Deciding Where You Will Go

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
―    Dr. Seuss,    Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

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My feet hurt – they ache and burn

As I force them into fashionable shapes.

I can’t hop to attention,

I can’t run if I’m chased.

There are no kicks to punctuate my screams.

I blame my feet.

They will not conform to the newest obsession

They are too fat, to flat just a rebellious gathering of toes.

My feet hurt –

They resist being stretched, stuffed and

Crammed into the wrong pair of shoes.

I clumsily stumble unable to balance

In a fashion multimedia show. 

Brilliant creations drafted by artists

Who personally hate my feet.

Aching complaints sedate and control,

Inching forward on tippy toe

Each stride hobbles my sense.

Paying top dollar to vogue’s hefty toll.

And yet my feet hurt!Image

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Giving Writers Hope

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King on having fun

When a good writer is having fun, the audience is almost always having fun too. — Stephen King, Entertainment Weekly, Aug. 17, 2007

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Anna Quindlen

“We waste our lives apologizing for our maturity instead of celebrating the power that comes with age.” by Lynne Spreen, blogger and agless guru for women over forty.

Reblogging: From Lynne Spreen’s ‘Any Shiny Thing: Getting Old Is Fantastic!

“Anna Quindlen is 59 years old, and she thinks the same way I do, so today, I’m going to borrow from her new book to make my own points about age: It’s odd when I think of the arc of my life, from child to young woman to aging adult. First I was who I […]”

Anna Quindlen
Author of: Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake

at this age)…we’re unlearning so many lessons, about how we should live, be, work, feel. We hold our fingers up to the prevailing winds of custom and behavior and think, nope, that’s an ill wind. It’s not that we question authority, it’s that we question who gets to be an authority in the first place….For me, one of the greatest glories of growing older is the willingness to ask why and, getting no good answer, deciding to follow my own inclinations and desires. Asking why is the way to wisdom. Why are we supposed to want possessions we don’t need and work that seems besides the point and tight shoes and a fake tan? Why are we supposed to think new is better than old, youth and vigor better than long life and experience? Why are we supposed to turn our backs on those who have preceded us and to snipe at those who come after?”

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Random Thoughts of Five

Having A Random Time

Five Zombies on a park bench.

Absence of reason > evidence in slough of flesh > vacancy of eye.

Five stars that fell from heaven.

Dullness of existence > lure of streaking glory > light-years to wonder.

Five Jennifer Aniston films I’d rather not see.

Absence of talent > flicker of mane > time better spent elsewhere.

Five guys with “I work @Boeing branded to their foreheads.

Mindless fairy tales > wealth and grandeur > ultimate fallacy to security.

Five songs that never made top twenty.

Oldies but goodies> found only in the mind> of those with better taste.

Five Fingered Death Punch

Heavy metal > twisted sister > cruel intent > wrenching gut > IBS withdrawals.

Five below zero.

Relationships gone south > plummeting fall  >head spinning>mind reeling> leaves one speechless.

Five star banks that robbed you blind.

Sanctioned theft  > disguised as wisdom > integrity varnished > credibility tarnished.

Five pillars of Islam in scythes of yellow and red.

Visions of greatness > vestal virgins > nothing more than a horny man’s dream.

Five myths of Obama Care that rattle the brain.

Each camp ugly >clamoring for attention > neither listening > greed disguised as concern > trillions undisclosed.

Five Year Itch.

Time without satisfaction > questions without answers >  peace without mind.

Five and Furious > Five and Fast.

Speeding cars > nubical girls >ab–stract adolescent men.

Five star book reviews I know lied.

Lack of brilliance > false identity > lack of reason > searching for home.

Five hotels that promise comfort without bedbugs.

Fumigated > saturated > ecologically proven to shrink whatever ails ya.

Five restaurants’ that guarantee a fine cuisine.

Regardless of flavor > ignorance of calorie count > disregard for cholesterol levels > msg.

Five minutes of euphoria.

Bottom of glass > shape of donut > center of that chocolate éclair.

Five weeks of bliss.

Mindless pleasure > warmth of sun > caressing tropical breeze.

Five months of doubt.

Self-degradation > turmoil  >analyzing > patronizing > scrutinizing > paralyzing.

Five years of misery.

Wanting to leave >held captive > gossamer strings of imagination.

Five easy listening stations.

Sound without significance>wings of Calgon>Riesling>and scented candles.

Five ‘Hi’s’

High five > high low > hi sweetheart > hi Mr. Sandusky >  hi-by  > hey You!

Five Miami Dolphin’s

Men in tights > muscles flexed > testosterone inflamed pecks  > a feast for any eye.

Five Denver Cowboys.

Peers and compatriots > like father’s before > like  men who lost the Alamo.

Five shades of red.

Shades of blue > tints of yellow > flags of glory > deathbeds of despair.

Five things said that you wish you could take back.

Words blurted in anger  > thoughts left to run amuck > spleens vented without thought > injustice won but lost.

Five individuals you’re pretty sure you could do without.

First to break your heart > defame your name > burst your bubble > to catch your lie > to leave you breathless without shame.


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Dr. Seuss

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

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James Baldwin

Unless a writer is extremely old when he dies, in which case he has probably become a neglected institution, his death must always be seen as untimely. This is because a real writer is always shifting and changing and searching. The world has many labels for him, of which the most treacherous is the label of Success.- James Baldwin

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SSpjut…What Makes Me…Me!

I and my seven siblings grew up on a small farm in Western Washington where mornings were spent jockeying for your ten minutes of bathroom time before heading out to school, and the afternoons found us rushing home to get the cows, pigs, horses and chickens feed in time to watch Barnabas Collins and Dark Shadows. My parents were hard working people who in turn taught their children that hard work, Godly living and voting Republican would earn you the American dream.  To inspire that belief we were each given a horse of our own, a pitch fork to clean up after it with and the freedom to imagine our lives to be whatever we wanted them to be.

When I was eight years old my older brother Ross handed me a copy of The Hobbit and told me if I was serious about becoming a writer than I needed to start by reading that.  So I did, and then I read The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the Chronicles of Narnia, Dragon Rider’s of Pern and every science fiction-fantasy book I could get my hands on. For the next twenty five years I devoured everything I could that was about fantasy, romance, horror and mayhem. And in between my elementary years and high school I wrote short stories, poems and pretended to be one of the heroines out of Middle Earth, Narnia and the lands of Pern.

But interwoven with my love of books and fantasy was my love of horses and so the writing career was forced to take a back seat to training and showing my ponies Copper and Star. Dab those years with high school, college, marriage and children and I got lost in a sea of competition, motherhood, dirty diapers and later on, raising two boys on as a single parent.

In my mid twenties there came a resurgence of training and showing horses which lasted until one the horses I was working with at the time decided to fall down and try to make a sandwich out of him, the wall and me. When I recovered from the broken ribs, bruised clavicle and torn tendons and muscles I determined that I’d had enough with other people’s badly behaved animals and it was time to put my skills as a teacher and self taught sales manager to use elsewhere.

It was around this time that I had a serious encounter with the Lord God that radically changed the focus of my life and one of the outlets I used to deal with that rather lengthy transition was journaling. I remember going through reams and reams of paper until I finally went to composition books so I keep better track of them. At the time I thought I was just working out on paper all the ideas and changes that were going on in my life; what I didn’t realize was that God was using all that journaling to re-awaken the passion I had always had for writing.

Looking back over my life I can now see how being a daughter, wife, mother, business owner, horse trainer – teacher, voracious reader and Beloved of God has played a major role in shaping who I am today. It’s what drives my passion to bring all those joys and sorrows, up and downs into the character’s I am writing about. Each one represents an aspect of my life or the lives of those I’ve known and draws out the best and the worst from each. The jobs I’ve held, the children I’ve raised, the friends and family I’ve loved and lost all share their wisdom and essence with the lives of those I’m writing about. They are like my character Walks In Dreams; they are the culmination of many lives well lived.

From the laptop of an uncensored dreamer,

Shawn Spjut


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On some level Hershel knew that what he was about to do was wrong.

For more times than he cared to remember, Rhonda had grilled him on the rules of the neighborhood; no sniffing Mr. Crenshaw’s butt        (the cat had two and half inch claws and was not afraid to use them), no eating out of Mrs. Clubiskys trash cans (her spaghetti and meatballs were known to produce uncontrollable flatulence),  no lifting or squatting of legs on or around Mrs. Bolton’s flower gardens; particularly her prize roses (canine urine has been linked to several forms of rose bush fungus) and definitely, absolutely  no chasing Big Billy Bilabob, the neighborhood paper boy.

Unless of course it can be proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the he did with malicious intent, aim for and did hit your head when throwing the newspaper.

Being the obedient and copasetic dog that he was, Hershel did his best to abide by these rules whenever and wherever possible. And to the best of his knowledge (except for that time when he was having a very realistic dream in which he, not Milou’ the fox terrier, was Tin Tin’s true companion Snowy, and Big Billy Bilabob intentionally hit him on the head with the newspaper, and he’d woken up thinking he and Tintin were under attack and it was Hershel’s job to defend them against Nazi invaders), he had.

Yet today,  in the course of his afternoon stroll through the neighborhood, he found himself faced with the agonizing responsibility of whether or not he could, or even should,  break the greatest rule of them all; never, never, ever go into another dogs yard and …… you know…… evacuate your….., even the word made Hershel shake in his boots (if he’d had any, which, if little Melissa Pettigrew had her way, he’d be wearing by the end of the week).

You see Hershel’s human grandparents had come to stay for awhile and in the course of doing his best to make Mr. and Mrs. Lubosky feel right at home, he’d made an exception to his personal rule to never accept food scrapes from strangers.  But you know how it is; a dog is doing their best to look stoic, even regal, and along comes a person of distinction – and bam! You’ve got fresh made lasagna with real mozzarella cheese (not that artificial stuff Connie’s humans use on their big box store, fake style pasta) and fresh grated  Parmigiano-Reggiano (the one that Rachael Ray always talks about), with little bits of black olive peaking out and…….what’s a dog to do?

So this is Hershel’s dilemma; all that Italiano food had to go somewhere and according to Hershel’s digestive signal’s, it needed to go somewhere now, and Hershel was four blocks away from his own yard. And it wouldn’t matter if he flew as straight as an arrow towards his home because there were at least three; no make it four fences that were too darn tall for an English bulldog such as himself to make it over.

No, on many levels Hershel knew what he was about to do was wrong, but hey……a dog has gotta go when a dog has gotta go.

From the laptop of an uncensored dreamer


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