I had somehow mistaken Tuesday for Thursday and drank a mojito and made a burrito to celebrate my triumph over the week before being corrected by a friend. We grabbed, what was most likely, our last coffee together in Bakersfield and I gave him a threatening going away card that I had made with Liam Neeson’s face pasted in it. Then Wednesday came and this good friend of mine, from this Texas-like town plagued with erratic temperatures in the middle of California, left to go live on the eastern seaboard, and my younger sister, who was living in Southern California, made her way back here for the summer. They, oddly enough, both left and arrived at the same time.

I spent my Thursday and Friday, after getting my car back from the shop, falling back into my old habit of non-stop driving, this time back to my hometown of Hanford to be there for my best friend and her family. I had spent the majority of my life growing up with this group of people, and have gotten to know them back when I had taken residence on the edge of the dairy farming town where the dirt country roads and tall stalks of crop met with the quiet rows of houses in the suburbs. This time, unfortunately, I was not there to visit with my best friend and grab drinks at some local country bar, but to attend the funeral of a loved one.

We dressed in all black and sat in the Catholic church that I called my parish for many years with our rosaries and our memorial pamphlets. I watched saddened traces on familiar faces as we said our goodbyes and then made our way home. I sat reflectively in my newly fixed car still wearing the mournful black from the ceremony and tried to make sense of my seemingly long week. It’s as if I’ve lived a million lifetimes in five days alone, which makes it all the more reasonable to have another mojito this week when I get home.

Cindy and I woke up the next morning and left the small motel in the town of Tracy behind after fueling up the gas tank and our bodies at what seemed like the town’s only gas station. We had roughly six hours left, of driving through the Northern part of California that everyone forgets about, before we could even cross the state boarder into Oregon and I wasn’t really sure where we were going after we got up there. The hitchhiking passenger in my car’s front seat was still being incredibly mysterious, and I still didn’t know anything about how she was related to this strange story. As we made our way back to the five-freeway I decided to make it my mission to find out more about the stranger sitting beside me.

“Hey Cindy?” I tried to bring up my question nonchalantly. “You mentioned you were from Montana and that you choose to travel freely without being tied down. Have you ever met someone who would make you stay in one place?”

Cindy looked ahead toward the dashboard as if her eyes had the ability to tear through solid objects with intense lasers. I wasn’t sure if this was the reaction to an untouchable subject or if she was just tired of me trying to pry more information out of her. At this point, however, I was a little more concerned about her feelings and felt as though I had struck a chord.

“I met a couple of people who I could have stayed in one spot for,” Cindy replied after a quiet sigh. “The story didn’t end the way I would have liked it to end, and now I’m on the road again to try and fix what was broken the best way I can.”

I glanced over at Cindy still looking at the center of the dashboard with such shocked and sad eyes. It was as if she was reliving something all over again in her head. I tried to look over occasionally to see if I too could see the flashes of life emerge like the shaky images projected out from an old reel of film. I let her collect herself again as I continued to drive north.

“I swear this will all make sense when I end the story and let you read a couple of things that I have carried with me for a long time,” Cindy said. “Once you hear everything you will understand why this is so important to me. You will know why I must go to Oregon and why I couldn’t let you go. Just give me a chance to tell my tale and get to Ashland, Oregon.”

I had noticed after a short pause in the conversation that she had turned her attention back to me. “Please,” she said. And so I listened.

Read the story, “Shock Wave,” every Wednesday.

Diamond Rings, whose name is John O’Regan, is a Canadian artist and musician who got his start in music as one of the founding members of post-punk quartet The D’Urbervilles (later named Matters) with Tim Bruton, Kyle Donnelly and Greg Santilly. He also formed the Casio-pop duo Habitat in 2006 with his partner at the time, Sylvie Smith of The Barmitzvah Brothers. His first release was a limited edition split 7-inch vinyl single titled “All Yr Songs” that was distributed through his own boutique label Hype Lighter in August 2009.

Via David McQueen

“Bad writers are bad because they stop too soon. In fact, let’s take a step back. The only quality, I think, that marks the writer as different from everyone else is simply an unwillingness to quit. Others give up when they learn writing is hard; the writer struggles on. When I sit down in front of the blank page, it’s no easier for me to fill it than anyone else. The non-writer looks at the blank page and — quite sensibly — says, ‘forget it, I’m outta here.’ But if they had to, they could put a few words down there — just like I do. Only the words wouldn’t be any good. So the non-writer gets frustrated, gives up and leaves. Me, too, I get frustrated… but I sit there, and work to make it better. Anybody who’s willing to struggle, I think, can write. The real work is to stick at it until you find the gold. To get to that funny line. To do the hard work no one else wants to do, but everyone wants to have done. To discover the great character bit, the clever story turn. Until you have it, you don’t have it. Until it’s there, it’s not there — and you need to stick at it until it is there.”

— Terry Rossario

It seems as though the only way to pull a writer out from the depths of absolute nothingness is to force a gun up to their head and tell them to write. It’s as if the stern actions from their jacked-up ridiculously terrifying action hero of a muse has the power to lift the verbal blockage that releases the most wonderful stories known to man. Why is it though that I have to force myself to write in order to overcome the mind boggling pause in my creative stream of consciousness?

A part of my ability to sit down, sans too much fidgeting in my chair, has a lot to do with where I decide to embark on the impeccable task of coming up with a story or written discussion. Apparently my muse is a lame hipster chic resurfacing herself in the most obvious of places because I’ve noticed that I’m more productive sitting in the sturdy wooden seats at Starbucks with a tall hot hazelnut latte with soy. Apparently a quiet and comfy house is too main-stream for my retro muse, because the only things I’m able to accomplish while staying at home are reading crime novels and watching old episodes of Doctor Who.

My mind tends to wonder off into far off places (particularly bad-lip-reading videos and Daily Grace videos on YouTube) and I can’t seem to concentrate on what really needs to be done. I have several stories waiting behind this massive obstruction filled with the finest elements of procrastination in my head, and instead of eagerly forcing their way out to be read by willing readers, they wait patiently for my distracted self to invite them out for coffee.

I’ve cleaned entire living spaces instead of finishing up academic papers and proposals, forgot about magazine articles while having a small photo shoot in my bathroom or spending way too much time on Tumblr, and have baked several cakes, batches of cookies and pies instead of writing the novels I’ve promised people I would write.

Procrastination is the bane of my existence as it actually hinders me from my most favorite thing that I love to do in life (as well as terrible grammar but that’s another blog post), and I find it incredibly frustrating to have to work through. I’m aware that it takes a fairly decent amount of will power for any writer to keep on writing, even though at times it seems as though it’s even more exaggerated with me. I feel as though the thoughts take longer to trickle down from my cerebellum and into the muscles and nerves in charge of rhythmically hitting plastic computer keys, although every writer finds their selves stuck at times with the infamous writer’s block. I do, however, hope to one day become better at overcoming this plaguing rhetorical hindrance that binds the mind. Writer’s block and procrastination may be the bane of my existence, but my love and passion for a practice almost torturous can lead me beyond it with many interesting completed projects.

Catch up before you continue on with the story.

There it was again, an attractive woman with short blonde hair wearing jeans and a white button up t-shirt that was two sizes too big sat before Sarah in a car.

“Ready?” The woman said to Sarah as she threw the old blue Chevy pickup truck into gear.

“Yes,” Sarah said.

The woman scrunched her tiny nose and let her bright sparkly blue eyes peek through behind her long lashes as she smiled at Sarah. “Okay, this is it then. There’s no turning back.”

They took off in the old blue Chevy pickup truck and drove down the dusty road for a few miles with the sun’s rays kissing their exposed skin with its loving warmth. The two women looked on as the tall green trees passed the truck along the sides and they were ready to move forward. What happened next is what turned this beautiful memory into a nightmare. Two tall men wearing gray slacks and white collar shirts drove out of the woods in a rusty Chevy work truck with wooden sides on the flat bed. The truck jetted forward blocking the two frightened women as the doors simultaneously flew open to let the two men out of the vehicle.

Sarah’s dream soon faded to the walls of her home in the middle of the woods, and she felt that feeling again in the pit of her stomach that heated up her body with anguish. Sarah found herself leaving the incredible world of her subconscious as the flashes from some unknown past event left her nauseated and the rhythm of her heart beating faster. This time, however, Sarah recognized something in this flashback that she had never seen in any of the flash backs before. The two angry men in Sarah’s dream jumping out of the old rusty truck were not complete strangers but rather people who she saw every day. Dr. Jacob Aislinn and Sarah’s husband James Liera had stopped the car the day she tried to escape from somewhere with a woman, and she didn’t quite know why.

Read the story, “Shock Wave,” every Wednesday.

As posted by Miss Millennia Magazine.

“I stopped dieting when I figured out that you just have to eat regularly and properly within moderation,” wrote Now magazine quoting Jennifer Aniston. “The fads are too much.”

Seeing ads and articles promoting popular “fad” diets in the attempt to try and find facts and figures about the diet industry only proves the point that there are a lot of people out there spending money on quick fixes instead of changing their lifestyle. And the $40 million a year going into the pockets of the diet industry doesn’t help the argument in favor of crash diets.

It has been brought to my attention that Monday was International No Diet Day, a day that has been around since 1992, but the fact that this observance even has to exist is troubling.  International No Diet Day is “dedicated to promoting a healthy life style with a focus on health at any size and in raising awareness of the potential dangers of dieting and the unlikelihood of success.” According to the Institute of Medicine “those who complete weight loss programs lose approximately 10 percent of their body weight only to regain two-thirds within a year and almost all of it within five years.”

Short term fad diets promise fast results but let down dieters when the temporary quick fix is over. It’s incredibly unhealthy and it helps no one but the people marketing these crack-pot products in the stores. It’s troubling to think about, but here are many still out there that have a weird relationship with food.

Every year there’s a new diet trend that sweeps the “health” news world that encourages eliminating certain foods high in nutritional value and choosing low-carb, low-fat, or low-calorie options on a strict plan. The problem with the “can-have” and “can’t have” diets is that people crave what they can’t have and realize the diet doesn’t work for them. Losing the concept that a diet is a temporary thing one must endure to lose so much weight in a specified period of time is essential to remaining healthy. What does work, however, are long term healthy lifestyle changes that you can actually stick to. It isn’t about a number on the scale but rather about a lifestyle that includes healthy eating and regular physical activity.

If we change our terrible attitude toward food, and just start a living healthy life that works with you and your own body instead of worrying about being a certain weight or looking a certain way, we can focus on solving the other problems that may be affecting your happiness. Constantly obsessing over weight is distracting us from living our lives, but thinking positively and being comfortable and healthy in your own skin can help counteract that flood of negative thoughts we receive from the added pressures of a society with distorted body-image issues.

“You can never, ever, use weight loss to solve problems that are not related to your weight.  At your goal weight or not, you still have to live with yourself and deal with your problems.  You will still have the same husband, the same job, the same kids, and the same life.  Losing weight is not a cure for life.”  ~Phillip C. McGraw, The Ultimate Weight Solution: The 7 Keys to Weight Loss Freedom, 2003

It’s that time of the year when thoughts of self-reflection and planning for the hot days of summer come rushing like cool fresh water of a rapid river in to your mind. Your anticipation for the future is overwhelming and the possibility of new adventures feel just like the subtle changes of the coming season within the air. This time is also an important one for graduating seniors at the high school and college level. You think back at all the hours you have sat at wooden desks and metal tables and you wonder how it will all play a part in the time yet to come. As the realization of reality hits, you wonder about your career, and dare I say, you wonder if you will be successful.

As a college graduate, with a bachelor’s degree framed and hung proudly on the poorly painted purple walls of my room, I’ve gone through the obvious worries about my future. I struggled to grasp the fact that I was not a psychic and that I could not immediately tell what was to come of a wannabe writer. The real world takes hold of your bones and shakes you awake. Life is no longer just about studying in the classroom setting for a degree anymore—you have that already—but it becomes a lifelong path of planning and aiming for new goals.

I have learned, however, that the skills I have developed in college can also become applicable in my career. The hands on motto of “learn by doing” from my Alma Matter, Cal Poly Pomona, have given me this weird sort of confidence in the bullpen as a writer just starting out. It has pushed me to not shy away from things I once believed I could never do, and it has been part of the reason why I’m sort of even doing anything after the degree came in the mail.

Hours of diligent studying and research has made the smooth transition with some of the work I do with the newsrooms and offices that I’m involved with, and time spent putting up with difficult people in group projects has taught me the patience to really work with anybody. My ability to reason, manage, and problem solve has definitely strengthened after attending a university.

My undergraduate education has only made me stronger and I plan to master those skills that I’ve acquired in the next educational step. The experience in general has led me to believe that what makes a college graduate successful in life isn’t the amount of awards and honors that they get to put up on the wall when they get home. The important things are the life lessons, skill sets, and the boost of will power and confidence that you experience at your school, and most importantly it’s what of that you take with you when you go.

Catch up before you continue on with the story.

Sarah Liera had been trapped underneath her psychiatrist’s desk in the middle of the night for over an hour before that same psychiatrist got up and left to use the restroom again. If it wasn’t for the hot tea rushing though his body at the moment Sarah could have been trapped there all night.

She made her move quietly and quickly when she heard the door shut and threw the file back in to the cabinet and shut it all in one swipe. She then shuffled off into the front room and eventually out of the window nearly hurling herself outside of the building. She never stopped running once her feet hit the dirt and she traveled into the dark with no newly acquired knowledge that she so desperately sought.

She ran all the way back to the house at the edge of the woods and quietly crept back inside before the sun had a chance to rise. She waited there with her eyes open for what seemed like centuries with the swirling thoughts of frustration coursing through her head, and just as her eyelids began to droop down and rest themselves against each other her husband loudly yawned and unintentionally shook her awake as he got out of bed.

James got up to get dressed and ready for work leaving Sarah laying in the bed exhausted from the night she spent underneath her psychiatrist’s desk.  She let her mind wander back through the series of events as he eventually walked out of the front door.

She let her eyelids finally meet again and welcomed the instant darkness flash before her completely blocking her vision.

Read the story, “Shock Wave,” every Wednesday.