Words are like people. They have their supporters. Words have bridges, rules, dialect and gender. Words are complimented and described by other words. Some are considered offensive! Some words are simple while others are complicated and difficult to understand. Words have friends that sound like them. When words get together in a specific sychronistic order, they make a difference, invoke emotion and change the future of our lives.

His picture, I mean. It's a weird place for a picture of a person to be, let alone a photograph of a famous person. And it is definitely a strange place for a picture of a famous person who once starred in a childrens show. Nonetheless, it's where he is.

It became his home when I first moved in and my friend didn't know where to place the picture, so she situated him high on the shelf, next to the towels. Don't worry, it's warm there. He's comfortable.

It stayed his home when I found myself speaking to him as I entered the room, and asking how he's been. You see, I live by myself. No, correction...I live with LeVar Burton('s picture), a stuffed Finding Nemo, a plush orange monster with green spots, and musical instruments that all have names which I will not share because a person deserves some mystery their life.

LeVar was my mystery for a long time. Until now. No one needed to know that I spoke to a man who wasn't actually there. At first talking to him was odd, telling a picture about my day. Asking if the steam was bothering him. Then talking to him became comfortable, telling him about my coworkers, asking what he thought of my outfit chocie. And now? Now, his presence feels necessary. My tears flow freely in front of him without judgement. Frustration at myself outpours and still he stays. He is not brought down or annoyed by it. He is a comfort when no one else is around, and often there is no else around.

So, here's to LeVar Burton who listens when I speak, never leaves, and smiles down on me from high on the shelf.

Given up on words with ornament

That to describe an impression clearly

I choose the simplest of ways;

For a succinct description without flourish,

Familiar and closest to heart and mind –

A freshly wiped window without smudge.

But when this belief narrow my view

Where all I see is a tree and rock,

What is lost in my careful discerning

Might I miss the fox wandering about

While I’m too pent on pleasing aesthetes?

Here is Ethyl Bromide. She's very nice. She'll take hold of your mind, make you feel welcome, and smile. You'll be taken in soon, at least for a while. She knows just what to quip to make you believe Everything's going to be alright. 

You won't be tempted to denounce her as politic. Yet she seems to know some kind of rules of the game, a code of conduct we've come to anticipate, of what to do, or what to say... Boundaries; a social contract; ethics... Ethos... She understands you almost too well. 

Like a charm or a spell... she seems to be slowly crossing some kind of line, because you're steadily getting very tired, sedate, like something is lulling your brain... and it won't be long now before you're so far gone you won't be able to tell whether you were really treated well or not.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Author's Notes: These are the definitions that guided my thoughts for this write...

* Ethic: the word at the root of"Ethical," refers to morals, principles, conduct...

* Ethical: Oxford Dict. defines strictly, by single definition, as "n.; (of medicine or drug) not advertised to the general public, and usu. available only on doctor's prescription."

* Ethically: an adverb may apparently be applied in the context of Ethic or Ethical.

#WhatIsEthical? #Challenge

<font face="Helvetica" size="3" color="silver">01.28.2018</font>

You are just

A sexy

Beautiful

Morsel

Of adorableness

Every eye

Catching moment

My brain floods

With happiness

I keep you

In the back

Of my mind

And go there

When i need to smile

I go there when

I can't find a smile

On my own

K.j.a. (c) 2018

Dear "Author",

I'm scribing this dumb letter to let you, and anyone around you, know that you have zero control over my life.

You may be taking credit for my story, and telling it to a bunch of passive warriors in some far off, pathetic realm, but I know for a fact; my choices are mine! In life and death, I decide what happens next. I don't belive in fate artes and I definitely don't believe you have access to such power. I'd sense it.

If you did wield this power, I wouldn't be the only warrior tracking you down. And your world's borders... would not protect you.

Sincerely a warrior whose name you do not deserve.

~~~

...sounds like that guy^ has some issues.

This isn't my letter, it just kinda ended up in my hands by a series of unfortunate events. I don't necessarily believe in this 'author/fate arte' stuff either... but if you do exist... all I ask is that you get rid of the lunatics plaguing my life. I don't want tattoos, I don't want fairies, I don't want people drawing on my face, nor do I want psychotic ex girlfriends trying to kill me.

Just give me a proper job, and I'll live my life in the background.

From an unemployed person.

As indicated in my last journal entry, I knew nothing about writing fiction. After a year of typing up pieces that fell into my head from some other realm (because I sure as hell wasn't trying to create the darned thing), I had an 85,000-word story saved on my computer. But I had no idea what I'd just written.

Love story? Romance? Shit. What the hell is this thing?

I didn't even know the difference between commercial and literary fiction.

The previous two decades of my life had been spent focused on scientific readings (for my career); non-fiction readings, such as books about landscaping, home design, gardening (you know, stuff for life); and classics (who doesn't love reading Pride and Prejudice over and over?). And the only contemporary romance I'd ever read was the Fifty Shades of Grey series, which was enjoyable to an extent...but left me wishing the author had done more to make me feel something for those characters. *ducking to avoid the rotten tomato onslaught*

So I found myself in the awkward position of having written something I knew very little about (because Fifty Shades wasn't enough exposure to the world of romance reading/writing to consider myself aware).

After spending hours over many days conducting research, I learned that my writing style was commercial and I had written a romance (or, at least, I was going to make sure it turned out to be a romance). [Note: A love story is not necessarily a romance, but all romances are love stories.]

Then I started reading romance and further educated myself in the genre. [Note: I've just finished reading The Ones Who Got Away by Roni Loren. Loved it.]

Yes, my style is commercial and I'm proud of that fact. Maybe it's because I've accomplished so much in my educational life that I don't have anything to prove, or maybe I'm just easy-going this way, but I'm writing a story that is easy to read (not literary). Why? Because I want non-readers (people who can read, but choose not to) to pick up my book and decide to buy it. In my opinion, that's part of the reason Fifty Shades took off. It got to the point that non-readers got curious enough to buy the book. Non-readers don't pick up literary fiction or even most commercial fiction. Non-readers don't read much. So when they do, it's pretty special.

Yes, my story is a romance and I'm proud of that fact. Some writers/authors/readers/people consider romance garbage. Trash of the literary world. But who cares? Not me. And certainly not readers of romance. It's the most popular genre because people love it. If I am able to publish a romance via traditional means, I want to do it and see where it takes me. My story is mine and I love it. I hope readers will, too.

*deep breath* I think that's enough for today. I hope you enjoyed this journal entry. If you did, please like and share. But, most of all, comment. I love reading comments and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Finally, if you haven't yet, please consider visiting my website (ivyblackwater.com) and/or finding me on Twitter (@IvyBlackwater). :-)

Thank you for your time. Have a wonderful day!

-Ivy Blackwater

I am human.

I am young,

I am old.

I am tall.

I am short.

I am thin.

I am fat.

I am black.

I am white.

I am rich.

I am poor.

I am a boy.

I am a girl.

I don’t know.

I am gay.

I am straight.

I am bisexual.

I am lesbian.

I am Christian

I am Jewish.

I am Muslim.

I dream.

I wish.

I smile.

I cry.

I laugh.

I hurt.

I work.

I play.

I am a son.

I am a daughter.

I am a mother.

I am a father.

I make mistakes.

I bleed.

I love.

I am here.

I am me.

I talk to myself in the still mirror

tracing a trail of tiny air pebbles,

I stop breathing in synchrony

to your heartbeat, encased

in a folded cage, trapping me

in a place I try valiantly to escape.

You can’t hear me in my mirror

my words are scattered, invisible

a translucent force, backhanding me,

in an eye blink, I turn to face nothing,

obliterated swirling thoughts, unknown.

Why can’t anyone else hear me?

I am mirrored in the weeds of indifference

surely you know what I am saying, but

my open estuary confesses only to me.

I beg of you to feed my raging fire

by listening to the image in my mirror.

Must I be the only one to validate

my worth, hidden in intensity?