So, First Person POV is the hardest for me. (Except poems) but I am really happy at today’s finish for day two of NaNoWriMo.
In this part, I wanted to give uplift to the reader and I pulled that off! (Cried all the way through it) but…. that is what it takes sometimes.
So, at thirteen when my parents were getting a divorce it was a really hard time for me as a child.
Here is my favorite song from that era:
Vincent Van Gogh was the first painter I learned about at school, in art classes, soooo……
ends off today here:
Cold War Cinderella
by Adrienne D. Wilson
writing as VB-Demoiselle Nanowrimo 2016
I wish I had had my dad around, but I want to promise this to you. Even if you don’t have your father or your mother, it’s going to turn out okay for you. You just keep on going. One foot after the next and I promise that it will. I think that’s what we all had to do, in those years that our families were falling apart. We had to put one foot in front of the next and kept on going.
Vincent was the first person who made me understand the heat of the Santa Ana winds because he showed me the Mistral. I looked at his fields, and his sunflowers, and his stars and his cypresses and I began to understand contrasts and compositions and maybe I even heard music too, coming off the surfaces of his impasto like warm and solid smiles. Vincent taught me about yellow that year I was thirteen, that year we were all listening to Donovan and all of us tried to figure out “mellow” and we got there all by ourselves because we had to.
We picked up art, and we held it in our hands and we picked up brushes loaded with paint and pastels in every color in the universe and we began to write things down. I chose Tolkein that year. I practiced all his runes until I spoke in secret codes that matched the symbols on my Tarot cards. Tiny dancer. We embroidered and crocheted our lives all over the sides of our jeans and our little vests. My best friend had a raccoon for a pet in those years, and her father raised falcons up on Mountain Drive.
We ran through the hills in our leotards and 501’s picking armfuls of wildflowers in those years. We were the flower children, I have realized that now. For all of the darkness that our parents carried, we came up sunlight under starlight. We were maypoles and trees and lots of seed packages. We were roses and daisies and hearts whose dreams never died, and even on the darkest nights of your life, you can know that we lived on this earth.
I can see my best friend right now, the defiance in her jaw, the way she babbled at the boys who were calling her a slut behind her back. It wasn’t her fault she was looking for love at fourteen. She was. Her whole life had fallen apart when her mother danced nude up on the Drive at one of the grape stomps. Her father left her mother that year. We were flower power girls, and we wore crowns made of flowers on our heads.