Why I’m Unable To Write My Autobiography

I heard from three writer friends so far that they’re currently writing their autobiography – or memoirs… I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t consider writing my own after getting the idea. But I had to see that this won’t work.

We all know the saying when a writer has the idea for a story in his/her head, it needs to get out and be written. It is a true saying. And that’s why after I got the idea of writing my memoirs two minutes later the idea had been disappeared out of my head again. I figured this meant that this story doesn’t want to be written.

There are many reasons for not writing my autobiography: I always considered great minds, great personalities, famous and respected people do have an autobiography or biography… but me? Who would want to read about my life? It has been normal! In fact, it was extremely normal I think it would be boring to read about it. Yes, there were struggles, so many that it wasn’t an easy life – but these struggles are only important to me! Compared to other people’s problems and challenges mine were so minor.

I understand there are people traumatized as children or young adults and writing down their story might help. I heard about an actress who wrote her memoirs when she was 18 years old. Come on! 18? At that age, you discover that you are legally an adult. Was your life so freaking bad as a teenager? If yes, fine; if no, would I have to read about 15 years of overly dramatic boredom? With me, it’s different!

And I won’t write about a life that is so full of happiness, greatness, adventures and fantastic pictures, which would paint a completely wrong person. Like people who live their life on Instagram. Their lives are full of fantasy, greatness, fun, happiness and impressive pics. How many times do I see some friends of friends posting pics of their vacation in Australia! All people with Koalas on their backs! They all are happily beaming into the camera (except the Koala, whose 400th pic it is that day). One could almost think Australia was only built for Koala vacation. And yes, I’m just kidding.

But I refuse to write about a colorful life that I never had. I don’t need to impress anyone; I don’t need to publish my mistakes and wrong decisions in my life. I only need to make sure one person is going to be good with my life – and that’s my former child-self.

I want that little AJ looking into the future and saying: “Okay, this is the AJ I want to become later. She might not always do what society tells her to. She might not always have decided for the best, and sometimes she’s clumsy and a bit helpless; she trusts people too easily and when she was younger. occasionally she was blind when it came to guys. But hey – she is herself. She’s always been herself. She still has jokes in her head and has incomparable humor. And even though when she’s on the ground, flat on her belly, she gets back up and fights. With pride in her heart and her chin high.”

 

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And then there’s another reason: Writing my autobiography or memoirs, wouldn’t that mean, I never want to be forgotten? I want people to remember me. I figure, to the ones who have me in their heart, they’re going to keep me there. And I doubt I would ever find the impertinence to expect the entire world to keep me for eternity.

What IS eternity? – Yes, I know. The definition of eternity can be read in every dictionary, right? But that’s not what I mean.

From what I hear a priest has described eternity like this: “You see a dove picking up a sand grain at the beach, taking it into its beak, flying up to the moon, letting the sand grain fall. Then the dove flies back to the beach for centuries, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon for centuries, lets the sand grain fall. And again it flies back to the beach, picks up the next sand grain, flies up to the moon, and so on; until it has transported the last sand grain of that beach up to the moon. By then – eternity has just started!”

Would I ever want to be remembered by people – in all eternity? (Or until the Earth explodes, but that’s another story). No, I don’t. I’m going to be at a place, where heaven is surrounding me. I wasn’t great; I wasn’t the best thing humankind has ever seen. Shoot the damned bird. LOL

I think you know what I mean.

Yes, my loved ones, my friends, and my family. Keep me in your hearts. But don’t expect me to write down all my life for people to read it. I keep secrets. At one point, let me go.

Do you write your autobiography or memoirs right now? What is your reason to write it down?

Picture courtesy of: https://www.wildgratitude.com/what-does-dove-mean/
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Spring 2018

Once again the first season of the year

has arrived, and just picks up in gear.

Flowers bloom, the grass turns green

everything looks fresh and clean.

**

Renewed life stretches and is waking

sleep is gone, life is in the making.

Birds, and flowers, water and grass

happiness is now as clear as glass.

**

Singing and dancing are taking over

we find luck in a four leaved clover.

We are proud and we all smile

dust is shaken off the winter pile.

**

Youngsters are shown by their proud Mom

birds and kitties nd puppies, all are calm.

The sun shines brighter every day

warms our babies on their way.

**

And once again we know it’s true

what we didn’t think when the cold wind blew

The Earth has once again shown that all the tragic

thoughts are gone by Nature’s magic.

*****

(Copyright, Aurora Jean Alexander, March 2018)

Picture courtesy of: renatures.com

 

3rd Halloween Poem Contest – And The Winners Are…

Picture courtesy of: http://www.google.com

Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/

The jury has decided!

Today I’m writing representing the Jury of the 3rd Halloween Poem Contest 2017.

The winners of the contest are:

Chris Graham with “The first Halloween”
Martha Sullivan with “Bless wise old women”
Eva D. R. Force with “Halloween Offerings”

(The winners are listed in order of their submissions)

Thank you so much for your amazing poems, winners! You will get an email today.

______________________________________________

Our three winners of the contest can choose one of the offered e-books.

 

  1. E-Book of either “Three For All” OR “Four One Night” written by Kitt Crescendo
  2. E-book of either one of the three “My Gentle War,“ “The Catalyst,“ OR “Where Angels And Devils Tread,“ written by Joy Lennick
  3. E-book of “The Dark Side Of A Promise,“ written by Allan F. Hudson

 

CONGRATULATIONS!

 

It was a difficult decision for the jury. But we had a lot of fun and wanted to thank all poets for their wonderful poems.

______________________________________________

Thank you, Kitt Crescendo and Joy Lennick for their jury work and offering one of their books to the winners – and of course to Allan F. Hudson who offered his book to pick from as well. I appreciate your help and support!

 

3rd Halloween Poem Contest – Last Group Of Submitted Poems —

 

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Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander

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Halloween Offerings by Eva D.R.Force

The templates we walk carve our
path in the stone…Polished and smooth
From the rubble of bones

We remember the ghosts
being tossed from their thrones
Hurled in the truncated
Pits of Livation

.The lamplight
….grows dim
Even darkening our stations
I remember the devil with his
Opposing negations

Offering a sweet candy
Poisoned temptation
To mark us bewitched
With his evil predation

Offerings of tempest
The lamp lights grow dim
Calling us out .. all ye
Hallowed night souls
To join in his feast
Of hellish repose

In his seasonal flight
He’s a bat on the wing
With a hanging mans noose
And a grim reapers sting

Now we’ve come full circle
From the pivotal split
Two halves merge as one
The new moon’s sacrament

Devoid of the rift ….
Devoid of the grave..
Devoid of the pit…
Ghost and Goblins parade

As we bond full circle
The pendulum shifts
The passing eclipse.
The ritual at dusk

The trimming of wicks
The tending of oils
The lamplighter musk
The roasting and burning
Of leftover spoils

What the tidal wave brings
In tonight ……Cauldrons boil

All Hallowed , this night
Upon temptuous shores

Stay by the watch
And beware
Lock your doors.

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Vacant Stare by Eric Daniel Clarke

Weather warm a rare blue sky

Indian summer car radio said

No hurry well a bit maybe

Lane not one he often used

Narrow quite bendy too

Passing places a squeeze through

Strange no cars seen either way

Probably it was just his day

All clear it seemed ahead

Rear view mirror given a check

Eyes front swerved right then left

An old lady from nowhere there

He’d swear she’d just appeared

No movement just a vacant stare

Grey clad from head to foot

Of this age no way that look

Drove on his head turned back

No sign gone as quick as that

Cold sweat his heart beat fast

Foot to pedal scared disturbed

Got to where he needed to be

Picked up just what he had to

Went home a different route

Behind door a sigh he breathed

That week the local paper lead

Ghost of Cock Lane seen again

Old men rubbed their chins

Recalled stories of lives taken

Up to then it had been five

Sixth year one each decade

Found at home last day October

Staring cold breathing no longer

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Adam by Lisa Reynolds
Adam left Starbucks,
skeleton outfit in a plastic bag,
met his older brother Glen
like always.
“I literally can’t wait
for this fancy dress tonight.
Jason Miller will be there.”
He winked to Glen that
tonight was the night he would
finally win Jason’s heart
even as a skeleton.
Adam seen
Glen rush by on the other
side of the road,
“Running late to meet my brother”,
he heard him explain to
an old woman and her dog.
Before he knew it,
a hand was over his mouth and
he was dragged down a dark alley
never to be seen again.

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This is the last group of submissions.

We have seen so many wonderful, scary, amazing and spooky Halloween-themed poems. Thank you all for participating.

The jury will go to work soon and find the three winners. 

Thank you a for your patience!

 A. J. Alexander

3rd Halloween Poem Contest – 5th Group Of Submitted Poems —

 

 

 

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Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander

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Bless Wise Old Women by Martha Sullivan
Women, it’s true, had a gift so rare
for healing with herbs and plants and flare.
Folks would visit deep in the wood
where molds and mushrooms and gardens stood.
Some women were toothless, with humps on their backs,
aged and experienced; not useless, not lax.
They were trusted and honored by women and men,
who were healed by concoctions again and again.
But something did happen, the papacy stewed:
“Paying attention to women is nothing but rude.
All eyes to the Latin, all eyes here to Rome,
all eyes to the papal reach, wherever you call home.”
The pope did order, with a stroke of his pen,
in 1320 to banish herb-knowing women.
“Going forward it is listed, heresy is witchcraft,
a religion that is evil.   Those women are daft.”
“We must persecute them, devil worship they do,
and practice black magic, using poisons – it’s true!”
“Send out my Inquisitors to capture the hags,
and drowned those old women in rock-laden bags.”
“If they sink, they are innocent; if they rise up they are not.
But use rocks of the heaviest, damn those who we’ve got.”
So began “The Great Persecution” at a feverish pitch.
Not a single hag left – not a single old witch.
But in the recess of memory these women remain,
and yearly their honored though forgotten by name.
With a conical hat and a cape that is black,
joyful children renounce the papacy’s hack.
So bless wise, old, women, whose knowledge did heal.
Let’s honor those witches whose bodies did squeal,
with pain and horror at the hands of the few,
whose hatred of women they did viciously spew.

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On the Thirty First by Pamela S. Wight

Dark is night, night is just right

As I set my broom aside

with a thought so candle bright

My glowing eyes I can’t hide.

On the date of this fall month

I’m allowed to be my self

even eating my best lunch –

can of worm warts on the shelf.

But maybe I’ll surprise them

My witch cousins and witch friend

I’ll knock on doors because I can

Pretend to be a small human.

I’ll forget my nightly haunts

For this one special fun time

Neglect my night’s sky-filled jaunts

Instead listen for door chimes.

I’ll dress up like a robot

Or maybe a movie star

Collect yummy candy – lots

Walking sidewalks near and far.

Tonight I am not a witch

I switch roles and use my feet

hoping for no surprise glitch

as trick or treaters I meet.

I hide my twelve toes with shoes

Third eye is under a hat

My high shrill voice yells Boo BOO

Kids scream and so does a cat.

My bun of black hair escapes

And my pointy ears pop out

WITCH! someone yells with fear, hate

Suddenly I’m full of doubt

Guess I can’t be who I’m not

Not tied to the ground like them

I laugh and sprint past the tot

Glad I can fly like a wren.

“Boomer!” I yell and she flies

To my hands, my pal, my broom

I screech and scream out “good bye!”

As we fly toward the full moon.

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IT’S ALIVE by Susanne Leist

 

I wake from a deep sleep.

The pounding of my heart

Cuts through the stillness.

A sound hits my ears.

A creak that does not belong.

I am not alone.

I peek across the room.

To a shelf up high.

A puppet sits there.

Eyes glowing in the darkness.

Lifelike in its wooden body.

Evil in its demonic grin.

Then it speaks.

In a deep voice.

“Time to play,” it says.

I run to the door.

No!

It’s standing before me

In the hallway.

Arms reaching for me,

A gleam in its black eyes.

It can’t be.

But it is.

It’s alive.

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Three little witches by Emily F. Seirup

 

The Sisters of The Light

Kindered souls burning bright,

with laughter and delight

and youthful grins and cheeping chirps,

nimble fingers and baby toesies,

the cutest baby burps

and the sweetest button noseies.

“Haiiiah, ay ya, ay ya, namma amma mamma”,

the little one did sing,

“Ayala, which sandwiches did you bring?”

Ayala, the oldest so calm so wise

for only eleven,

said “I brought turkey, and seven.

They’re little finger sandwiches

all three of us can share”,

as she pushed back her long blonde hair.

“What did the angels say

when you talked to the turkey my sister,

was she a she or was he a mister?”

“Halaya he was a happy little turkey

in love with a goat,

of all the silly things the turkey could dote,

he loved his life and had plenty of friends,

a beautiful bird who met his fate

at this glorious end,

to feed us and nourish us Sisters us three,

for fate has chosen our webs hand in hand,

a happy at last I’d agree!”

“Did he laugh at the goat

and have good food to eat,

because it’s important to us

when we choose our meat,

as Mommy always says, the future depends,

on healing through bonds

that love always mends,

for with love and with light

we accept each other in unity alright.”

“That’s right Taokoya, we’re here to heal,

to come together in life and love at every meal.”

“Aayyyaa, Ayala Ayala”, Halaya squealed

as they rounded the bend before the field,

“and the fruit, their records of yield unsealed?

The fruit She grows so high and mighty

from our Mother Aphrodite,

the sun the light encased so bright

and packed so tight

in fruit that bursts my bubbles

in flavor with sugars that shines in doubles

and rainbows galore,

I could eat fruit forever more and never bore.”

“The angels cry for you

Sweet Halaya sister so dear”,

Taokoya said as the field was near,

“at forests end we can’t pretend

that our food doesn’t count

so much for what to we amount

as we prepared our lunch

and our somethings to munch

for this amazing brunch,

we thank the heavens for all we have received,

as we give and are grateful to be relieved

by the universe so grand so divinely vast,

we thank the future and forgive the past

for whatever happened last,

to move on and unite in harmony and peace,

for these bodies, this lifetime,

this being is on lease.”

A moment of silence between the three witches,

as they thank the universe

for their own personal niches,

they seek out their spot for their picnic

while skipping and laughing all the way,

these wise little witches who have learned

the calm but love to run jump and play!

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‘Bout Hallow’s Eve by P.J. Enzman

 

Who? Who? Who?

The owl calls for you.

As shadows creep and flowers weep,

The frost crawls on the morning dew.

 

BOO BOO BOO

The ghost calls for you!

The doors creak and hauntings seep

Into graveyards, through and through…

 

Eek! Eek! Eek!

The trees are gray and bleak.

The bats have flown and crows condone

The Trick-or-Treat stuck in their beaks!

 

Shriek, shriek, shriek!

The witches spells are tweaked.

Beware the sight of dark at night,

And witch’s crafty sneak.

 

Moan…Moan…Moan…

Remember you’re not alone.

Ghouls and zombies lurking-

Hear their dire tone.

 

Groan, groan, groan…

It chills you to the bone.

The leave are falling and winter’s calling,

to the grave or depths unknown.

 

Shout! Shout! Shout!

Make sure there is not doubt!

Your costume shows you’re not afraid,

You know what Halloween’s about!

 

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This is the fifth group of submissions. In the meantime there won’t be any more poems accepted. The jury will decide on the winners soon. Thank you for your patience.
A. J. Alexander

3rd Halloween Poem Contest – Hurry up! 1 Day Left!

Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/eco-quartier/eco-tips-for-halloween/

 

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Deadline for the contest is

October 31, 2017 – 9 pm Central Standard Time

Hurry up!

 

Every author and poet are invited to participate and deliver a “Halloween-Poem” to my email address:

aurorajean.alexander@aol.com

together with their picture and a link to their website, a social media account or blog

1. Your poem needs a Halloween theme.
2. Your poem needs a minimum of 99 words.
3. Your poem has to be delivered to my email address until Halloween, October 31, 2015, 9 pm Central Standard Time.
4. Please avoid violence, bad language, and sexual content within the poems. It would be disqualified.

 

Thank you very much for participating and make it very hard for the jury to decide on the winners!

 

3rd Halloween Poem Contest – 4th Group Of Submitted Poems —

Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/eco-quartier/eco-tips-for-halloween/

 

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Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander

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“Haunts the mind” written by Russell Holder

 

There has never been any odd sighs from Creaking
Woods…
the place of gnarled branches and rustling of
leaves,
this place despised for the discourse of dank
boundaries,
a place to disturb childish fears on All Hallows
Eve,
there a space of shadow’s refraction, of darkness
and light,
where the slightest sounds magnified from forest’s
canopied eaves,
the lights of sullen spirits of past in the present
to moan-
the sudden chill dampens the living of warmth,
a stillness to relieve,
goose-bumps to linger, bristled hairs does it raise…
along with tales of the dead, bemoaned and
buggered spirits,
the skin which would crawl from mere mention to
flinch and then pucker,
no odd sighs but sure shrieks and taunt nipples
as flits,
stealthy, the spectral beings dance fro and to
disembodied music,
the scene is of one that haunts the mind prone
to such fits…
this where bark rubs bark, to sound echoes of
tree’d hollow drums,
this merging medley to fears of both natural
and unnatural wonder,
the senses overwhelmed… set on heel to this
odd bounty of soul,
so we would revel in these things… things that
can’t hurt us by blunder,
ghosts may pierce our bodies and would yet
then fly through,
it is the lightening we see but then shake
from the thunder,
contain not the child but the fears that we
have of our past…
no stolen youth, misspent, it is that which
yields to tricks,
nature is a fine trickster herself… the simple
made marvelous at our feet,
the bones as they’re scared… don’t they rattle
and we hear creaks,
no… the hung man still sits there conducting
the symphony,
and it is from those thoughts… our fears, our
mind and our ticks.

I wish you all a safe Halloween. This was originally written for
Halloween 2013. Also a reblog, from LinkedIn, in a group of two,
called “Poe Moments.”
https://www.linkedin.com/groups/6606022/6606022-5931485117657657344

 

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The Whistlers by Ellen Best

 

I catch a noise before I sleep

The whistlers skulk about

Spreading fear skin deep.

Chirruping secret calls,

Hiding behind garden walls.

Disturbing young girls dreams

I wake with terrifying screams.

I pull a quilt over my head,

Hide a torch beneath the bed.

Prepare to fight for my life

I take Mum’s vegetable knife.

It’s old and blunt, bent a bit

She stabs at spuds in the pot

To ascertain if they are hot.

Armed, I squeeze Emma tight,

Her yellow suit warm and bright

She comforts me as I hum

a lulluby learned from Mum.

Doll and me are doing fine

Until music starts keeping time.

Through the crack, behind the bed

I hear the tune, inside my head,

Sweet and soft hardly heard.

Matching me word for word.

Spuriously stuffing notes in a sack

My sleep is wrestled into the black.

Sheets tangle around my legs,

Like on a line round Mummy’s pegs.

I can’t escape, I scream at last,

Sodden sheets and whitened mask.

Tapping her foot beside my bed

Mummy glares, shakes her head.

washed and clean no longer soiled

Tea is made

Once the

whistling kettle’s

boiled.

 

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This is only the fourth group of submissions. Please, keep them coming and make it really hard for the jury to decide on the winners!
A. J. Alexander