My heart is heavy, I don’t know how much more beit can sink.

My soul is weary, one more step may be its end.

My eyes sting, reddened and dry.

My chest burns, coals igniting in the scorched cavity.

My body aches, sore from all the tests and trials.

My throat is raw, scratched and unrested.

Is there an end?

If it ends, will my heart recover?

Will my soul feel free and light?

Will my eyes soften and long for sleep no more?

Will the fire in my chest give way to an autumn wind?

Will my body wonder tireless, fatigue only a memory?

Will my throat rejoice in song?

Too much to think about

Too much to do

Too tired to care

Too anxious to sleep

Cool Water

She sat alone in her office, swiveling back and forth in her chair. The fan above her head rocked a rythmyic tune as she waited for her computer to load. The blue screen in front of her displaying circling dots. She let her head fall back against the chair and she stared at the ceiling. Stucco patterns overlapped in ugly clumps.

The walls were pale blue, too pale. It would probably be considered sky blue, but the sky never seemed this shade. She noted the many nail holes that dotted the walls as she swiveled back and forth. The holes were remnants of the previous resident who appeared to like hanging things.

As she swiveled left and right and left again, she stopped and lifted the edge of the blinds to peek outside. All she saw was black. She swiveled right again. A pool of water was collecting at the bottom of her glass. A drop of condensation slid down the plastic to join the other fallen drops.

After seeing that her screen had still not changed, she lifted herself from the seat and went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face; to wash the sleep from her eyes. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was not a reflection she was particularly proud of, but it also wasn’t horrible. She turned her head right, then left, shrugged and turned her attention to the faucet.

She let the cool water pool in her hands before bringing them up to splash the water on her face. It felt good. She scooped some onto her neck as she leaned over the sink. It was refreshing and calming. She straightened and dabbed her face and neck with her hand towel. As she hung it back in its place she glanced at her reflection then turned to walk away.

She stopped before she had fully taken a step. She turned and faced the mirror. A red mark was on her neck where none had been before. She leaned over the counter to get a closer look. She rubbed the mark. It was flush with her skin, not raised as she might have expected. It felt no different than her skin. It wasn’t warm or tender to the touch.

She turned on the hot water and rubbed the mark with soap and water. It didn’t change. She heard the sound of Windows loading and decided to worry about the mark later. Her fingers lingered on the spot as she walked back into the office. 

Her cat looked up at her with a pitiful expression when she found him in her seat. She laughed and picked him up, setting him on her lap as she sat down. He lept from her lap to find his own place of comfort. She logged into the computer and played the waiting game again as the updates finished installing.

There was a tickle at the back of her throat. She coughed and tried to it. Her desktop loaded and she clicked on her browser, ready to work on her client’s webpage. The tickle was persistent and she rubbed her throat, trying to massage it away.

She updated the banner images and went to work on updating the “contact us” page. She took a long drink of her water hoping that would clear her throat. She tried to ignore it, but the itch became more intense. It began to feel as if her throat were closing. She rubbed it again with no change.

She stood and went to the bathroom. The mark had grown. It spread across the entire right side of her neck. She coughed again trying to get rid of the ball that seemed to be lodged in her throat. She watched the mark crawl along the front of her neck and toward the left. 

She could barely breath now. She clutched at her throat. She scratched at the mysterious mark, but only began to bleed when she scratched too deep. She watched her face darken and her eyes redden. As she silently choked for air, the edges of her vision started to darken. She began to feel weak and grasped the counter for support. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and had just a second to see the red mark completely cover her neck before her world went to black.

Find Time

Will you find time for me?

Will you tell time that I need more?

I need more time in the day.

I need more time in the week.

How do you find time?

I look for it everywhere I go.

At work it slips away from my grasp.

While I study for school it crawls into the shadows.

As soon as I sit down with my family it seems to disappear.

How, then, can I tell it that I need more time to write?

I need time to slow for me.

I need time to expand for me.

How do you find time?

How do you make it bend to your will?

Can you find time for me?

Can you make it wait a bit longer?

If you find time, tell it to stop.

If only for a moment here and there.

If you find time, tell it to slow down at least.

Is it possible to make time?

Can it be manufactured?

Can I just make more when I need it?

If you find time, please let me know.


The smell of fresh cut grass fills my nostrils.The rays of the sun warm my face. I close my eyes and soak in this summer feeling. I let myself be transported back home. The breeze brushes my cheek and reminds me of days spent playing outside.

The sound of the lawnmower reverberates in my ears, but to me, it’s peaceful. It’s silent in the rumble. It’s calm in the rage of the engine. As I pace up and down the yard, I’m lost in thought. This is where I’ve made up story after story. This is where I’ve worked through troubles of the week.

When I was younger, I would get so caught up in my stories that I would start speaking them aloud. I wouldn’t realize the words in my head were coming out of my mouth until I had completed a few strips. I’d close my mouth only to find it moving a few minutes later.

Some may find yard work daunting, but not me. To me it’s a peaceful place I go to think and dream and imagine. I don’t get interrupted. I don’t get distracted (too often). I don’t listen to music or news. My ears do not hold headphones that only create distractions.

I get lost in my thoughts. I’m isolated inside my own head. When I’m in my yard, alone and pacing its length, I go to sleep in this world and awake in another. It’s an escape to a place where anything is possible and it’s been that way for years.

Many don’t understand why I like it so much and that’s ok. Let them wonder why I would like a task that many dread. Let them be flabbergasted by my refusing to give up this chore. Let them wonder why a woman would like the dirty, smelly, and, occasionally, painful chore that is often delegated to men.

To me – it’s time travel. To me – it’s space travel. To me – it’s travel to another dimension. To me – it’s release. And besides, isn’t an attempt at release all I’m really after?

Social Media

I’ve set up several accounts to promote my blog and, I guess, myself. 😊

I set up a Facebook profile dedicated to networking with other authors and posting updates about my own work.


I’m not sure yet exactly what I’m going to do with Instagram, but I thought it would be good to reserve the username at least. Maybe I’ll get into the rythym if posting pictures when I’m writing or of new books and tools I get.


Honestly, I have a personal Twitter account and pretty much never use it. We’ll see if I can do better with one about writing.
Now that I have all of this set up, I just need to start working with it and marketing myself. It would probably be helpful if I also finished my book sometime soon!

Making Progress

I’m finally making progress on building my own website and official author email address. I registered for my own domain (www.rwfranklin.com) and am working on setting up that website. It’s not up and running yet so the message you’ll get right now is not an error. I had thought about transferring everything from this site over there, but am now reconsidering. 

I think I may keep this site the way it is and use that site solely as my “author” page. Since I don’t have anything published though, I may resort to planting a link back to this site until I have something solid to post on it. I may also just use it to post contests I find or updates about how my book is coming along (for the record – very slowly).

I’m going to a local author event tomorrow and need to make up some business cards or something that I can hand out to try and network a little. I now have an email address specifically for this, my own website, and soon a Facebook profile used solely for the purpose of networking with other authors. I should probably also think about trying to reserve a Twitter handle because I guess that will be important at some point. It does seem unlikely that such a simple username as “rwfranklin” will be available though. I may need to get creative.

This felt like a big step. I haven’t really spent a lot of money on becoming an author. I’ve bought a few books and educational items, but nothing as large as my own domain. It makes it feel more official. It also will probably put a fire under my butt to actually get some stuff done that I’ve been putting off.


I want substance.

I want depth.

I’ve waded too long in the shallows.

I’ve spent too much of my time on meaningless words.

I can’t seem to find any richness of content.

Where is the complexity of thought?

Have we all lain on the sand for the water to only brush our feet?

My mind is numbed by the waves of simplicity.

Why is the profound so hard to find?

If you’re there, please find me.

Drag me out to your depths.

Pull me into the warm embrace of your insight.

Let me lose myself to your wisdom.

Lull me to sleep with your intellect.

Substance, that is all I want.


Only Tuesday

It’s only Tuesday.

Just Tuesday.

It’s not the middle of the week,

It’s not the end.

It’s not really the beginning,

But not much further.

It feels like Wednesday.

It feels like it should be later.

I wish it were.

I want the weekend.

I want to sleep in.

I don’t want to go.

I want to stay.

I want to stay under the covers.

I want to stay in his arms.

But it’s only Tuesday,

So I’ll get up and go.