I'm glad I've learned not to hold my breath, but to surrender while walking - hoping you will catch the white flag and write something back. I've learned that unfinished stories, loops that cannot be broken, still drum in your belly if time tells your nerves that this is not done. 

If you never felt pain during take off, the struggle to not start something unknown, it was not meant to be a part of your story. If it drums in your heart day and night, you are not done. I've learned how to tightrope months of silence into smiles that sometimes make it past my eyes, knowing that silence will only cause a burning against your spine from the weight of waiting. 

I will not leave your doorstep until you say so. I will not put down the pen until you take it out of my hands. But this time around  as I slide the white flag across the table, I will not include a jar full of expectations, except one. =

To give it back.

Hello my lovely readers,

I can tell you the story of how I became a writer a million times, but the story I struggle to find the beginning of is my affair with photography. I recently learned that the urge to photograph came from both of my parents, but mostly my mother.  While she mainly photographed events of our lives, I found a couple of scene shots among the piles of photographs. That surprised me greatly. 

Let's look back to the ages of eleven to thirteen, when I began to beg for cameras of my own. First it was the disposable ones. Then I got to use the family camera occasionally. It was a trial to get people to develop my film. Once my parents split, money was tight, so that was a luxury. When it did happen, I was so happy - I stared at my pictures for hours. 

The things I like to photograph are people, clouds, dusk, and light. I remember one particular picture that started the need to photograph people was one I took in eighth grade of my first love. Looking back, I see that I caught the look that defines one of the stages of his personality. Sometimes I almost miss moments with my own eyes because I am busy capturing a person's essence through the lens. I could be with a person and all I want to do is photograph their every move. 

That has helped me capture some pretty amazing moments that others often ask me to send them before I get into my door and sit down to look at what I've done. That should say something of my talent (especially since I practice mainly mobile photography now), but honestly, it just makes me happy to snap a shot to hold on to for myself. Maybe it's my obsessive need to preserve the good parts of a person or a moment in life, but tell that to my crew.

Now clouds...well come on. They are beautiful. Shape shifting at its finest. What would the sky be without clouds? Other than sheer beauty that I cannot describe, but certainly can capture, the most important thing about clouds is their role with manipulating light.

I have been chasing light for as long as I can remember. Light is what makes magic. It may have started way before the camera, during trips to and from the Ponderosa (the restaurant, not the place on Bonanza haha!) when I was a kid. Most of the time, we would be traveling during sunset and we would drive towards this dying light which gave birth to a slew of soft colors twisted around moving clouds. Sunsets/dusk is one of light's greatest productions. It's natural art. To this day, I have to stop to capture this stunning movement whenever I encounter it. But my love of light goes beyond that.

It's the way it hits the skin of one's hands. It's the strips of artificial light bouncing off of dark bedroom walls. It's the way shadows and objects play with light's path. With the right lighting, anything can become beautiful, even myself (but that's a whole other story!).

I thought I was a weirdo for this love of light until I read The Bridges of Madison County when I was in my early teens. The main male character, Robert Kincaid, was a photographer for National Geographic. Other than his days long affair with Francesca, what I love about the character is his theory of light and photography.

What teen-aged girl who was exploring her love for photography wouldn't fall for that description? I know for a while when I was younger,  I was secretly looking for my own Robert Kincaid. But while I never found him, I found myself becoming more attached to image than ever before.

When I was fifteen, my dad gave me a beautiful SLR Film camera that I could barely function. During harder times in my family, it became an outlet when the pen was too weak. Two years later, during my senior year, I took a photography class where I learned how to develop film in a dark room - messing up tons of film along the way. I spent many afternoons walking around my neighborhood, shyly taking pictures when I saw the right light. I also spent many hours taking pictures of my first love (yes that same one referenced earlier - a whole other story!) during that time as well. My favorite place to take pictures was when I was looking out my bedroom window. Other than the fact that my mom was very overprotective at times (or I was being grounded for shenanigans with boys), I stood home to look out my window to capture the movements of sunset and how light created this mystic image of my South Ozone Park home. 

Waiting for film to be developed was trying at best. I like being able to see my results instantly, which is why when I got my first digital camera around the age of 18/19, I was in my glory. 

With a digital camera, I was able to capture a moment and see how well I did in a matter of seconds. My first digital camera was a Polaroid, which was about the size of a Klondike bar. With it, I discovered what we now call selfies, in addition to taking more scene shots. Being a young girl in college with a long distance boyfriend, the art of the selfie was to remind both him and myself that I was beautiful (decent looking at least). With every other semester's generous financial aid check, I managed to grab enough money, before it was handed over to my mother, to buy a better digital camera (mainly Kodak point and shoots, but most recently I have decided to try a Canon). 

When I was starting to embrace myself as an artist around the age of 19/20, I started to share my photos online via Blogger and MySpace. As I became more conscience of my online presence and built myself a website, I added a photo gallery to my site. It felt like enough until I got my first mobile phone with a camera. That's when life changed. 

It started with my T-Mobile Sidekick. That little device helped shaped me as an artist as much as learning more about every art medium I dabble in (we'll talk about that later). In terms of photography, being able to shoot and post became an obsession. Throughout the years, with each new phone, came the increase of photos I would take. Now with an iPhone and Instagram, I easily fill up my memory within days. Especially when a sunset is involved. If I am out with loved ones, most are tolerant of having to wait for me as I stand there and take 20 shots of the same thing, each time changing an angle, zooming in and out, using a filter or bearing focus on a certain point of the screen. 

While I aspire to get a DSLR camera one day, I have made mobile photography my medium. Writing is my number one passion, but photography comes a close second. In addition to taking pictures, I also collect photographs. A folder on my computer (or even my phone) can easily hold 4000 of my own pictures and a 1000 from others. 

One of my best friends is a photographer and I am in love with his work. Some of the best moments of my life in the past couple of years have been when we are out and about together and we both see the potential of a shot. You can easily find us with the cameras of our choice, taking pictures of almost the same thing. Sometimes, I just like to watch him at work. There's something about a photographer and the way he (or she) holds their camera that is sensual and intriguing. 

But then again, you're talking to the girl who has been looking for her Robert Kincaid. 

Or maybe, she has a little of Robert Kincaid in her.

A slideshow of random shots throughout the past year. Some are from Instagram and others are unedited shots.

Thanks for listening Write Queeners. It's nice to talk about what makes me tick other than writing. Embracing the artist is something we have to do for ourselves every day. I will be posting more stories soon.

Leave a comment or subscribe in the meantime!

When you ask a question, but don't receive an answer, it leaves you in limbo. You carry on with your day or days but you have knots in your stomach and a slight ache in your chest. Nothing alleviates that, but the answer. Nothing allows you to move, but the answer. If you could answer your own question, you wouldn't have asked. You would be okay. 

But instead you wait. You act out in small ways. You take it out on others who just want to see the crinkle in your forehead disappear. You start to ask more questions, pull more scenarios in your head, and fill yourself with a slew of emotions that may not be necessary for the situation. You feel as though you could possibily go crazy because it seems simple.

It seems like a simple question based on the the actions and events that have occurred and the answer should be easy to obtain. But it's not. It's silent, sometimes selfishly so. Do you realize that you have another heart waiting on the line? Do you realize that they won't hang up until you pick up and say the words? 

Listen, I am a writer. Words mean everything. I need to hear the words even when actions speak loud and clear. Because sometimes nothing is what it seems. We need to talk. We need words. Not insecurities or silence. Not a wall of issues. We just need to say the words and know that these are the words we stand by. Repeat them over and over again. Those are the ones that stick. Those are the answers we seek if it's what we want. 

Don't flip flop on me, don't leave me hanging. Don't use yourself as an excuse because right now, this situation, whatever the situation is, has one more to the equation. It's not about your 'you' stuff at the moment. It's about the stuff you chose to start. It's about the stuff you dragged other people into. You can go back to you later. Just give me what I need to stay or go. 

Listen, baby I am a writer. So we know I could write a book on what I'm feeling. As a matter of fact, been there, done that. Said my piece a thousand times over. Sometimes without listening. But I'm listening now. I'm listening to the four walls I choose to confine myself in because sunshine hurts. Sleep is easier than breathing. I could be a workaholic, but everything turns into a 'you'. Every word that turns into a lump of words that comes from the happiness, sadness, pain, anger, lust, compassion, and love you pull out of me. 

I'm so sick of being the understanding one babe. Do you not see the hell I am willing to put myself in for you? I am so angry because I just wanted the simple things and have been met with silence, resistance, a straight up fussiness at times while I bend backwards and wait. And wait. And wait some fucking more. I could write a book on all the bad you make me feel. Yet you have the audacity to get mad when I react? Why do I always have to be the one to reach out first? Be a decent person and give me the love or pain that's due for once first. I'm tired of reaching out for my own pleasure or demise. Oh you don't know how vexed you make me...

Until you touch my hand. Until I hear your voice. Until you show those fleeting sweet moments that makes me sit here in knots and wait. And wait some more. And wait some fucking more, all for simply

an answer.


Come find me in limbo sweetie. I'll be waiting.

As the year is winding down to a close, I notice the sudden pop up of the "New Year, New Me" posts on social media and blogs. I've been asked many times of my New Year's Eve plans and few have asked me what my goals for the new year are. 

Let's get a couple of things straight. 

I work during the day on New Year's Eve, most likely an almost full day. I will get up at 6 AM (or try to - snooze buttons are amazing) and travel from Corona, Queens to Wall Street, Manhattan. I will take the bus for 15 - 20 minutes to the R train and then alternate between standing and sitting for about 28 stops. I will get to work, make sure things are going smoothly with everyone (thanks to added on responsibilities.), and I will be counting down the minutes till I get on the R again. For most companies, it's the end of the year so the priority is making sure everything gets in, not New Year's Eve plans. I will be one tired lady at the end of the day and snuggling in bed with a book or a special someone while drinking tea sounds so much more appealing (Oh my goodness, I am such a writer - a book and tea? Haha!).

But what is New Year's Eve really?

The end digits of the calendar will change, but how does that affect our day to day lives? I could go celebrate the end of 2013 and the beginning of 2014 one night, but end up in the hospital or dead in the next two (knocks on wood!). What have I really achieved here? What have I celebrated? The change of year? The days change every day. Everyday we face new challenges and life is lived a little differently, even when things are seemingly routine. Heck, minutes change all the time. When I was a kid, my cousin and I used to have this thing where when we noticed the changing of the time, we would say, "Happy New Minute!" It was hilarious and delightful. It was also a little wise of us because we should be celebrating every minute, every day. New Year Goals? Psh, the concept is nice, but my goals year to year end up changing because of my day to day. One day, I want to write about being a lover scorned, but after I go through certain things within the span of the day or next couple of days, I want to write about hearts and Cupid. 

Then we have the concept of "New Year, New Me". 

Making changes in your life is good. It's a wonderful thing. Change is scary, but when you have goals in mind, it's satisfying when you have results. Everyone should always make a list of goals they want to achieve. My problem is the whole "I'm going to do it for the new year" bull. You're telling me that within the month of December, you will make a list of goals, but you won't start anything until January? WHY?!? What is stopping you? You want to eat better? Don't chow down on burgers every other day then say on January 1st, I quit - Hello Celery. You want to exercise? The gym accepts your money all year around! You want to try a new hobby? These things take time to learn. Instead of waiting until January to get piano lessons, how about you at least inquire and see when you can start lessons as soon as possible. If something happens to you between now and January, guess what? You just wasted time.

The "New Year, New Me" concept during this time of year is also impersonal. Everyone is doing it and sometimes there's so much pressure to do it better than anyone else. Even your list of goals can get competitive around certain people if you share them. There's a slew of emotions of that come with the over sharing of these goals for the New Year that I honestly don't want to get into. Especially because if you tell me, I will remember and be mildly disappointed when you don't follow through. I'll be like, "Why not? You are absolutely capable." I also apparently give these eyes that makes everyone want to either tell me their secrets,  feel as if I know they have secrets, or that they have done something wrong - so I might give you "the eyes" too. 

But all joking aside, these list of goals can consume people. Personally I rather make a list of goals around my birthday so that it's more personal (and so I don't have to hear about everyone else's goals all at once - I am a Summer baby!). Either way you do it, guess what? If you don't achieve a goal by a certain time, it's okay. Just keep working at it. Accept that though we may want to go to the gym everyday, that it may be only possible to go once or twice a week. If you do that, you're already doing better than those who don't.

We have to celebrate each day, each victory, each downfall....everything! 

So what if the year changes? The day changes! You don't have to go to a party and be socially awkward, drinking just so the time is more enjoyable on one evening a year just for that moment when the clock strikes 12. It strikes 12 everyday. We don't have elaborate parties for that. We don't go and dress up for Monday becoming Tuesday. We just live. 

So asking me about New Year's Eve or New Year's goals or who my "New Year, New Me" is going to be is pointless. Ask me how I am changing today and possibly tomorrow. Celebrate the fact that it's Friday and the work day is half way done (and that I posted a blog during lunch).  Be in the now. 

But this is just how I feel. And I might be dragged into a New Year's Eve activity after work or I may go home to that book and tea...or special someone. I may have a secret list of goals because I need new goals all the time once I achieve the old ones. It's just convenient that it's around this time. I just wanted to point something out...and vent a little. It came up in conversation today at work and it made my fingers itch to write something (Thank you very much for the idea B.M.!).

It's not Happy New Year for me. It's Happy New Day...or may I dare say it...it's Happy New Minute!

Enjoy the rest of your holidays my loves. If I don't have time before the year is out, here is your year-end post =)

This is the process that goes through my head when it starts snowing:

Oh my GOD! It's snowing. I have sneakers on. If this turns into a blizzard, I die. I will absolutely die. Okay, calm down. You're going to the supermarket. It's 2 and a half blocks away. It will be okay. I'm sure it won't get heavier. It better not get heavier. Not while I am out here. Better not.

Walks at a moderate pace to the supermarket, already looking for patches of ice.

At the supermarket:

Okay, so let's hurry this up because it's snowing. I don't need much. Maybe some almond milk and some ice cream. Hmm ice cream, maybe if the ice from snow was ice cream, I wouldn't mind busting my ass in the snow. Snow should be ice cream. Oh yay! They have Peppermint Wonderland ice cream. I hope it's not a snowy wonderland by the time I finish. Maybe I should get more stuff. It would be great if it snowed enough for work to be closed. I don't think I am that lucky though. They would want us to come in, even with ten feet of snow on the ground. I know I wouldn't make it to work. The way they don't shovel around here, I would die from just walking down my driveway. Forget about the rest of the block. If I was a cat, all of my lives would be done. Okay, is Dad ready yet? I want to get back in the house. I knew I should have put on my boots. Not that they are magic boots and will stop me from falling, but I should be least likely to fall with them on versus sneakers. Okay, about to check out. Yay, the ice cream was 3.34. That's really cheap for special edition ice cream.

Steps out of the supermarket.

OH MY GOD IT'S HEAVIER! Okay okay, we can do this. Just two and a half blocks...NO DAD I AM NOT GOING WITH YOU TO THE CORNER STORE ON CORONA SO YOU CAN GET YOUR CIGARS. Just give me the bags. Argh, what does he think? That I am going to go an extra three blocks with him so he can give himself lung cancer, while I'm wearing sneakers IN THE SNOW. Nope, not me. I am not the one. Okay so I can do this. Just take your time Chris. Take your time.

A block and a half into the journey, while looking at the accumulations in the cracks of the sidewalk.

Oh lordy just take me now! These bags are heavy and I feel like I am walking so slow that I'm going nowhere. I shall stop right here and let the snow overtake me. I have food with me. I'll just eat this raw meat that we just acquired and let it sustain me until rescue comes. Dad is bound to notice that I didn't make it home. But what if it gets worst in the next ten minutes? They may not be able to find me. Just keep going. Keep walking. OMG now this car might run me over because I am not crossing fast enough. Ugh, what did we buy? My ice cream isn't THIS heavy. Okay I am almost home. I wonder if Dad got to the store yet. I hate those damn cigars he smokes. Wish they would die in the snow. Let's cross this street carefully. I think all is clear. OMG why does that part of the sidewalk look icy already?! Okay you are just a few houses away. Wow Mr. Chinese Food Delivery guy on that rickety ass bike, how do you live so dangerously? Your ass and all of that food can slip on the ice on that thing. Though if you fell right now in front of me, I wouldn't mind a free eggroll.

Stops at driveway and takes in the falling snow seen through the street lights.

You're so pretty you evil little ice balls. I wonder where...oh there he is. Thank God because I wasn't going to attempt the basement steps with all of these bags in my hand. He needs to walk a little faster though. Not too fast because if he falls down the block, it's going take me five minutes to walk 30 feet with this damn snow falling. Okay, two bags for you. I really hate that we get puddles along here. This is definitely going to turn into ice by morning and it's going to take me 10 minutes to walk down the driveway. Alright, take it easy now. These steps aren't slippery yet, but just go down a step at a time. Both feet. You got it. You're almost there. Oops, almost! No, you're okay. OMG I AM HOME AND I MADE IT DOWN THE STEPS. Hurry up with the keys Dad. I want to get inside. Okay yes!!! Survival.

Kicks off sneakers and puts down the bags. Continues to walk straight to the room.

Dad: Chris, where are you going? Aren't you going to help unpack?
Me: I'm going to go have a heart attack now. Maybe later.



Welcome to the beginning of snow season!

My heart goes out to motherly observances from hearts worn on tattered sleeves. Battle-worn women who have dragged themselves out of bed - smiling at nagging husbands, crying children, or to no one but themselves. They occupy train seats, lean over, and glance at preoccupied youth on smartphones and tablets, smiling to themselves in wonderment about technologies that will outlive their sacrifices. 

I do the same when I see young teachers marking cranked out pages from foolish, aspiring writers, leaning over to glance at potential on my way home from work. 

I spend my days with money hungry zombies for the chance to sneak metaphors onto blank pages into the wee hours of the night. I wake up at the cusp of six every morning, only to spend rapidly falling minutes staring into a space that doesn't involve morning commutes, ringing phones, or demeaning bosses.

I sold out a long time ago with only survivor's guilt to cling to at night. Too tired to attend shows, excuses easily prepared on my tongue as to why I can't read, why I can't write, why I can't breathe. Sometimes I think I'm ready to live a life of regret. 

But then I wake up with metaphors tangled tightly in my sheets. Verses haunt me as I wipe the remnants of night from my eyes. I carefully adjust cool streams of water over a body struggling to mutter rhyme schemes to the beat of soap scum. I practice delivery of poems with tooth brushes angled in my mouth.

I struggle against the clock, itching to call out for a week straight and write. Is a week enough? Would I even go back? I fear I will eventually empty...and then where will I be? Do I have what it takes to live as writer day in and out? Is the chance of the word more thrilling with obstacles or will I fold with more freedom?

I aggressively scold fellow writers to always give it their all. I don't want to find mirrors in their eyes. I can live with the haunts of motherhood with blank wombs and hidden paper children under my own veins, but I cannot find love in the misery of others. I tightly grip their pen to their hands and tell them, "No matter what, always keep this by your side. Your pen comes before anything else. Do not let the world make you sacrifice your word. And please, more than anything else..."


...don't become a sell out like me.

I've been writing poems since before I had my first kiss. I was writing scriptures of how to wrap your tongue around a burst of sweetness before I even knew the recipe of enticing fingerprints on the edges of pens, bending over pages all hours of the night.

My teen years were spent over poems I barely knew the meaning of, collecting books of secrets that lit the way of my adult hours, reciting verses of future aches. It was second nature to express myself this way, to live under the guise of this life. My lips knew the path between heart and syllables. There was no question that this would always be a part of me. It was a question of how I was going to live this fate.

It is common to deviate to different paths from time to time. From caressing EQ knobs to flicking at camera shutters, I tasted the peel from every fruit in the basket. But I always went back to the poisonous apple, the ruby madness of traitorous juices dribbling down a thousand deaths, written in ink and lead. I've been Eve, Snow White, Helen of Troy, any women betrayed by sin of a coiled snake. One bite lead to another and now I'm here, a couple of thousand poems later, written under a pile of pleasure and pain.

Yet I still scrap along. I let the apple dangle dangerously low, watching slow drips of inspiration stretch heavily down to my mouth. I wait for the break. Tilt back for the arrival. My lungs open sharply as I feel the slam of the downpour. I still tremble when the perfect line creeps in. This rush is ancient, but it's all about the renewal of faith, right? 

I have to believe we will always find each other.

This is a lonesome battle, the constant need to write versus writing. There are days spent as a wall with eyes, seeing and unable to scream. Weeks upon weeks, actually. These are the times I want to give up. The days where I don't care about the rush and being knocked into breathlessness by the ability to bend worlds on my tongue. I could retire into the insistent echoes of the rat race. I can survive and say I was once a writer, but now I'm just...here.

But I can't. When the apple dangles closes to my lips, I know I will always do this. I was writing poems since before I had my first kiss. Just like you can't undo knowing what it's like to tremble at the first contact of lips, I can't undo knowing how to make the world tremble through the art of the written.

I can't lose my grip on this.

Write Queeners,

I am going to share snippets of a journey I am taking. I don't know how often, but it will be for the next 28 days. I have gotten through Day 1, a private beginning for now. Day 2...well I already feel like running away so I can write this feeling everyday.

I will only share my thoughts. I will not break the sacred circle that has already formed with my group. But I also feel that you, my readers, deserve a sneak peek into my thoughts at least, because this is going to be a scary journey.

I believe it is my responsibility as a writer to share what I was never taught.

This morning I tried a method called morning pages, writing three pages right when I get up and then not being able to look back.

I shared this thought with the group:

Morning pages will be the toughest for me. I'm scared to be so ordinary. I have this notion as a writer that you must always be brilliant, even though I know it's in the ordinary where beauty can emerge. I am doing it by hand so it's even tougher. Technology has crippled my organic ability to scribe. I replaced methods a long time ago. I'm beyond composition notebooks. I need instant gratification through typing. 

I shut my journal right away, but the thought that has stood with me, which I don't think I wrote quite this way in the journal is:

Eye guck, no glasses, morning relief withheld until completion. 

___

I look forward to seeing how this challenge changes me. I will keep you posted.

Good morning Write Queeners.

Hello Write Queeners, 

How many times have you misheard the lyrics to a song? 

I know that this happens to me at least once a day. I think that this brilliant line that I play over and over again is real until I want to post part of the lyrics on Facebook. Being lazy and hating dictation at times, I search for them online so I can copy and paste. When I find the song on some lyric site, that's when I find out the horrible truth: That one line, that one word, sometimes that one syllable that made the song amazing is NOT a part of the song! 

After learning what's really there, I do hear it. But my mind always wants to go back to my original assumption. It's never the same though and you will always be fighting a battle between what you hear and what you want to hear (as with many aspects of our lives!).

We don't have to let those great lines go to waste though. Back in my undergrad years in one of my creative writing courses, I was told that when this happens to us, that we can use that line in our writing. Since it isn't a part of the song we were listening to, we have originally created that line. Now it is ours to use in our poems, prose, for titles, for anything!

I have two examples of this concept for us to marvel in:

Example #1:

Jon Secada - If I Never Knew You from Disney's Pocahontas

A timeless classic from my childhood, I thought this song was all types of amazing (still do!) The line that made me feel like my world was falling apart into sweet ecstasy was this (in bold):

Beautiful, isn't it? Such sadness, such beauty...and it was absolutely the wrong lyric. The correct lyrics are:

Still nice, but for me, it wasn't the same. There was no devastating beauty in it. No power! I was crushed when I realized what it really was. I have never been able to listen to the song the same way again. My brain is always struggling to bring back that line. SIGH!!!

Example #2:

Here is something a little more contemporary for my pop music lovers. 

Justin Timberlake - Strawberry Bubblegum

I am in love with Justin's new album The 20/20 Experience! One of my tracks is Strawberry Bubblegum. Ironically, I experienced another misheard mishap while I was formulating this post. Here's what I heard:

Hot line, isn't it? Don't ever change your faith cause I love the taste. That is a mind explosion! But of course, I knew that couldn't be right. So off to find the correct lyrics and look, I was wrong: 

Makes more sense huh?

These mishaps actually have a name. It is called Mondegreen, as define by its definition on Wikipedia:

Giving a name to this makes me feel less crazy. It also gives me an opportunity to come up with a challenge for my readers. 

Write Queeners, I want you to find your mondegreen and write a mondegreen poem! It can be any length. Here's a draft of one I wrote using (surprise, surprise) one of the examples of a mondegreen that I showed you earlier:

Knees bruised from 
worshiping you 
from thigh to waist.
Don't ever change 
your faith 
cause I love the taste.
Tilt back on 
your palms while I pray
that my thirst will be 
quenched
without delay.

Eh, I haven't written a poem in a while so excuse that draft! But you guys get the idea. Share your mondegreen poems with me in the comments section (or leave a link to where I can find it!).

There are many writers and artists that I admire. Each one inspires me to be bigger and better One of my all-time favorite writers who I would love to be when I grow up (in a writer's sense of course) is Miss Erica "RivaFlowz" Buddington. Her writing knocks the wind out of your heart. It's that powerful. Every time she posts a link from rivaflowz.com on my Facebook wall, I know I'm in for a good read. 

Through her blog posts, Riva has helped me see what it really means to be a writer in their 20's, typing away at a keyboard to get to their dreams. Now she needs some help. Riva has the opportunity to go to Callaloo Writing Workshop AND get her book edited by a great editor. She is currently fundraising at Indiegogo. Whether it's by spreading the word or contributing to her fund, I am asking my readers (I know you guys are out there somewhere!) to help out. I'm already doing both because I believe in her dream as much as I believe in my own. If I can't take my opportunities yet, I want to help someone else take theirs. So without further ado, here are the links that will help her get closer to her dream:

Share on it Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, whatever you may have. If you have a blog, do a write up about it. Share this blog post if you want. Just SPREAD THE WORD pretty please, my Write Queeners. If you can contribute, even better. 

As she always does, Riva has opened up my eyes to something else: Indiegogo. I think I will be looking into starting my own fundraiser for my projects ;)

Have a great Sunday Write Queeners!


And Riva - I hope this helps!