was it Drakkar? Was she imagining that smell because her father had been on her mind this week? She curled herself up in the chair finding herself absently rubbing her throat and thinking about the past couple of days.
Tuesday morning, she had woken to a text from Penny, her stepmother, that simply read – Your father went home to Jesus this morning at 5:00 a.m. Delilah had begun to shake so hard she let the phone fall to the floor before following it to sit cross legged rocking. For a few blissful hours she had felt freer than she had in her entire life, the nightmares began that night and then she woke this morning with the phantom bruises. There was no freedom, only this.
That was three weeks ago, and Delilah hadn’t had a night’s peace since. Every morning she wakes with new and worse bruises and feeling ever surer that her father’s spirit is the impetus. The abuse she suffered at the hands of her father as a child was not unknown but was rather an unspoken fact to her family, friends, and community. Everyone agreed that it was awful, but no one would step in between the preacher and his only child.
Having reached her fill of his abuse and fearing how it might escalate further on October 31st of her sixteenth year Delilah ran away taking her mother’s wedding ring, the money she had saved babysitting neighborhood children and very little else. She had found sanctuary with her maternal aunt, Juniper, a woman whom her father had forbidden her from ever contacting. Juniper promised her safety and sanctuary vowing to protect her until the day she died.
When Juniper passed on 5 years ago Delilah inherited the house and enough money to go to school debt free and get her degree in Library Sciences. Now Delilah worked at the local university as a librarian full time, maintaining the stacks and assisting graduate students. She had felt safe and secure in her life until a single text message had led the ghost of her father to her. Now the reverend was once again wielding prayers as weapons against his daughter. Filling her nights with reminders of how she is a disgusting sinner, a whore. Damned before the eyes of God.
Delilah had lost 10 pounds in the last three weeks and her already pale skin had grown wan; her eyes were surrounded by dark circles. She became herself a ghost haunting the library by day and her own home by night. Her anxiety mixed with lack of sleep had her seeing her father in the faces of everyone she saw. She needed help. Then she saw the flyer on the community bulletin board from a local paranormal group who held a ghost encounter meet up once a month at the library. Delilah remembered the kind eyes of the gentleman who ran the group and that he had left a card in the office. She located it easily within the drawer of the large, shared desk and before she could talk herself out of it dialed the number.
The phone was answered on the third ring. After the usual pleasantries Delilah explained how she had gotten the phone number and the reason for her call. She explained that she thought she was being haunted. She told him that she was losing hope. She asked him if he thought he could help. He told her he though he could. Delilah began to cry. She asked him how soon he could come. He asked if tonight would be too soon. She cried harder. She told him tonight would be perfect.
Delilah went home at the end of the day to wait for a stranger to come to her house. She felt like she had been running a marathon for weeks and maybe, just maybe, there was an end in sight. She sat waiting for the doorbell to ring, feeling hopeful but trying to be realistic. She wondered if he could help her. And, if he couldn’t how much longer she would be able to survive this. Could the ghost kill her? He was certainly able to hurt her. She didn’t know or understand the rules to all of this. It scared her. Almost as much as the doorbell when it rang startling her out of her thoughts.
Delilah answered the door and introduced herself once again to Matt who was the kind eyed man she had met previously at the library. She ushered him inside and led him to her couch. After her assured her multiple times that he did not need anything to drink and was quite comfortable she folded herself into a chair and the two looked at each other. Embarrassed by the silence she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and began to speak.
“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I feel like I owe you more of an explanation than what I gave on the phone. I told you I think I am being haunted. By my father. I told you I am waking up with bruises that seem to be handprints. The first night they were around my throat, but they have appeared all over my body since so I am not sure if his ghost is trying to kill me or just to hurt me. I hear his voice as it is happening, taunting me, calling me names, preaching at me. Honestly, he is much in death as he was in life: abusive, virulent, and judgmental. We had almost no relationship in life after I left at sixteen, and in death he seems to be punishing me to make up for the time he couldn’t. I am scared to sleep now. I am scared to be alone. I am scared that I might not wake up the next time.”
Delilah delivered this speech looking at her hands and having finished her thought she finally looked back at Matt. His eyes still looked kind and showed none of the skepticism she expected to see there. Instead, he was nodding telling her he understood, telling her that there can be these kinds of hauntings, and telling her that they have been successfully banished from homes. He asked to see the bruises that had happened the most recently. She revealed a handprint around her right wrist that looked like someone had grabbed with their right hand and squeezed tightly. He told her that being able to harm her like that was unusual but not unheard of. He told her that he would like to see her bedroom to see if he could feel or communicate with the spirit.
Delilah nodded and pulled herself to her feet gesturing to him to follow her. She led him up the stairs and into her bedroom, taking a moment to be glad she had picked up her dirty clothes and made her bed this morning after her father had woken her up again. She watched him as he walked into the room slowly and appeared to be listening closely to, or for, something she could not hear. He spoke under his breath to himself, or someone unseen, then turned to Delilah telling her that he didn’t feel any kind of presence but that doesn’t really mean anything in the long run. She nodded again, feeling her heart sink a little despite his reassurances.
Matt told her that since the attacks and sightings happen late at night, it might be of importance to the ghost or is related to an important time for the two of them. She told him that might be, but not for any reason that she can think of. She asked him if that meant he needed to be there at night when the ghost was more likely to appear. He nodded in confirmation, and she nodded back slowly. Her heart sunk once again that the relief she was hoping would come was still delayed.
They decided to come up with a plan. First, she would find a place to stay for the night and Matt would stay in the house with equipment to see if her father appeared when she wasn’t home. She stayed with a friend overnight as planned and while she still had scary dreams she did not wake up with new bruises. Matt told her it was a quiet night for him as well and they decided to move to phase two. Night two Matt would stay in the house with her and watch all night to try to engage with the ghost.
Delilah found herself seated in the living room with Matt watching some random MCU film and realized that sleep would need to happen soon. She brought Matt upstairs and showed him the guest room and the bathroom. She went to change and told Matt that she would call him when she was ready for bed if he wanted to come in and keep watch. She changed into her sleep shirt and shorts, brushed her teeth and laid down on her queen-sized bed. She called out to Matt that she was going to turn off the light and go to sleep now. After that she remembered very little until she woke scared once again
Delilah screamed as she shot up like a bolt from a deep sleep. She hugged her arms against her chest to slow her heart and to warm herself up. Her breath came out in gasps, visible mist in the cool air and dim light of her bedroom. Her eyes shot to the last place she had seen Matt and instead of finding him as expected her eyes found her father looming at the end of the bed. She wanted to scream again, she wanted to cry, to run. She did none of these. Instead, she stood up on her bed and made eye contact with her father. Looking straight into the face of her tormentor she began to speak.
“No more, Daddy,” She whispered to the man in front of her reaching forward. “No more cowering. No more hiding. No more running away. I have been the outlet of your rage my whole life and I am done. I was never any of those things you accused me of being. I was just a little girl who desperately wanted the love of her father, and no matter how hard I tried to be good I was just never enough for you. I will never be enough for you. But, that is a problem with you, Daddy, not with me. You are…you were a horrible father and therefore a horrible man and I refuse to let you rule me anymore.” As she spoke her voice got louder and clearer. “Goodbye, Daddy. Good night, Goodbye and Good riddance.” She reached toward her father as she said that and feeling his shoulders beneath her hands she pushed hard. She watched him fall and disappear then she was alone again, and she collapsed back into sleep once more.
She awoke to a room full of light the next day and looked at her phone on her bed side table to see that it was almost nine in the morning which meant she had slept almost through the night. She threw on her robe and sought out Matt to find out what had happened the previous night. She found him in the kitchen drinking coffee he had brewed at some point and staring out the window into her backyard. He turned when he heard her come into the room and smiled at her over the coffee cup. He told her that he had dozed off but woke up to her speaking to the spirit. He told her he felt the spirit leave. He told her she was free. He told her that she may want to talk to someone about her past. She carefully avoided looking at the bruises on his shoulders which might have been handprints. She agreed that it might be nice to talk to someone. She felt free.
What do you think? I forgot to mention that the story could have a max of 2500 words.
I thought today I would share some of the poems I wrote for my poetry class last term. I had a couple that I was very proud of, so here they are for others to enjoy. The first is a prose poem, which is why it is formatted the way it is. The second is just a poem about roller skating.
Witch In real life when witches meet it is often to drink tea or coffee, or whiskey, depending on the witch’s preference and the time of day. When witches meet they might as likely eat nachos and watch Practical Magic as light a cauldron and hold a ritual. They might discuss spell craft, divination, astrology, politics, fashion, or their love lives as all are important and valid. Some witches love long baths with herbs and bath bombs. Some have black thumbs and can kill a silk plant. Some witches have large black cats who might be their familiar or might be their fur kid or maybe both. Real witches can look just like you and me. Especially me.
Roller Skates Wheels whirring, blurring, stirring the air. Shush, shush, shush… Barely breaking the still of a Sunday morning. I am sliding silently. Surfing the pavement, Setting skate in front of skate, Tracing little circles in the dust. My hair a hurricane halo radiating from my helmet It whirls and eddies as I spin and twirl. Shush, shush, shush… I let my thoughts glide as smoothly as my wheels Finding peace in the perfect playful pair who find their home upon my feet. Left to their own devices They would carry me away. Instead we circle endlessly in parking lots. And skating rinks. Taking contained adventures. With others who have heard, And succumbed to the sirens call. Shush, Shush, Shush…Come, come, come.
I have been writing poetry since I was young, but hadn’t written anything in several years before taking this class. I refound my love of writing poetry.
I used to be a prolific journaler. I always had a journal in hand. I used them as a diary, a planner, a scrapbook, and storage space. I still carry one with me, but I just don’t seem to use it as much as I used to. It is something I would like to get back to. I pulled out my old journals recently to help me write a poem for my poetry class, because I had a list of things I could be when I grow up and the poem needed to include a list.
Today I was looking at these amazing pieces of my history. Taking a moment to read back through old relationships, how I have never really known what I want to do with my life, lists of things I want to do, buy or be, fun articles, my favorite horoscopes, and bits of overheard conversation. There are feathers, leaves, bits of ribbon, little drawings, poems, cards, and so many stickers. I read through the first days of Seth and I’s relationship, how hopeful I was while being cautious, it is so cute to read being a couple for almost 14 years (the anniversary of our first date is in May).
My journals have been composition books that I decoupaged and decorated. They have also been beautiful art books that I have purchased from artists. I don’t know that I have a preference on which of these is better. I have loved them both, and worn them both out to the point that they are fraying on the edges and very well loved. The composition books have more me on the outside but it is the inside that counts, right?
Photos of my various journals.
These books hold so much of my past in their pages. And I am shocked and dismayed to see so many similar themes popping up from then to now, wanting to be thinner, feeling directionless, hating my job, fearing change…over and over again. I can see that there are some big changes needed in my life. Or, I can see that my mindset needs to shift beyond these things.
Here are some of my favorite pages, pieces, poems, and such from my journals over the years.
I am feeling a pull for a new journal. I feel like I might have a new composition book upstairs. Maybe it is time to break out the ModPodge, magazines and ephemera to make a new one. And start making lists again and wishing and dreaming to myself.
Also, in case you were curious here is the poem I wrote for class from my list.
When I Grow Up… English Professor, or author or maybe both? Journalist, or radio host, or One of those crazy morning shock jocks. The girl who makes orgasm noises for songs, or the opera singer for horror movie climax (just a different climax). Counselor or psychiatrist. 800-number psychic friend, “Call me now for your free tarot reading.” Belly Dancer? Lawyer? Warrior Princess? Open a bookstore, with a cat and lots of comfy chairs. As a girl I was told that when you hit 40 you are old. Here I am breaking the mold And trying to decide what I will be when I grow up.
I am currently trying to decide if I even want to try NANOWRIMO this year, or if I should give this year a pass since I have so much going on. I started a new job on Monday, so I am going to be working on learning my new function and getting it down. I am also still working on my Master’s and will be finishing up my poetry class to begin a Lit class on Shakespeare. I am definitely leaning toward giving it a pass this year
But…there is a part of me that keeps thinking “Writers Write” so I should at least try, and just make my goal something more attainable with my current schedule. Like maybe write something everyday; this can be a poem, paper, blogpost, whatever as long as I sit down and write once a day. That seems like an achievable goal that sets a challenge but not one that will overwhelm.
Are you doing NANOWRIMO? What writing goals do you have?
When I decided to begin college in 2009-10 I did so because I decided I needed a change in my life, so I was going to go to school to become a paralegal. I applied and was accepted to the paralegal program at a local community college, and began taking a mixture of classes in my field and prerequisites. My first term was intro to paralegal studies and English 1 since it had been a year or two (or ten) since I graduated.
Intro to paralegal was interesting, but I absolutely thrived in the English class. I got a 95 on my first paper which absolutely ruined the curve for the rest of the class. I had forgotten how much I loved to write. I thrived when given a topic to research and write a paper on. It all came back to me, how much I love to read and write. I hadn’t forgotten exactly, but I had pushed it aside to concentrate on other things. I left the class with an inkling but still determined to become a paralegal.
Then I began my second required English class with Professor Abrams. Within the first couple of classes he looked me right in the eye and asked what my major was I answered and he said, “No, you are an English Major.” I laughed and shook my head. The whole rest of this class he would occasionally say something to me about being in the wrong major, and that I should be an English major. I just kept laughing, shaking my head and telling him he was wrong, but in the back of my head I kept repeating his words over and over again to myself.
My final paper for the class was on the Edgar Allen Poe story “The Fall of The House of Usher.” I researched thoroughly and presented a paper I was incredibly proud of. I got full marks, and under the grad he had written “Betsy, Stop pretending. You are an English Major! Brilliant work.” It felt like a punch in the stomach. I know looking back that it was that moment that I decided I would be changing my major from paralegal to English.
I did not change right away, though, first I slogged through two or three more paralegal studies classes, and several more prerequisites. Then I looked at my husband and asked if he would object to me changing my major to English. He reasonably asked me what I would do with my degree, to which I said “Teach I guess.” And in spite of my lack of plan and job prospect my husband could tell it meant the world to me, so he said of course if it will make you happy. So, I went to the school and asked to change to English.
I graduated with my associate’s degree, and decided that I should go ahead and finish my bachelor’s. I enrolled in an online program that would work with my full time work schedule. I graduated with my bachelor’s degree in early 2019 approximately 10 years after I decided to change my career trajectory by going back to school. Then I decided to enroll in Grad school and pursue my Master’s degree.
I am absolutely not sad that I made the decision to change my major, and my life. I found my love of writing again, and my love of reading. I found a passion I had forgotten. And when working on my degree I was forced to confront the fact that I had never considered being a writer/author as being a viable outcome. I had told myself that was an improbable and impossible dream that I could never possibly fulfill, but suddenly I was being told it is an absolutely viable career choice. So the question became, is that what I want? Do I want to be an author?
I am still not sure I know the answer to that. I know I want to write, but I am still not sure exactly what form that is going to take. I guess I just keep writing and learning, and eventually something will strike a chord. In so many ways getting my degree actually didn’t change my career at all. I am still working for the bank I was working for when I began. My job does not use my degree in the slightest currently. Right now I am focused on finding a job that utilizes my ability as a writer, editor and creative.
Thank you Professor Abrams for telling me again and again that I was an English Major until it sunk in. Would I have gotten there on my own eventually, probably, but who knows. Sometimes, when you are me, you just need it spelled out for you, in blue pen, on the bottom of a paper.
In the light of social distancing and quarantines I have begun writing letters to many of my friends. Some are prearranged Pandemic Pen Pals and others are just me writing letters to let people know I am thinking of them.
I got an idea that I might want to write letters differently just for fun so one of the ideas I came up with was writing on a library checkout card and pocket. I was able to find some easily and started sending them out today. I am actually quite happy with how they are turning out. Not every letter I send will look like this, but I am absolutely in love with them.
Now I am trying to think of other interesting ways to send/ write letters for my lovely new pen pals. I found some paper I had bought several years ago that is pieces of maps that were misprinted, so I think I may write some on those. I am thinking about playing with some origami stars as well. I have already broken out my various seals for the occasion and my myriad color of pens. Who knew letter writing could be so fun?
I haven’t written this many letters since I was in middle school. I used to write so many letters and lists and intricately folded missives between myself and my friends. I wish I still had them. When I was a teenager in a fit of pique I threw them all away. I regret that now that I am older and would love to remember that awkward girl.
Are you a letter writer? Do you enjoy receiving letters? Were you a crazy teenage letter writer? Can you fold a letter in about a dozen different ways?
2019 is almost over, and so is this particular decade. I am also going to be, gasp, 39 in March. I am moving into this year with a passion and a purpose that I haven’t felt in a long time. I am feeling more creative too, and I am ready to get into this new year and make things happen.
I have decided on my word of the year for 2020. In case you haven’t seen or read this about me I choose a word every year to give my year focus in lieu of a resolution. Last year my word was Brazen, and I feel like overall my year was guided by that word. I was really putting myself out there and I made a lot of amazing connections. My word for this year is…
Wordsmith = a skilled user of words. I was looking for a word that would focus me on working on my writing, but that was more interesting than just the word writer. I did a synonym search and wordsmith pulled my eye immediately. I love the feel of it so much. I also found a beautiful design on TeePublic that I am going to get myself a hoodie, a phone case and some stickers so I can keep the word on my mind.
I am pumped to get going in the new year. Do you set resolutions? Or make a word of the year?
The Evening of Writing Uncontrolably was this past Saturday at the Wagnalls Memorial Library in Lithopolis, Ohio. My little sister, Traci, came along to write with me, and we were joined by my friends Jill, Angie and Melissa. Traci and I got there and settled in a nice little nook in the fiction section between Janet Evanovich and Diana Gabaldon. Above us to the right was a bust of Shakespeare. It seemed like the perfect place to write. We settled in and got ourselves all spread out and happy.
Jill came in a bit later, and was laughing because we had chosen the exact place she always uses when she goes to the library to write, which is often. I thought it must speak highly of the space. She went to get a snack and wander a bit, but eventually came back to settle in with us. Angie and Melissa came in after an hour or so, and joined us in our nook.
I managed to write 2,866 words in the 5 hours we were there. That was with many drink, snack and bathroom breaks. And breaks to take photos in the beautiful library. We left at midnight, though we could have stayed until 2am. There is a strange naughty feeling being in a library after hours that I cannot explain though we all were feeling it. I felt like the night was successful, and fun, and I am so glad I went.
I am probably (definitely) not going to win NaNoWriMo this year, but I have learned a lot about myself and my writing style. I am excited to try it again another time, maybe when I am not actively taking classes at the same time. I am glad that I tried though, and glad that I have worked on developing a short story into an actual novel, and one I will continue to work on. That makes the month a pretty big success to me.
This was another work heavy week for school, and I had to write quite a bit for various prompts, which means I wrote almost not at all for NaNoWriMo. This weekend is the Evening of Writing Uncontrollably at the Wagnalls Memorial Library in Lithopolis, Ohio. I am super excited about it and hope I can make up some loss of words that night writing with friends. I did write a story I am really proud of for school this week, so that feels good.
This past Saturday the Columbus Ohio branch of Geek Girl Brunch had our Blind Date with a Book event. We wrap the book and describe it in three statements. Then we trade books. My description was: Female Protagonist, Practical Magic and Snacking in Closets. Any guesses on what the book is? I will reveal later this week. The book I chose was labeled: True Crime, Historical, Non-Fiction. It was The Devil in the White City, a book about the Chicago World’s Faire and H.H. Holmes. I am very excited to get into it soon.
Betsy Snow White Bibliophile 