Maybe They Should Call Them the “Blur” Months

Septemblur, Octoblur, Novemblur and Decemblur, maybe that is what we should call the last 4 months, since they go by so fast.

Today was goodbye to Octoblur and hello to Novemblur. My favorite month because it is the month of gratitude, the month of writing as much as you can in one month, and my birthday month. Let the birthday festivities begin! I have already bought myself a new backpack and a new Pioneer Woman Sherpa blankie.

This year instead of officially signing up with NaNoWriMo to write 50,000 words in 30 days, I am going to “blog to book” – I have a few ideas percolating around in my head. One of the ideas I found, the other is in a notebook, somewhere in this house. Since, I am in the process of giving up my craft room to my daughter for her and the baby, so she can have more room and taking over the two bedrooms as my craft room and Inventory room for Scrap4Less, all my craft stuff looks like a fruit basket upset and probably, buried beneath everything is my notebook, with my story idea.

So… I guess I will go with the first story idea.

Feel free to leave constructive criticism. Yes. it is unedited. The words will not stay the same, IF it is ever published… it is a very, very, rough, rough, draft.

But first – before I start, I have to give my Day 1 of 30 Days of Gratefulness

I am grateful first and foremost for Jesus. He is my Savior, My Lord of Lords, King of Kings, peace bringer and hope giver. I am so very grateful that He gives me the promise of heaven and that I will see my loved ones again and all my friends who go before me. RIP Caroline Easley – her mansion was ready tonight.

Okay, now. the story. Remember its unedited.

Spebbington Fysshergate was a loner. His favorite place to hang out was at the library, where he didn’t have to interact with people. Not that he didn’t like people, they were okay, ish. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t on any spectrum of autism. He just felt different.

Spebbington lived on a tiny farm nestled among lots of trees, oaks, apple trees, and maples. His farm was located near a tiny town near Ottumwa, Iowa. On the farm lived a cow, a bunch of chickens, a mean old Tom turkey, a few barn cats, and a crotchety basset hound named Gandalf. He lived there with his mom. He didn’t know his father and his grandfather had recently passed away. He didn’t mind the isolation on the farm. Now and then the mailman would drive the long, winding, bumpy driveway to deliver a package and occasionally, a solicitor would brave the trek down to the house and try and sell them a vacuum cleaner.

He did attend school, although, not many of the kids wanted to hang out with him. They found him just too awkward. Spebbington found school, a waste of time, since most of the time, his nose was stuck in a book. Reading was what he did best. Fiction and non-fiction both. Just by all the reading he had done, he felt he had already surpassed his education level. But he never showed off his knowledge in the classroom, he just sat in the back room, wearing his gray or black hoodie, blue jeans and Converses. His teachers thought he was sulking. He wasn’t sulking. He was bored. Spebbington Fysshergate was bored. He needed adventure in his life. His favorite books from Moby Dick, Treasure Island, The Count of Monte Cristo and Don Quixote was full of adventures. Where was his adventure? Surely, life was not going to be stuck on a farm feeding chickens and cows all day. Was it?

After school, Spebbington did chores, had a snack and then usually spent time at the library, or reading a book. Sometimes he would walk down to the grand old cottonwood tree growing out in the middle of the back pasture and spend time on the old tree swing. When he was a young boy, his grandfather had built the swing for him and always told Spebbington, that the swing was his magical place, that if he would just sit still and listen and ruminate for awhile, he could hear the fairies start to sing. Most of the time though, all Spebbington could think about was how boring the swing was, and the farm life and the tiny town he lived in.

The only excitement in his life was lived through his mom. His mom was very active and energetic. A tiny woman with a pixie haircut and a bubbly personality. She was a very talented musician and worked at the piano bar in town three times a week. Her passion was pies. She loved making pies and sold many of them to the local bakeries.

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Well… thats all for tonight. It’s getting late and I’m getting tired. Tune in tomorrow to find out more about Spebbington, and his mom and if life gets less boring.

Thanks for reading

Stay postive,

Positvely, Debbie

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