I write, therefore I am.

First let me preface by saying I have always been a writer. I know there are people that go to school and get educated for writing, and in truth their writing is probably far more grammatically correct than mine. All of this aside however, first and foremost I have always been a writer. I can remember as a child carrying a notebook to the woods with me and how the poetry just flowing out of my fingers. Reading back on some of it now I visibly cringe. Yes, some of it was saved and no, you can’t see it. I’m a writer, not a sadist after all. There is some speculation that writing flows in family lines and though I do not have the research on hand, I can say that my Grandmother Mary was an avid writer and my mother as well can phrase a pretty prose when suitably inspired. So where this came from I can’t say definitely, only that it is and it has been for as long as I can remember and it is a connection with my ancestry that spans years and generations. In fact, it might be interesting some day when I have the time to research exactly how many writers we had in our family. Perhaps one day when I have more spare time.

For years and years I wrote with no particular goal in mind other than to release these words that came to my mind. I liken the experience of being inspired to a poem or a piece of flash fiction like this pressure that builds up with the only release to be to let go, and let it flow out my fingertips. Over the years, pencils and spiral notebooks were replaced with keyboards and 20” flat screen monitors, but the effect is always the same. There was a time that I slept with a notepad next to my bed so that waking inspiration could be jotted down quickly. Many times, especially with poetic lines, they were there for only a few moments before disappearing into the mists of oblivion. If they were not captured quickly, like a glimpse of a fairy wisp in your peripheral vision, they were gone forever.

After many years of writing just to be writing, eventually I happened upon people who actually read my writing and commented on it. This encouraged me to explore it more, to share it with others and the feedback I gained was always complimentary. Well, except from other writers with who offered critiques. I do think that as a community, writers are our own worse critics. There are simply so many styles and like training horses, there is something that works for each individual not necessarily making it “wrong” for others, but just different from what they are used to; therefore, odd to them.

In any case, the people that matter are the only ones I’m concerned with and about a year ago I joined a site called www.Textbroker.com. This site is a ghostwriting site. It gives writers a chance to accept jobs from clients, mostly for website content, some sales pages, some blog post, etc. Since starting to write for them I have written over 150 articles and blurbs and have maintained a 4 rating, with the highest rating being a 5 reserved for professional writers. I aspire to this level so continue to work on grammar and punctuation (those darn commas are everywhere!). Regardless of ranking, I have been writing more and more for them and it has really stretched my writing abilities. Try coming up with 23 different descriptions for a pleated air filter sometime and you will see what I mean. ~.~ Keeping in mind this is a ghostwriting site which means no credit as a writer for your work. In effect, you are writing so someone else can put it up under their name and ownership and you release all claim by benefit of being paid for it. My daughter Megan fusses at me frequently for this because she says I write well (I do love my Meggers hehe) and that I should be getting credit for my work. As for me, I consider it a learning experience and I do think this site has made me a much better writer who is more aware of what exactly is coming from the fingertips and onto the paper or screen. The fact that ghostwriting pays better than most paid writing sites out there doesn’t hurt and in truth, the bulk majority of the things I write for www.Textbroker.com I would not necessarily want my name attached to mainly because it’s just advertising text and dry content.

The site www.Textbroker.com has a forum for their writers to compare notes, share stores, visit, etc. and so far, it has none of the drama shared commonly on message boards. A interesting question was raised the other day however which made me think in several ways about my writing. It made me sit back and consider how I’ve arrived where I am, along with how I’m going to get where I want to be with it. Currently I am far from making a living writing, but the revenue increases each month and this last month I actually made enough to cover my truck payment (yay me!)

The question they asked was, as writers for www.Textbroker.com, are we salesmen or are we authors? This question probably stemmed from the fact that 99% of the content available on the site is for blurbs, advertisements, reviews etc. It’s not creative writing by a long shot, though there are some clients that want excessively elaborate adjective laden descriptions. As I sat back and pondered this I realized that even though it’s sales writing for the most part, I am an author by the purest sense of the word. I am given a website or a picture with a few lines of descriptive bullets and told to write a 150 word description for the item, which I do. As writers, we are painters of words. We take simple words and paint them into a picture in the reader’s minds. Those few lines of bullets are woven into a tapestry of meaning that wasn’t there before. That simple silver office chair becomes something beyond what it is at its truest form and this can only be done in word form by an author. Are we encouraging buyers to buy a product yes, but what we do is far more than being a salesman. It doesn’t matter what you are writing, whether it is simple advertising prose or the most elaborate creatively inspired sonnet, writing is an art form unto itself and there is room in the world for writers of all kinds and all styles. It doesn’t matter if you are ghostwriting for a office supply chain website or at the top of the bestseller list, at it’s essence, writing has to come from the soul and truly good writers have a passion about their writing that cannot be learned in any classroom, it simply has to … be.

When people ask me what I am, who I am, what I’m about I can answer a lot of things. I am a mother, a lover, a cook, a cleaner, a lover of fine horses and really any horse fine or not, an avid fiber artist, a day dreamer, a pure romantic but at the end all of these things coalesce into one answer. I am a writer pure and simple. I write, therefore I am and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

*Photo credit Arielle Fragassi

Anything To Make The Water Taste Better

Now, understand I'm a country girl. I grew up drinking well water and before the collective lot of you recoil in a quick "Ewww!" you have to know that the well water I'm referring to was artesian well water from over 400 feet down in the ground. Yes, artesian. You know the same stuff you buy in the stores for $3 a bottle and ooh and aah over. The only difference is that ours was always free. Yes, FREE! Like straight out of the ground free... if you can imagine. Ok yes so there was probably some sediment in it, and some minerals. Big deal! Here we only have city water. Have you SEEN what floats around in city water?

O.O (I'd gulp with this but I'm too dry right now)

No way I'm drinking that.  Nuh uh, no way no how. Moving to the middle of the Mojave desert* however one thing that becomes very evident very early on is the need for water. Not coke, not koolaid, nothing sweet.. just beautiful, gorgeous, wet, tasteless water. The problem however, is that the city water here is far from tasteless. Oh no and you don't even want to know what it tastes LIKE. Momma would wash my mouth out for saying but lets just say a good long swig of it will have you blurting out the same 4 letter word it tastes like.

Uh huh, knew you were right there with me ;)

In any case, as I was shedding my third layer of dry skin in this heat the thought occurred to me that I could fix the water problem with a good water filter. Great idea! Well a great idea except for one catch. Have you priced those things lately?? A quick trip to Walmart provided not only the pricing, but a convenient pharmacy close for when my heart failed me. What has to be done however, has to be done and we left with a brand new Brita Water Filter system that filters SIX cups of water at one time! I couldn't wait to get it home to try it ^.^

Within a few minutes of getting it home Megan and I wrestled over it (she's used to well water too) and I won, of course, after stuffing her under the cabinet. Quick rinse of the picture and I turned on the tap to allow the sewag..err.. tap water to float through the filter and into the pitcher. The moment of truth had come... would it taste as good as the water back home? I couldn't wait to find out so I poured a big glass... took a big drink.... wallered (that's rolled for your city folks) it around in my mouth and then swallowed.

*gulp*

I thought about it. Rolled my mouth around the flavor again and decided that other than tasting like new plastic, a downside of a new plastic pitcher, at least it didn't tast like $*%&* and I was happy. I have water to drink again that doesn't cost a small fortune and come in a plastic bottle. Now I have a filter that will only cost me a small fortune when I go to buy new filters for it. But hey, at least I'll have the pharmacy to get my heart pills from and half decent tasting water to wash them all down with!


*Disclaimer - not really the middle of the Mojave but Wichita Falls is starting to feel like it with 186** straight days now of heat over 105 degrees, no humidity and every plant in my collection being DEAD!

** Ok not really 186 days but it feels like it!

And Miles To Go Before I Sleep...

So those of you that know me well know that my life took on some pretty significant changes over the last few months. I tend to be one of those souls that, once I have made my mind up, acts without looking back. I like to tell people that I have very few grey areas... I either am or I'm not. In this particular instance it was finally coming to the realization that an 8 year marriage was dead and had been dead for some time. The choice then was simply do I stay or do I make some life changes. At 43 (gack!) I'm getting to the point in my life that life changes are not nearly as scarey. At least for me anyway I realized that it's now or never and I sure didn't want to stay in the quagmire I had been rutted into for so long.

Fast forward now and I'm 800 miles from every home I've known and now living in Wichita Falls, Texas after meeting a truly gorgeous soul that still to this day, takes my breath away. Packing up everything in my little Escape and hauling west was an adventure in and of itself, but it's taught me some valuable lessons as well. New job, new digs, new life... all come together in one big kaleidoscope of activity that has turned out quite honestly, to be very good. Oh, of course there are all the usual concerns about bills and money but I learned long ago that money comes and money goes and worrying about it isn't going to change anything. We have bills paid and we sure aren't hurting in the grocery department. I lucked into an awesome job, have my beautiful (if somewhat smart mouthed) daughter with me, am with a man that I love heart and soul and am looking at moving my two remaining horses very shortly to be here as well. All in all, life is good.

Not to be forgotten of course is the venerable Cookie mutt which also is waiting for me in Alabama. I hope to bring her over soon and she, along with Daniel's pug Gabby, should be quite a site (not to mention cheap entertainment playing together). This is the longest I've gone without dogs or horses and I miss them more than I thought I would. I hope to be in a house with a bit of land within the next year or so with luck and back to a more normal lifestyle. Right now we are content and as I said, overall life is good.

Saying that, one thing that I want to focus on again more heavily is my writing which I have missed in the hubbub of a cross country move. I have been doing more and more ghostwriting for a site called textbroker.com and quite enjoy it, once I got my head around the dry, somewhat silly sounding marketing blurbs that seem to be the norm there. A little side income never hurt anyone and it's giving me some much needed extra income which.. if I continue on track.. will pay for my babies to be here with me. Yay!

In keeping with this returned focus however, much to my daughters delight who fusses at me for ghostwriting when I should have my own name attached, is the chance to do some serious blogging. So bring on the suggestions for topics.. have keyboard, will type! If you follow blogs as well feel free to add me to your list as a follower and I will be happy to do the same.

Anyway, that's the barn goddess life in a nutshell.. quietly living the life in Texas, killing the patio plants in 110 degree heat and missing her ponies and family. I will leave you with a poem that has always been my favorite. It speaks to me and reminds me that our journeys are never really done, only postponed sometimes and roadblocks and crossroads come at the times in our lives when we need them most to keep us on the track we need to be on. I look back at the last few years and though I'm saddened about what transpired, I know it all happened for a reason even if that reason isn't easily apparent. I know without a doubt I'm right where I am meant to be. How can I be so sure? That's easy, because my inner muse tells me I am. :)

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
~by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
 
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The Whisper

In keeping with the Halloween spirit... enjoy!

The Whisper


I closed my eyes, then opened them quickly but was unable to discern a noticeable difference in the window.  The tiny bit of light coming through the edges traced the outline of the blinds, but not much more.  Personally at this very moment I wished I had chosen drapes made of chiffon.  For that matter no blinds at all would been preferable to this inky blackness.

I heard the whisper again.  "Susaaan"  it said so softly I guessed at my own sanity.   My ears strained and my eyes darted to and fro trying to decide if I was imagining this or not.   For the past five nights it had been the same and tonight did not appear to be any different.  I pushed the supposed relevance of the number 6 to the background of my mind and tried to ignore it.  "Susaaan" the voice whispered again, tickling my ears as I buried my face deep in the pillows and pulled the covers over my head.  My childhood collection of porcelain dolls were safe on their collective self and though their eyes had no trouble filtering through this darkness they sat silently, staring on. If they saw, they were not telling.

[i]"This is silly." [/i] I thought to myself, but nonetheless waited for a few moments before creeping out from under the heavy comforter, hoping beyond hope that I was just imagining this and nothing more.   Deep in my heart however, I feared this was something far more sinister.  Parapsychology seemed like such a good idea for college but the last thing I wanted to think about right now was ghosts.   Mocking me, images seemed to float around my room on the barest traces of light, just out of my line of vision so that if I moved my eyes to intercept them they disappeared, like so much smoke.

I could hear the trees outside the house, scraping branches against the outside of the window with the wind like skeletal bones on the bars of a cage, pushing to get out.  Or perhaps, pushing to get in.  The old fashioned alarm clock sat next to the bed kept up it's silent march, it's face glowing dully in the darkness, weak against the onslaught of black.  It's light reflected in the glass of the dolls eyes as they kept their thoughts to themselves, maintaining their quiet vigil.

"Susaaan" the voice whispered again and with this I leapt from my bed.   "That's it!  I've had enough!" I shouted.  "Who are you and what do you want with me?"  I asked, my voice going lower with each syllable and I began to tremble as I realized how complete the darkness of the room was.   Cracking my shin on the nightstand, I yelped as I knocked the clock and it's watery light on the floor, and then kicked it under the bed as I hopped around holding my damaged pride.   Stepping to what I believed was the direction of the window, I tore the blinds from their rod and stood looking out into the dark at the skeletal face peering back at me.  The branches of the old tree intertwined until they formed a the shape of a jaw that mocked me with it's simplicity.   Now as I stood at the window I heard the music, though faint from the neighbors back yard, a popular rock song with an emphasis apparently on a girl whose name I shared.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from the window and shook my head at my own foolishness.  For five entire nights now I'd lain awake, scared and worried at something as silly as a neighbors obsession with a singular song played over, and over again.  Reaching for the clock to rescue it from it's fall, I set it on the bedside table.  Then turning to the dolls I decided tomorrow might be a good time to get rid of them once and for all.  They were really beginning to creep me out.

Crawling back into bed, I dove under the covers and pulled them up under my chin.  I fluffed my pillow and looked once more at the dolls with a silent promise of their upcoming demise.  With my mind at peace finally, drifted off to catch up with the sleep I'd missed the last several nights. 

Had I stayed awake a bit longer I would have heard a change in the whisper, which were not the lyrics I believed to be my tormentor. "Susaaaan.... we are coming for you." Perhaps I would have noticed the wind blowing the curtains on a window that was not open a few seconds prior.   Maybe I would have seen the reflection of something else cutting through the darkness, reflected as the dolls watched the glowing eyes creeping closer to the bed.   It is even possible I would have felt the fetid breath as it caressed my cheek.    It is not without reason that had I not been so exhausted, I could have escaped before I woke screaming as the ragged nails dug in my side, dragging me from the bed towards a portal of hell. 

Through all of this, the dolls watched on.

Recipes and fashion sense!

Ok, let me preface this by saying I've never considered myself a writer of horror stories.  I can think up some pretty twisted stuff, but short stories themselves usually elude me so this was  a sure test of will to get this together.   It really made me stretch and think, and it's not been reviewed by anyone but me so if there are some editing errors it's because I'm half blind and without coffee at this point.


In any case, I hope you enjoy. I also hope you watch carefully next time someone is cooking something special for you. ;)


A Supper Dish


By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010
.

Samantha brushed a brunette lock away from her face as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. The mixture bubbled happily, and she hoped she’d added enough spice this time. The TV was playing an old black and white romance in the background and the muted sounds of storyline, mixed perfectly with the roaring fireplace and the smell of supper cooking. She tasted the sauce careful not to burn her lips and added another pinch of oregano just to be sure. The sauce was her grandmother’s own recipe and she wanted it to be perfect for her husband.

Tom worked hard at the local mill but had a problem with drinking after work. She knew he was handsome and had the ladies attention and though she loved her husband, she resented the lonely nights at home when he was with his friends and far away from her. Lately those nights seemed to be more often than not and her protests that he needed to be home more fell on deaf ears. He would laugh and make some rude joke about her being an old maid stuck all alone with the wind at night. Samantha bristled at the memory of how Tammy Sue Jones had ogled him in the local department store while standing at the perfume counter. That was the last time he had grudgingly taken Samantha to town and she tried to ignore the fact that Tom had given Tammy the once over as well when he thought she wasn’t looking. Samantha made a mental note to ask him about her; perhaps after supper. He should be on his way home by now, as the time had come and passed for his usual drinking spree with his buddies before staggering home. She smiled as she straightened the table cloth and set her grandmother’s china on the worn kitchen table. She had planned a special night together and she hoped he wasn’t too tired from the previous day’s activities.

Samantha had been raised in this house and called it home since her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. Her grandfather had died some time earlier, in this very kitchen coincidentally, and Grandmother Elsa spoke of him little except to say that he was very handsome and a favorite with the ladies. She would tell the story of his death with a strange smile tugging at her mouth, and as odd as this would seem to many, Samantha would listen enraptured as the details came forth.

Grandmother Elsa’s signature look was a long black dress with the high neck and long sleeves, out of date for the times, and she always wore a cameo brooch at the throat given to her by her own grandmother. She was a familiar fixture wherever a man had gone astray whether it was domestic abuse or plain old cheating on his wife, or for that matter a wife that had started running around on her husband, leaving her children at home alone. Grandmother Elsa was always there to lend a hand to the family and show support. She would arrive with her grey hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck as Samantha helped her carry a covered dish supper to the offending family member, always a big platter of her famous spaghetti. Strangely enough whatever trouble was brewing always disappeared once Grandmother Elsa had paid a visit. It was from this that Samantha learned that good cooking can solve most problems in life. She studied diligently and spent many hours with her grandmother in the kitchen. “One day Samantha, perhaps you will need to cook for your husband. Make sure you listen and watch the ingredients I use.” She remembered her grandmother preaching more than once, she only hoped now she would be up to Grandmother Elsa’s standards. She felt pretty confident about this particular supper and lifted the lid once more to check on the sauce.

Samantha turned her head slightly as she heard Tom’s car pull in the driveway and turning the fire down on the stove, she allowed the sauce to simmer slowly until it was time to serve. “Hi Honey! I’m home!” Tom said loudly from the front foyer as the door swung shut behind him. He walked into the kitchen where she was slowly stirring the sauce, stopping to lean against the doorframe for a moment as his bleary eyes took in his wife at the stove. Then, wrapping his arms around her he pressed his lips to her neck. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and clothes as he squeezed her tight, and even though she was repulsed, her only reaction was to continue to slowly stir the pot. “What? No love for your good looking man?” Tom said and laughed as he belched loudly in her ear.

“Of course dear” Samantha said as she turned and allowed him to lean onto her. “Anything for my husband.” Along with the alcohol was another, more familiar scent. A woman’s perfume perhaps and possibly sold at a local department store. She stored this information away as most women do, making a mental note to purchase some for herself at some point. “Sit down now and have some supper before it gets cold.” Samantha was careful not to give away her grandmothers final, last secret ingredient for the special sauce she was making, as she dropped a healthy measure of it into the mixture.

Tom staggered over to the chair and flopped down, taking in the nicely set table and roaring fire in the fireplace. “So what’s the special occasion?” He asked as he took in his wife’s dress while she handed him a plate of spaghetti and laid a napkin in his lap. He shoved a huge bite of into his mouth and said with a sneer “And what’s up with that dress?” as spaghetti sauce ran down his stubbled chin and onto his shirt.

Samantha tugged down the black skirt and admired her long sleeves as she sunk the 8” butcher knife between his shoulder blades, burying it to the hilt and leaving it protruding from his back as she turned back to the stove to begin cleanup on the supper she had worked so hard to prepare. “You mean this old thing? It’s just something my Grandmother Elsa left me.” She reached up to lovingly straighten the cameo brooch on the dress’s high neck. She heard him sputter and choke, gasping his final breath as his body slid from the chair into the floor and laid there, wracked with spasms. The last words Tom would hear before the world went black, cold and still was his wife saying in a soft voice, “She had as good a taste in clothes as she did recipes you know.” A log popped in the fire as the credits for the movie rolled across the television screen.

Taking her first taste of the sauce, she let the spices roll around her mouth as she closed her eyes and enjoyed the full flavor, then she filled a large bowl and set aside in the refrigerator.  She contemplated what to bring with it tomorrow when she went to visit Tammy and ask her what kind of perfume she could recommend.

Goblins and Ghosts and Spooks and Monsters.. oh my!!

In the spirit of the upcoming Halloween night and now fully immersed in the Halloween season, my wish is to leave you each day with some kind of short, spooky story.  Hopefully these will leave you quaking in your shoes, chilling to the bones, cowering in the couch and refusing to go to the bathroom down the hall without turning on every light in the house.   For the first one I'm going to leave you with one written some time ago as an exercise from a period before vampires were sparkly and attended high school.  It turned out quite well I believe and may develop into something more some day, right now it's comfortable being flash fiction, a short story unto itself without a beginning or real ending.  In any case, I hope you enjoy and if your light bill doubles in the next week, don't blame me!

Dark Gift
By Donna Sabatine
Copyright © 2010

Through night’s velvet cover I rise from my centuries sleep; taunted by the thought of the bloodlust I know will come with the darkness. The lust I know will pull me inexorably along like the tide with the moon. The city’s heartbeat throbs as I search. The dark alleys and small alcoves hold the lost souls; the forgotten ones, the ones that will not be missed. There is no challenge in this hunt. They offer no resistance as my face reflects in their eyes and they realize I alone am timeless. Tonight I am challenged to find the one. Tonight I seek a mate that will abide with me, sustain me into the next millennium until it is time to search again.


The night hides my shadows as I find the one I seek. Standing alone from the rest he also watches the city, his dark eyes taking in the ebb and flow of humanity as it goes about its nightly duties. Sensing my presence he turns and with my eyes and unspoken promises, I whisper my invitation. He is mortal, but that is a temporary inconvenience.

The desire burns in his eyes as he takes in the form of the woman before him; the form of a woman who was transformed during the time of the Pharaohs and a shape that hints of earthly pleasures. A smile crests and breaks like the sunrise, blinding me with its radiance and I am stunned…but only for a moment. Clasping his hand in mine I move close and the bloodlust engulfs me.

For this very brief second in time I am as close to human as I have been in 5,000 years. Not since I lay to rest a millennium ago, abhorred at my thirst and disgusted at the carnage that laid in its wake. I am haunted no longer as I accept who I am, what I am. I take his face in my hands kiss him softly as the dark gift urges. The kiss is a taste of immortality and his body responds with shock at the visions it brings to his consciousness; images of elegance and ultimately, images of death.

Holding his eyes with mine I slowly unzip the leather jacket that he wears, baring the soft skin at the base of his throat. Mentally he is already mine, this fair haired child of the sun, and he bends lower to feel my teeth on his neck. I can feel his breath quicken I drink that first deep draught and the life blood flows across my lips but not too much, only enough to open the portals of hell for his entrance; the portals of my own personal hell which I have survived alone these many thousands of years alone, but no longer.

Steadying him with my arm I lick the blood from my lips and in return for his soul, offer my flesh to him. He drinks deeply as his eyes are filled with the soulless look of the dark gift. It is done and I am no longer alone.

As the sun begins to crest the horizon, waking the humans from rest and setting them about their daily lives we sleep entombed in the city that is a hunting ground for any like us. We are the predators, we are the lords, we are the timeless ones and as I fold my arms around him, we sleep the sleep of the dark gift.

Pseudologia Fantastica

Big words for a simple problem, that being habitual or complusive lying.. ie pathological lying about a situation or condition. Also termed "mythomania" which I also considered for the title, but decided the longer one that sounded like a bad science fiction acid trip worked better. I think I'm going to save it for my repetoire of words and throw it out there along with "infinitestical" as often as I can.

Infinitestical? Oh yes, but that's for another post.

So lets have a look at this, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pathological_liar . Wikipedia defines the characteristics of this type of behavior:

The defining characteristics of pseudologia fantastica are that, first, the stories told are not entirely improbable and often have some element of truth. They are not manifestations of delusion or some wider form of psychosis. Upon confrontation, the teller can admit them to be untree, even if unwillingly.

In other words, they build a story around a small kernel of fact. The problem with this is that eventually they lie to so many people they are unable to keep the story straight and then the truth begins to pour out.

What makes people do this? I'm sure many of you reading this has known someone that can't tell the truth if their life depended on it, and sometimes it does. Hopefully you purged people like this from your life when this nasty little habit was thrown out into the open, but for those of you that have someone in your life that is a pathological liar and no way to just make them go away, just let me say I feel for you.

I can honestly say that in all my life I've know... four? Way back in school there was a kid that lived in a rather impoverished area of our very, very small town. He was well known for telling "stories". They weren't the kind of lies that would hurt anyone, they just served to make him look silly as he was found out everytime. The second one was a dear friend of mine, who did this and I knew it, but I learned to just glean through the commentary to pick out the truth. Hers was done to make herself look (and probably feel) important as she had some real problems going on in her life. The third one is about the same, a life being so downtrodden and sad as to warrant pity and compassion, but no strength or motivation to rise above it. He is also quite easy to read and it's pretty obvious when he's telling the truth or lying.

The fourth person I've known that has this, well I can't really call it anything but a disease as pathology itself is a study of diseases, does it willingly and knowingly and only to improve their life and station in life. They will create stories which have some basis in fact, but are mostly all fiction and drama. In a different regard from the 3 people mentioned above, this one has no compunctions as to doing this, knows full well they are doing it and just flat doesn't care. The wake they leave behind them as this carries on can be quite devastating emotionally for the friends who stand behind them, only to find out they were horribly in the wrong all along. For this type of person I can only hope that eventually they will develop some compassion and empathy for others. At some point they are going to meet up with someone who quite simply, will set them in their place and if they are lucky, they won't be hurt physically in the process. The biggest problem with this type of person is that you just never know when to believe them, and when they are lying to your face. They honestly believe the fabrication they have thrown out there, but if pinned to the wall they will admit the untruth. It's pinning them to the wall that gets tricky because they jump from one person to the next, repeatedly looking for someone new to coerce or convince something other than what is really going on. By the time the trait is learned, the damage is done and they have moved on to the next innocent victim.

I'm not a scientist, but even the scientific world can't agree on exactly what causes this phenomenon. Personally I have to ask myself, is it self image? Is it and overpowering need to be something that they are not and the inability, or unwillingness to go through the proper steps to attain the pinnacle they would like to have everyone believe they reside? Is it some kind of chemical imbalance? Is it hormonal? Genetic? I've never been one to argue nature or nurture as I feel both impact our world, but like the lifetime criminals that argue they are the way they are due to their parents, it simply doesn't fly once they are out on their own and still committing the acts as they are then completely under their own control and guidance. There does come a point in your life when the situations you find yourself in are all yours and nobody elses.

If you take nothing else from this reading, know for a certainty that you, and you alone create your environment. We all set the attitude of our daily lives and if you manage to maintain a calm, then you have reached a level I've not yet attained definitely, but one I strive for. Sometimes this means cutting the nasties from my life and concentrating on the positives. (I'm getting very good at biting my fingers though!) However, if you are in a constant environment of stress and turmoil then perhaps you should look inward to find the common source, ask yourself honestly what you can do to change your position in life, and for once in your life, be honest with yourself as hard as the realization may be.