Twenty Something Writers

But what are your thoughts on poetry? And what are some of your favorite poems? Are you more of a poetry or prose person? Let the discussion begin!

Have you written a novel?  Do you plan to write a novel?  If you plan to write a novel, but haven’t started yet, what’s holding you back?

Please discuss your responses to this question in the comments. Note: you can respond directly to other comments by clicking the “Reply” link in the bottom right corner of each comment.

Special Note:  We’re in need of blog posts for this week (and every week), and as always, we’d appreciate anything you want to contribute.  See the Contribute page for more details or email Ashley at twentysomethingwriters[at]gmail[dot]com.

Happy Friday, writers!

You’ve just been given at time machine. You can only use it once, to go back to day in your past and relive it or change something. What day would you go back to, what would you change and why?

(Credit for the question goes to Amber)

*Remember to post an enrty on your blog about this topic. Then, link back to this post so we can read your responses!

She half wanted to be here, even though she would tell all of her friends that it was her parents’ idea. Unsure of whether to knock on the door or just sit where she was, she kept glancing up to listen or see if she could see anyone. Finally deciding to wait patiently, she looked around the waiting room. There were toys for kids, like blocks and puzzles, and there were books for some of the older patients, books about parenting, and books about all types of different social disorders. Martha wasn’t sure what she felt right now, whether she wanted to be there or not, but she most definitely didn’t want to be there right now with her mother, who was sitting anxiously next to her. They didn’t talk much during the wait, only an occasional “are you okay?” or “yeah, Mom, I’m fine.” Martha felt like simple one word answers would get her through this faster. She noticed her mother glance down at her watch and sigh. Martha knew that they still had to wait about 5 minutes until their appointment time.

Finally 6:30 PM rolled around, after what seemed like forever. The wooden door to their left with the words Patricia Kellington, Ph.D, opened up slowly and out walked a tall woman with dark hair and glasses. Behind her stood a medium height woman, with a curly head of hair that looked as thought it was slowly but surely going gray. She stood and welcomed Martha and her mother in. As Martha entered the room, she noticed it smelled of sweet candles or incense. It was warm, but not too hot, and there was a couch against the back wall. Hard candies lined the inside of a glass bowl, which sat on the coffee table in front of her.

Holding out her hand, she introduced herself as Patricia to Martha and her mother. As they got comfortable, Patricia asked Martha why she was here and Martha calmly explained that she just felt that she wanted someone to talk to other than her friends at school or her parents. It wasn’t that she necessarily wanted to talk about all of these terrible things going on in her life, she just thought it would be nice to be able to talk about her week and how things were going. They talked about whether she thought she was depressed and if she had ever caused physical harm to herself. Martha noticed her mother cringe at the thought of this and even begin to cry when she said that yes, she had, but it hadn’t been serious. She had only rubbed a pen cap against her wrist back and forth until the skin had broken and tiny, little droplets of blood had peaked out.

After talking for a bit longer, Patricia asked Martha’s mother to step out of the room so she and Martha could talk for a bit. Martha explained that she didn’t want to hurt herself anymore and that she didn’t really feel all too inclined to be on medication for anything. She half wanted to be on something because then maybe she wouldn’t go through all of these ridiculous moods, but then again would she even feel anything at all? So she said that no, she didn’t want to be on anything, and Patricia agreed that she didn’t think Martha should be on anything. After a while of talking, Martha went back to the waiting room while her mother talked with Patricia. She could only assume that they were talking about how she didn’t need to be on medication, her mother’s family history of depression, and how much each session would cost. They finally decided that she would come once a week for an hour. The ride home was as silent as the waiting room had been, her mother insisted that she show her her wrist again; Martha reluctantly did.

This had all come about because her parents had caught her talking on the phone to a 30 year old man. They didn’t know he was 30, only that he lived in Texas and as far as they knew Martha and him had never met. That part was true, she had been playing a video game where she could play online and talk to other people who were playing. After a few weeks of playing, she had built up a friendship with this guy, she didn’t know anything about him except that his name on the game was Duo. Duo and her played online for weeks and finally they decided to talk on the phone. After talking on the phone for about a month, her parents noticed these late night calls on the phone bill and confronted her about it. She told them that he was 25 and that she just liked having someone to talk to. They then asked her if she wanted a therapist and she willingly went.

Martha had no intention of not talking to Duo anymore and promptly went out and bought a pre-paid phone. She used the phone to talk to anyone she didn’t know, from the game, from other places. Having this phone led her to talking to Scott, also from the game. He was 27, she was almost 18. Cradle-robbing, nonetheless. After talking for a few months they decided that they were “dating.” Well, he decided that. He told her he loved her and, knowing nothing else, she said it back. She wasn’t sure at that point that she meant it, but still said it anyway. When Martha was hanging out with a friend he kissed her, and she told Scott about it. He was angry, upset, disappointed, and told her he never wanted to lose her. He told her that he wanted to be with her for forever, he wanted to marry her someday. He then asked if she would marry him? He probably even got down on one knee to ask her, and she said yes. Thinking back on it now, she had been stupid, she had never even met the guy, and what was she thinking? Of course, her friends at school heard about it and asked her the same questions. But nevermind them, she went along with it. Finally after 6 months, Scott decided to come down to visit. Martha told her work that she had something that was going on all weekend, her parents were going out of town, and Scott got a room at a motel about 30 minutes away. She had just turned 18, so her and Scott were planning on having sex all weekend.

When she got to the motel where Scott was staying, she didn’t know what she was expecting. They had been talking for 6 months, every night, on the phone til one of them got too tired to talk. They talked about what it would be like to be married, what their kids would be like, all of the things that someone talked about when they were in the beginning of such a new relationship. When she pulled up at his motel, however, she was expecting something else. Yeah, she had seen photos of him, but she didn’t think he would look so old. He had somewhat of a lazy eye, his hair was long and going gray, overall it wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. But she knew that she liked this guy, she had been talking to him for too long not to go through with it. What would he do if she just pulled away and left, didn’t answer phone calls, didn’t talk to him ever again? So, now, looking back on it, perhaps she did it out of fear, or perhaps she had really liked him and made a point to tell herself that looks didn’t really matter. If two people had a connection they should do what they planned to do. She followed him to his room, well actually he followed her, she knew he was looking at her ass. She thought to herself that this was only mildly creepy.

Over the course of the weekend, she managed to lose her virginity, and then proceeded to have sex with him over and over again. Looking back on it, her memory was a bit fuzzy, the way she can remember it, she lost all of her virginity, you know, every hole. They had had sex on pretty much every surface, the bed, the sink counter, the shower, a chair, the floor. They covered about every position, and the weekend had consisted of nothing but sex and eating. They hadn’t even left the room, mainly because she didn’t want any of her friends to see her with this guy. But ah, she didn’t want to think about it.

He had given her the ring when he came down. It looked nice, it was silver-looking, with a large diamond on top. She remembered she had wanted desperately to believe that it was real, but knew he didn’t have the money for such an expensive thing. Still the thought was nice, and she had gladly accepted it. She started wearing it to school, to show off to her friends, even though she knew things hadn’t gone as well as she had hoped.

A few weeks later, Scott and Martha were still talking, but she noticed her feelings were starting to change. It was like a sudden wave had hit her, knocked her down, and she realized where she was, what she was doing. She didn’t want to be married, at least not yet, and not to this 27 year old when she was only 18. She had been an idiot to accept this ring from him, to say yes she would marry him, to meet him. She had fallen victim to one of the oldest tricks in the book. She had met someone online, and then decided to meet for real. What had she been thinking? She didn’t love this guy, she didn’t even know what love was. She was only 18 and she hadn’t been in any real relationships up to this point.

After realizing this, she called up Scott, uneasy, pit in the bottom of her stomach. The phone rang a few times and she hoped he wouldn’t answer, but then click, and

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Oh, hey sweetie.”

“What’s up?” She asked nonchalantly.

“Not too much, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Sorry I’m just feeling weird.” She realized how hard this was going to be. He was so nice to her, and she was about to throw it all back into his face and hope he would understand.

“I’m sorry, did you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard. I just don’t know if this is working anymore?”

“What do you mean, not working?” He still sounded nice.

“Exactly what I said, I don’t think it’s working. I don’t know if this is what I want.”

“Explain.” There we go, she thought. Finally just one word answers. She let him have it, she just wanted to get it all out in one long sentence, so she wouldn’t have to say it again.

“I just don’t think I want this love, this engagement, everything. I think this was a bad decision on my part, well, both of our parts. You’re 27, I just turned 18. I lost my virginity to you. I agreed to marry you. I don’t want to be the “married” girl at school. I just want to be normal. “

“You won’t be the only married girl at school. Lot’s of girls will go to college married. And being normal, what does this have to do with how you feel about me? I thought you loved me. I love you.”

“I did love you. I’m not so sure anymore. This is hard for me. I just don’t think any of this is right anymore, I’m supposed to feel happy right now right? Because I don’t. “

“What do you mean, you’re not sure if you love me anymore? How can you love someone for 6 months and now you don’t know if you love me? It doesn’t work that way hun. “

“I know, I don’t know what my deal is. I just don’t feel it. “

“Wait a second, are you doing this just so you can go back and be with that guy that you kissed? Do you want to have phonesex with someone else? Is this about Duo?”

She sighed, of course he would bring up Duo. It wasn’t about Duo, and if she used him as an excuse the shit would probably hit the fan.

“Of course I don’t just want to go and hang out with other guys, but I don’t think I want to hang out with you anymore. “

“You sound like a slut right now, you know that? “

“Come on Scott, this is hard for me. Don’t call me that. And it’s not being slutty, it’s me wanting to have a little bit more fun before I get married. I don’t need to be 18 and married already, I need to have some fun. I haven’t even gotten to college yet, isn’t that where all the fun is supposed to happen?”

“Whatever.”

“I need to go, I’ll call you back later?”

“Fine. “

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.”

There, she had told him. And it didn’t seem like he had taken it that badly. She hoped that she wouldn’t have to call him back, she hoped he wouldn’t call her back. She wanted it to just be over. The fact that he had called her a slut, it didn’t sit well with her. This had been a bad idea from the get go, now it just needed to be over.

She tried to be as calm as she could the rest of the night. She talked to her mom so that she wouldn’t ask her what was wrong, so as not to arouse any suspicion. However, her heart and stomach (stomach mostly) just ached. She had the biggest pit in her stomach, knowing that there was no way that he would just accept what she said and decide it was fine for it to be over. She knew he really liked her, for whatever reason. It was probably just because she was younger, she wasn’t damaged goods, and she had a nice body.

Later that night, her phone rang. She looked down, saw it was him, and let him go to voicemail. She silenced his call over and over again, didn’t respond to his text messages until he said fine, I’ll just call your house if you keep this up.

He called again and she answered, “Hey.”

“Hey. Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

“I had things to do, my mom and dad were home.”

“Well were you planning on calling back when they left?”

“No.”

“Well then I need to say some things,” He responded in a cool tone, but she could tell that this was going to be harsh.

“Okay.”

“First off I don’t know why you’re doing this? Are you getting off on telling me that you love me, and then 6 months later after we’ve met and had sex and spent a weekend together you tell me that you don’t think you love me anymore? What do you mean you don’t think you love me? Did you ever love me or was this just some game you’ve been playing? You should be seriously thinking about the answer to that question because if you were just playing a game you’re going to get what’s coming to you. “

“Mhm. “

“Mhm? That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself? “

“I don’t know. I wasn’t playing games, I just don’t love you anymore.”

“Sounds like games to me. You probably get off on doing this to all of the older guys you meet on the internet. “

“No…”

“Well, in any case, I’ve thought it over and I’ve decided I’m going to call your mother and tell her what a little whore you are. I’m going to tell her everything, because I know you never tell her anything. I’m going to tell her about the engagement, and me coming to see you, and the sex, and the phonesex, and how you have phonesex with so many guys all the time. I’m going to tell her about what you like when it comes to sex, and I’m going to tell her all about what we did the whole weekend. She deserves to know what a little whore she has for a daughter. “

“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh? I mean, this is hard for me too and you don’t see me taking my anger out on you by calling your mom or dad.”

“The way I see it, you hurt me, so now I’m going to hurt you. “

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It’s not my fault that my feelings have changed. You’re being stupid about this. Just accept it.”

“You were stupid for doing this, and you did hurt me. You have control over your feelings, maybe you should have realized that you never loved me to begin with.”

“Well maybe I’m just being stupid. Maybe I do love you and I just don’t know what I’m feeling right now. “

“Well you better figure it out and let me know. Because if you can’t figure it out, that means you’ve been lying to me this whole time, and trying to hurt me. So I’m going to do it right back to you. “

“Well please don’t. But I’m going to go. I’ll talk to you later. “

“Okay, don’t think too long.”

“Goodbye.”

She hung up the phone and it set in just how scared she was. Would he really call her parents? She had given him the house phone number a couple of times so they could talk without wasting her minutes. She didn’t know if he had the guts to go through with it or not. She called one of her friends and explained the situation to them. How she jumped every time the phone rang, how she didn’t know if he would call or not, what should she do? She ruled it into two options. She could either tell him that she still loved him, that she had been stupid, stay with him so that he didn’t call her parents. But she knew that at this point she really didn’t love him. She was just scared, and disgusted, and sickened by the thought that she had ever made love to this man. She could also tell her parents, and wait for the yelling to come. But then at least she wouldn’t be so scared every time the phone rang, she would be free from him.

Martha originally went with her first option. She called Scott back, told him that everything was fine, she still loved him, she had just been going through one of her weird moods. He told her that if she was just doing this so that he wouldn’t call her parents he was only going to get madder. She assured him that she still loved him but that she couldn’t talk right then. She kept giving excuses every time he called that she couldn’t talk, she had something else to do, her parents were around, she was out with her friends, etc. She assumed that he would get tired of this and things would just fizzle out. Nope.

It had only been a week and she knew she needed to get out. He was blackmailing her and the only thing she could do to stop it was to tell her mother. She waited patiently for her mother to come home but finally couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hello?”

“Hey Mom. I need to tell you something. Where are you?”

“I’m at the mall. What’s up?”

“Well remember that weekend that you thought something was fishy? The one where you were gone and you kept calling and I told you I was driving home?”

“Yeah…”

“Well I wasn’t in the town over or hanging out with my friends from school. I met a guy online and he came to visit. And he asked me to marry him, and I said yes. And he’s 27. And we have phonesex. And he’s telling me now that if I don’t stay with him he’s going to call you and tell you everything.”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

Finally, “I’m sorry, Martha. Are you okay?”

“Yeah I’m okay, now that I got all of that off my chest.”

“Good. You can tell him to call me, but did you tell me everything?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you more when I get home.”

“Thanks Mom. I love you.”

Well that was a bit of a relief. Martha was still worried about what her mom would say to her when she got home, whether or not she would tell her dad, if they were both going to yell at her when they got home.

Nevertheless she called up Scott and told him what she had been waiting to say this entire time.

“We’re through. I told my mom, you can call her when she gets home,” she said in her strongest voice.

He replied, a certain slyness in his voice, “Did you tell her everything because if you didn’t, I will.”

“Yeah, I did. So don’t talk to me anymore.”

She hung up the phone and she felt as though a huge weight had been lifted. While Martha waited for her mom to come home, she went about her normal business. She was trying to keep as busy as possible so that she wouldn’t have to think about what her mom would say to her.

This had all happened two years ago, and Martha had some difficulty remembering the order of events. She remembered that her parents had not in fact yelled at her, they had been worried. Her dad had his worried face on, like he was really sad but he wasn’t going to cry. She remembered feeling like she had broken his heart, but truthfully he was just worried about her. He wanted to know if she was okay, if she had felt emotionally scarred from the incident. He wondered if she was upset about everything that had happened. She hadn’t necessarily been upset about what had happened, she was just really glad that it was over now. The weekend she had spent with Scott had been fun but everything that had happened afterwards was very scary and upsetting to her. She knew that every one of her friends had been right and she had clearly not been thinking straight.

She had sworn to herself that she would never do something so stupid again, she would never meet anyone she knew from online again.

And that’s how she got here. Over the course of a few months she had told her therapist all of this. She was unsure how she felt about Patricia at this point, whenever Martha told her something Patricia hadn’t given her advice or told her well maybe that’s wrong, what you’re doing and all. She just agreed with everything Martha said. Martha didn’t want someone to agree with her, she knew what she was doing wasn’t right, but every time Patricia would just agree with her.

After a few weeks, Martha stopped going to therapy. She realized that it was easier to talk to people she didn’t know. She could tell someone all of her feelings if she didn’t know them, if they didn’t know her. But when she finally got comfortable with someone she felt like now that they knew her, they would judge her. She knew that her therapist had no intention of judging her but every time she went back to that room, she felt like she had nothing to say. She did in fact have a whole lot to say but every time she tried to she just choked up. So she stopped going, convincing Patricia and her mother that she was fine, everything was fine, she didn’t need to talk about things anymore.

She really was fine for a while, through the rest of high school, the summer afterwards, and then into college. College was a big change for her, she drank for the first time, she met guys, she had more sex than she probably should have. She wouldn’t have called herself a slut, but she was sure some of the girls probably thought so. Yeah, she was hanging out with a lot of different guys, but really she was just trying to get it all out of her system. She had lost her virginity to a 27 year old man when she was only 18 and now she needed to be normal again, just a normal 18 year old having sex with other normal 18 year olds. At times it was hard, she was desperately trying to make friends and at the same time pretend that she didn’t need anyone. She would be anti-social but she was only hoping someone would come up to her and talk to her and want to be her friend. Drinking helped with this, she was more outgoing and wanted to talk to everyone.

What part of the writing process do you enjoy the least?  Is there any part you hate?

Please discuss your responses to this question in the comments. Note: you can respond directly to other comments by clicking the “Reply” link in the bottom right corner of each comment.

(Credit for this discussion question goes to Amber.)

This post was written by Nic from PINKNIC.

Since starting out, I’ve gradually come to realise that writing is not the relatively risk-free career I expected it to be. So below, for your protection, I set out just a few of the dangers of the job they never warned you about in school!

1. Paper has an evil side
Seriously. Maybe it’s holding a grudge about the fact that it was once a beautiful tree before it was brutally chopped into thousands of pieces just so we humans could use it for our own enjoyment, but it cuts you at every opportunity. I’ve lost count of the amount of paper cuts I’ve gained over the years. And it’s never just a little graze. It’s a deep slash, it stings, it bleeds, it leaves a scar for days, sometimes even weeks.

2. Writer’s Cramp
Well, all that wrist action is bound to take its toll, isn’t it?!

3. No social life
Ok, so you get to go to some amazing places and meet fabulous (and sometimes famous) people. But what about the weekends you’re forced to give up, stuck at home, desperately trying to meet that oh-so-important deadline? How about the times you’re still awake at 2AM due to that brain of yours that just won’t switch off because it’s thinking up crazy new ideas and pitches? Or even worse, what if it’s NOT? Which leads me to my next point…

4. Writer’s Block
Easily every writer’s nightmare. When words are what make you a living (and ultimately keep you alive), it’s helpful if you’re not in short supply of them. Alas, sometimes the unthinkable will happen, and you’ll be at a loss for these precious gems. You won’t be able to write a THING. You just have to hope and pray that the block disappears before you starve to death.

I hope I’ve managed to give you a heads-up on some of the mortal dangers you will encounter if you decide to become a writer. But in doing so, I hope I haven’t put you off writing for life! Remember, the rewards are far greater than the risks.

This post was written by Mandy from Just a Small Town Girl.

“Writing is an exploration, you learn as you go.” ~ E.L. Doctorow

When I began this blog a few years ago, I never had any intention of actually blogging. Instead it was a vehicle by which I could keep up with my cousins who were in the process of adopting their first child. My blog sat in its own little corner of cyberspace, blank, empty, and cold. Then one day while I was in the midst of making a difficult decision about a friendship, I sat down to the computer and wrote. Upon hitting the publish button, I felt better, even knowing that no one would read it. Then I had some comments on what I had written. What? Someone wants to read what I wrote? Even when I think I have nothing to say, people still read and comment. I get excited when someone de-lurks to say hi. The past year or so, I’ve been diligent about blogging and the more you do it, the easier it becomes.

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition” ~ Graham Greene

Writing has always been an outlet for me. I have stack upon stack of journals and diaries I have kept since my childhood. I like writing, even if what I write makes no sense to someone else. It’s a way for me to empty my brain, to get my thoughts outside of my head to better understand them. It’s a way for me to remember some the ridiculously crazy stunts my friends and I have pulled, those moments and feelings in time I want to capture (sometimes serve as a reminder of things I never want to do again). It allows me to share intimate thoughts and feelings that I don’t typically talk about with people. It’s an inside look at what I usually consider private thoughts. Other times it’s a funny story from my past that I think will entertain people. Sometimes its to write to ask other peoples opinion on a certain matter. I like getting comments and seeing what other people think about a situation.

“Writing is both mask and unveiling.” ~ E.B. White

I never in my wildest imagination thought people would actually read what I wrote. The more I turned to my blog to write, vent, or whatever I happen to be doing that day the more I wonder what my mom or some other family member might think about a post. I don’t advertise the fact that I have a blog. My cousins and another friend with whom I used to work are the only people in my real life who even know of the blogs existence. If anyone else I do know has stumbled upon my little space, they haven’t brought it up. Yes, my picture and name are on the blog and as another blogger wrote a week or so ago, its inevitable that some day, someone will find it. For now though I like having a place that is just my own, a place no one else knows about, where I can freely write and discuss things without worrying about judgments from family and friends. My blog is a place where I can share my thoughts, hopes, and memories. It’s a private place in a very public forum. I have thought about making the blog private, but some of my favorite blogs are those I came across while hopping from blog roll to blog roll.

“Whether or not you write well, write bravely.” ~ Bill Stout

Sometimes I wonder if the things I have written are too personal or too much information, if story of my drunken shenanigans, or complete incompetence make me sound like total moron. When you write a blog, you put a piece of yourself out there, sometimes baring your soul for other people to see. That’s not always an easy thing to do. I went back and forth for a few weeks deciding if I wanted to post what I wrote yesterday or if it was too private to share. In the end I decided to hit the publish button, but I have draft after draft of thoughts and feelings I haven’t decided to share yet. I don’t know if I ever will. I read several blogs, most of them written in a way that is much more eloquent and well spoken than I could ever hope to be. I read blogs ranging from motherhood, to cooking, to life in the city, to shopping, to—well, there’s a blog out there for just about everything. You are all authors of your own story, and I admire all of you for putting yourselves out there; for letting me and others into your life in a way that we otherwise wouldn’t have been able to share. The posts that I write aren’t always grammatically correct, sometimes my spelling is horrible, and sometimes they just might not make a whole lot of sense. Sometimes I just feel like writing.

“This is pretty much what journals are all about, at least to me. I knew as I wrote them that even though they provided an excellent place for brain (and heart, and psyche) dump, they were mainly a map of me.” ~ Colleen Wainwright

So, what about you. Why do you write?

Happy Friday, everyone!

We have a writing prompt for you. This one fresh from the Katie archives.

Because you’re so darn nice, you’ve decided to put together some care packages. Ten lucky people will be getting a care package from you. In each of the care packages, there will be a book, a song, and a fortune cookie sized piece of advice.

For each of the following people, choose 1 book, 1 song, and a brief piece of advice to leave them. Explain why you chose the pieces that you did.

• 2 close friends
• 2 family members
• 2 fellow bloggers
• 2 ex-friends/significant others
• 2 younger people in your life (10 or more years younger than you)

Don’t forget to put enough postage on those packages. The USPS WILL return them. Trust me.

*This is a writing prompt. Post a blog entry about it on your blog, then come on back here and leave us a link to your post. As always, can’t wait to see your responses.

If you have any Writing Prompt suggestions please e-mail them to twentysomethingwriters[at]gmail[dot]com. We’re looking for any writing prompt ideas, whether they are on the subject of writing or not. Send us your ideas!

This piece was written by Kahea from What’s Past is Prologue. It was originally published on her blog.

I’m more comfortable waking up in my grandparents home than I am waking up anywhere else in the world. This is where I feel most safe, most loved, most free to be who I am. In the house I grew up in, the house that will probably remain in my family for generations to come.

This is what I’m thinking as my heavy eyes start to slowly flutter open one morning.

It’s still dark. That’s my second, not-so-coherent thought. It’s still dark, and there’s a storm passing over the island. I can hear the rain on the iron roof, another comfort. It’s loud, sounding more like nails than water, and I can hear the periodic Splat! Splat! every other second as those drops hit the ti leaves outside of the bedroom window.

I fix my bleary eyes on the new alarm clock my grandmother purchased and put on the bedside table before I arrived a few days earlier. I have to squint to see numbers rather than just a bright fluorescent green glow; I don’t have my contacts on and am too lazy to reach for my glasses. Once I focus, I can see that it reads 4:07 A.M. No wonder it’s still dark.

I was hoping this would be a beach day, and it would seem that this storm had other ideas, but I know better than to make this call based on the fact that it’s raining at 4 a.m. on this particular side of the island. After all, when is it not raining at 4 a.m. on this side of the island? Comforted by this thought, and by the rhythm of the falling rain, I snuggle back down into blankets I don’t really need, and doze off.

I know it’s light out before I open my eyes again.

My first thought is that the rain has stopped. I can hear the mynah birds hanging out in the coconut trees in the back of the house, the new puppy my aunt got is digging and sniffing at something outside of my window, and the cars are already going up and down the street with quiet regularity.

I don’t open my eyes yet, it always takes me a while. Instead, I bring my arms over my head and yawn. That’s when I feel the bed depress at the footboard under some new weight. I feel that same weight move across the bottom of the bed and settle, slowly, between my calves. Testing, I stretch my legs out, bring my feet together, and come up against something warm and immovable. I nudge it, and am greeted with the familiar soft Meow of my blue calico sweetheart, my Mija. I open my eyes and she’s staring back at me from her curled position, waiting. Obligingly, I move my legs aside towards the edge of the bed and give her more room. Satisfied, she yawns, puts her head down, brings her paw up to cover her face, and falls asleep, exhausted, no doubt, after her evening of playing Queen of the Castle while the rest of the household slept.

Quietly, so as not to disturb Her Majesty, I slip out of bed and clear my fuzzy brain. I can hear the sounds of life on the other side of the bedroom door, and I mentally place my family. My mother is at work, she’d have left a little after 7:00 this morning to make it to the Pet Hospital in town half an hour away. My older sister and her son couldn’t make it to Hilo this weekend, so they’re not here. Kuhio, my brother in law, is in Iraq for his second tour. Aimee, who’s home for vacation as well, is more than likely still asleep, sprawled across her bed in the next room. I look at the clock again: 8:45 A.M. She won’t be up for another hour, at the earliest. I can hear the laundry going, so my grandmother is probably out in the garage hanging clothes on the line to dry. On the other hand, I can’t here Papa walking around their bedroom, or watching TV, so he’s mostly likely sitting in his chair out on the deck. That’s everyone, all accounted for.

Turning around to find my contact lens case, I remember that I wanted to head to the beach today. Thinking this, I look toward the window and smile. There, visible above the banana trees and the roof of our neighbor Miss Kat’s garage, is the slice of blue I’m looking for. The sky hasn’t yet turned that bright, bold, legendary blue of Hawaiian fantasies, but the pale blue of the morning holds promise. I step to the window and glance out through the screen. Not a cloud in the sky. The 4 a.m. rainstorm has blown out to journey across the Pacific.

By mid-morning, I’m antsy. I sit outside with my grandfather, play cards with my grandmother, watch the old men of the village sit outside of the General Store across the street and sip their coffees, take note of the number of tourists in shiny cars heading up the street to start their mornings off with a hike around Akaka Falls, and wait for my sister to wake up. I’ve decided that it is, after all, a beach day. The sky has become a crisp, deep blue, and the sun is already drying the wet left over on the grass and the pavement. There’s a nice, cool, clean breeze coming down from the Hamakua Coast, and it doesn’t smell of the rain. Now, on most days I wouldn’t think much of these signs; what the weather is like on the Windward side of the island says pitifully little of what the weather will be like on the Leeward side. But I feel it today, a prickling on my skin, a knowing in my bones: it’s a beach day.

It’s nearly 10 a.m. when Aimee finally peeks her head out of the screen door and I can tell her that I’ve committed her to laying around on the sand with me at Hapuna all day. She agrees with a smile and disappears inside to, I assume, choose which bathing suit she’ll use. She has the best bathing suit body, and it never ceases to annoy me. We head out for the hour-long drive before 11:00, armed with a cooler of sodas, some musubi, and a plan to pick up some fried chicken from KTA in Waimea on the way over.

The drive from Honomu to Waikaloa seemed horribly long when I was a kid. Anything after Kolekole Beach Park, which is three minutes from Honomu, seemed like it took forever to get to. My sisters and I found ways of amusing ourselves on those long drives, and we still use those methods today. We wait for the passing of the three horseshoes – Maulua, Laupahoehoe, and Kawili gulches – we stop off at Tex Drive-in for some of their famous malasadas, we take a spin down to the Waipio Valley look out, we count cows in the pasture lands leading into Waimea, attempt to pick out paniolo amongst them, we stop at KTA for any last-minute necessities, then we hold our breath and hope that, once we get to dry-side Waimea, the weather is clear and warm.

On this particular day, we’re not disappointed. As green, grassy fields give way to the yellow-brown dryness of mountain slopes, and then the dramatic black and sapphire of sand-dotted coastline, the weather drastically changes from cool to blistering. The ocean is still today, thankfully. There are no white-caps, no thick bands of white wash along the beaches. The breeze that’s been blowing through the driver’s side window of my grandfather’s Dodge grows warmer and, in complete sync, Aimee and I roll both cab windows the rest of the way down. She leans over to turn up the radio. Content with this ritual, I reach my arm out of the window, bring my fingers together, and let it rest on the wind creating wave forms as we drive.

The popularity of Hapuna’s fine white sand and wide expanse of sunbathing space, as well as the upscale resort sitting on its edge, mean that, as usual, the parking lot is busy and difficult to maneuver. Because we’re in the monstrosity known as the Dodge, we decide to save ourselves the grief of waiting for a closer space and just park in the far lot, where the rest of the oversized trucks have found homes. Climbing out, my feet hit the pavement and I immediately feel the heat of the black tarmac through my slippers. We grab the cooler, shopping bag, and our beach bags and head down the trail to the beach, passing bathrooms, pavilions, and frying tourists on the way. As usual, we lay down our towels on the left side of the beach, closest to the rock cliff bordering Hapuna cove, and farthest from the resort on the opposite end. Here, we may get a shot at some shade, should the heat become too much to handle. The only risk is that there are ants that live under the keawe growing nears that rock cliff, so we keep a slight distance to be safe.

It’s hard to explain what happens when my body hits the towel, when I dig my fingers into the sand, when I close my eyes and feel the muscles in my body relax one by one. I often say this when I step off of planes in Honolulu, but it rings more true here: it really is like my skin recognizes Hawai‘i. It’s the tingle I was talking about earlier. When the familiar heat warms my shoulders and cheeks, I feel most at home. There’s only a slight wind here today, and it carries on it the coconut of sunblock my sister is massaging into her arms, the deliciousness of grilled chicken and hot dogs from the pavilions near the showers, and that unique smell of the ocean I’ve learned I can’t live without.

The day passes in a relaxing haze. Aimee and I leave our towels periodically to jump into the gentle surf and swim out until we can barely touch the sandy bottom with the tips of our toes. We come back in and collapse again, then enjoy the way the sun dries droplets of salt water on our backs. We eat our musubi, chicken and malasadas, and take a short walk down half of the beach, making sure we don’t crush anyone’s sand castles along the way. I fall asleep for a few minutes to the sound of the restless waves, the chatter of sunbathers, and the happy sound of families enjoying a beach day. We spend hours of this lazy Saturday this way, and sooner than it seems it should be, it’s time to go.

We trace our path home and pull into our long driveway a little after 4:30 that afternoon. My mother isn’t home from work yet, but my grandparents wave and greet us from the front deck where they’ve been listening to music and calling out Hello’s to other village members throughout the day. We step out of the truck and head into the house. My body is slightly achy in the places where I neglected to reapply sunscreen after making my way out of the surf. By the time I go to bed tonight, those areas have turned a slight pink which will last for exactly two days before fading into the brown that is my Native Hawaiian heritage. I shower gently, being sure not to aggravate my skin any more than it may already be, but the cool/warm water washing the salt out of my hair feels almost as good as it felt getting the salt into my hair. Replacing the smell of sunblock with the smell of my lavender shampoo is bittersweet, and I’m already calculating when is the next time I’ll be able to head out to Hapuna again. Before dressing, like any self-respecting local girl, I check out my tan lines. Then, in deference to my sunburnt skin, I dress in the loosest pair of shorts and a tank I own, and rub Aloe gel all over my back and shoulders. The cooling sensation feels like heaven.

It is much later, at 11:00 when I’m finally getting ready for bed, that I hear it: Splat! Splat!

I pause for a second in the act of throwing throw pillows on the floor. There it is, that Splat! Splat! again, followed by the soft sound of water falling on the iron roof, growing louder and louder as the minutes pass.

I smile as I fall asleep to the rhythm of the falling rain, with Mija curled at the foot of my bed. It was a great beach day.

What makes a fictional character feel real to you?  Who is your favorite fictional character?

Please discuss your responses to this question in the comments. Note: you can respond directly to other comments by clicking the “Reply” link in the bottom right corner of each comment.

(Credit for this discussion question goes to Liz.)