Author: Melissa Snyder

Melissa Snyder https://awriterbecoming.wordpress.com Melissa Snyder is an introvert with a flair for the dramatic in her writing. She is a wife, mother, teacher, compulsive writer, voracious reader, and fierce defender of Love and Imagination. She likes to write about faith (her own and faith in general) and self and emotion and society and hobbies, as well as revealing the myriad paracosms that inhabit her mind. These paper bullets of the brain live in her blog and on Facebook where she endeavors to write about life and Imagination boldly and share honestly.

The Smile at the Table

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Austin leaned down, his forearms braced on the back of a chair, and hid his face in the crook of his arm for a moment. The pretense was weariness at the beginning of lunch shift, having already had classes that morning. The truth, however, was that he was hiding his expression. He just didn’t have the heart to tell Kayla that their manager had not scheduled her that summer in hopes that she would get frustrated and just quit. The truth was that Kayla sucked at the job; she got orders mixed up, forgot things, took forever, and whined egregiously when customers didn’t tip her well but, rather tipped her what her service was worth. She was nice enough, pleasant, yes, but a poor waitress.

Austin, on the other hand, thrived in high demand work like this. It kept his memory sharp and his charming interpersonal communication skill set evolving. He was handsome enough, this he knew. The phone numbers written on receipts in his ticket folio also attested to this. He kept himself tidy, comfortably stylish, personable. You have to be able to handle people in all facets and situations, and what better proving ground for that than food service? Proving ground and smelting furnace all in one. Especially weekends. But today was Monday. Lunch rush tended to be slower, hence why he could stop and chat right now.

Mondays weren’t so bad.

Thoughts of a Sunday: Social Spoons & Gut Feelings

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Introverts-treasure-the-closeI am weird about being around people. I often have little issue with chatting with folks online but being in public with people can be hit or miss at times. I admit that there are days that I cannot handle it. There are days that I have ducked out to the bathroom during greeting time at church (like today) because I simply didn’t have the social spoons to deal with shaking hands/interacting with everyone. There are times that I have been absolutely elated at the cancelling of plans, others when I have been devastated and never admitted it. There are times that my spoons have been so few that I have closed my laptop, put my phone in another room, or screened my calls/message alerts just to avoid having to talk to anyone of an evening.

I love people. Really, I do. But, sometimes, I just cannot handle them. Sometimes I can handle them in small doses.  Sometimes I want to get lost in a crowd that I don’t know and be alone in public. And sometimes I just have to force myself to be around large groups, e.g. when teaching, and fake it until I make it. The last leaves me absolutely exhausted and I spend at least a night recharging. That can either be with alone time or by socializing with a handful of people whom I actually, deeply like and enjoy being around.

sometimes-all-you-have-is-instinct-a-gut-feeling-its-important-to-pay-attention-to-them-james-patterson

Have you ever had a gut feeling for someone? Someone specific? That feeling deep in your core that told you to text, call, write, or instant message them and just…say something nice? Not platitudes but something genuinely, honestly nice? I have and I do, often. And I don’t always understand it.

Sometimes it comes in the morning, sometimes it’s the last thing at night. I might have seen the person just yesterday, or it might have been weeks or even months since I’ve seen or spoken to them. And, yet, there they are: sitting on my heart with a big blinking arrow pointing at them.

I don’t always understand it, but I do it anyway. I’m not saying that this makes me a great person but it is the way I determined to live my life a long time ago. I will always do my best to give those God-gut feelings and heart nudges credit and respect and follow them, whether or not I understand it, get it, or even want to. I never know what might happen or what good might be done to that person because I heeded that gut feeling.

An Attack-Hug, Disney Style!

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I can definitely say that Disney (or at least its extensions) have helped to better a week that started out rather with difficulty.  The greatness started when I decided that I needed to email someone and thank them. Namely, Mr. James Monroe Iglehart, the portrayer of the beloved Genie in Disney’s “Aladdin” on Broadway:

Dear James,

I am sitting in my kitchen, listening to my “Aladdin” channel on Pandora and what should come on but the “Genie Medley”? I cannot explain to you the happiness that you bring to my heart. Your effervescent joy in what you do, the energy and life and pure magic that you bring with your love for theatre and especially all things Disney. I have been a Disney baby from the beginning. “Winnie the Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood” and “Mousercize” in the mornings before school, “Chip and Dale: Rescue Rangers” and “Duck Tales” after I came home. The first film I even remember going to at the cinema as a child is “The Little Mermaid”. Disney is in my blood and to hear and see (on Youtube) the magic that you and the cast bring to “Aladdin” (my husband’s favorite Disney film, by the by) makes me indescribably happy and I dearly hope that I will get to see the show live before it closes (hopefully) long from now. I want to thank you. Thank you for the smiles, the beauty, the jubilant triumph that have me cheering and applauding in my car after the finale of “Aladdin”. Thank you for the hours lost in the music and the joy of singing for and dancing with my toddler daughter. Thank you for all that you have done to make a beautiful tradition in our family fresh and alive and new and so absolutely joy-fillled. Thank you! It seems such a small thing to say but I absolutely mean. Cross my heart and double pinkie-swear. Thank you!

Indeed, I felt much better for the writing of it and pouring all that feeling out. I continued on with life, not really expecting to hear anything in return, what with the popularity of the show and all. But then I got a great surprise in my Inbox! Mr. Iglehart wrote back, and, for a moment, I turned into a sixteen-year-old groupie, bouncing and squealing. Finally, I settled myself down enough to sit and actually read his note, which was really sweet. We shared memories of favorite cartoons and “first” Disney movies and it was really nice. It absolutely made my day and a trip to NYC to see “Aladdin” is definitely pushing ahead in the choices for our tenth anniversary trip.

Then, yesterday, after picking up my mother for her visit, we went to the mall and met up with a friend of mine and her gorgeous infant son (who always gives me the greatest smiles). We went to the Disney Store and, together, my friend and I sang freely along with “For the First Time in Forever” and I felt that joy born of all the precious Disney memories bubbling up again. No one told me to be quiet and I truly didn’t care if I got weird looks or not. In fact, one of the associates working there came and sang along with us for a moment as she made her rounds in the store. My daughter got to run around one of my favorite stores and found herself some plushies of beloved “Doc McStuffins” characters. All in all, it was an absolutely fabulous time.

Thank you, Disney and all of your “family” members, for being such a blessed and happy part of my life. Thank you for the magic of memories and I cannot wait to continue sharing them with my husband and my daughter as she grows.

James Monroe Iglehart as the Genie in "Aladdin" on Broadway.

James Monroe Iglehart as the Genie in “Aladdin” on Broadway.

Butterscotch’d Courage

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I posted this on Facebook this morning but then…I thought it worth a share here. It’s been a good morning so far. A capstone to what has ended up being a good week.

= = =

This is long but entirely worth it. The color of my courage today is gold, like bubbling butterscotch baths, and smelling of cinnamon, cider, and crackling fireplace. And so I share with you once of my favorite passages of literature.

~
Lye lifted September up suddenly and put her down in the first tub, which was really more like an oak barrel, the kind you store wine in, if you need to store rather a lot of wine, for it was enormous. September’s head ducked immediately under the thick, bright gold water. When she bobbed up, the smell of it wrapped her up like a warm scarf: the scent of fireplaces crackling and warm cinnamon and autumn leaves crunching underfoot. She smelled cider and a rainstorm coming. The gold water clung to her in streaks and clumps, and she laughed. It tasted like butterscotch.

“This is the tub for washing your courage,” Lye said, her voice as even and calm as ever, performing her task, grief packed away for the duration of a bath.

“I didn’t know one’s courage needed washing!” gasped September as Lye poured a pitch of water over her head. Or that one needs to be naked for that sort of washing, she thought to herself.

Lye poured a bucketful of golden water over September’s head. “When you are born,” the golem said softly, “your courage is new and clean. You are brave enough for anything: crawling off of staircases, saying your first words without fearing that someone will think you are foolish, putting strange things in your mouth. But as you get older, you courage attracts gunk and crusty things and dirt and fear and knowing how bad things can get and what pain feels like. By the time you’re half-grown, your courage barely moves at all, it’s so grunged up with living. So every once in a while, you have to scrub it up and get the words going or else you’ll never be brave again. Unfortunately, there are not so many facilities in your word that provide the kind of services we do. So most people go around with grimy machinery, when all it would take is a bit of spit and polish to make them paladins once more, bold knights and true.”

Lye broke off one of her deep blue fingers and dropped it into the tub. Immediately, a creamy froth bubbled up, clinging to September’s skin and tickling.

“Your finger!” she cried.

“Don’t fear, little one. It doesn’t hurt. My mistress said, ‘Give of yourself, and it will return to you as new as new can be.’ And so my fingers do, when the bathers have gone.”

September looked inside herself to see if her courage was shining up. She didn’t feel any different, besides the pleasure of a hot bath and clean skin. A little lighter, maybe, but she could not be sure.

~ The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of her Own Making by Catherine M. Valente, pages 59-61

The Space at Center Stage

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For those of you unfamiliar with me, body image has been a fairly constant struggle of mine for most of my life. This struggle has intensified at several different point in my life, the most recent being with the up and down weight bouncing I experienced post-baby. Almost three years later, my weight seems to have settled for now, I work out just about every day, I’m adjusting my eating habits bit by bit, and, this past week, I felt pretty darn amazing. I can now see the changes in my body, feel the differences as I develop more muscle and strength. It’s a relief, in a way, to see that almost eight months’ worth of consistent hard work is paying off. That might not seem like much to some, but it is quite a big deal to me. I hated doing conventional exercises, I hated the very idea of running, and the gym? Yeah, no thanks. But I made a decision and have pushed myself to stick with it, constantly reminding myself to be patient and keep working.

“It takes time,” I would and still say to myself, “It takes time. Be patient with yourself and keep working.”

A good many things in life, we work at for a long while before we see any results, and we are told that the best things do not come with instant gratification. Instead, we must work and work and work some more and wait to see what comes to fruition, if it comes to fruition. I have stuck with this and worked and worked and worked and I am seeing the fruit of my labor, not only in curves and tone and heavying dumbells but also in finding satisfaction in the work itself. It’s an odd, odd feeling to actually crave working out, to crave the heightened heart rate, the burn in my muscles, the sweat on my brow. It’s not just odd, it’s downright weird sometimes. But it is also beautiful.

It is beautiful to see the changes in myself, not just in my body. It’s beautiful to again feel the desire to be me, fully and boldly, and to do something about it. It’s beautiful to not be afraid of being beautiful and acting like it. It’s not just body image, it’s a sense of self that I am regaining. For a long time (longer than I would like to admit), I have felt like I needed to tone myself down, step back out of the spotlight, stick to my corner, etc. As if, if I were too much ‘me’, then there wouldn’t be space for someone else to be ‘them’. I don’t understand that idea; I didn’t then and I don’t now. And, honestly, I am damn tired of it. Me being me does not threaten anyone, nor should it. Each and every one of us is completely different. We are unique and glorious all on our own. Me being me does not mean that someone else has to be any less them or vice versa.

This does not mean that we need to shove everyone else out of the way. It doesn’t mean that we cannot work behind the scenes to help someone better their own sense of self and their own lives. It doesn’t mean that we cannot wear the roles of mother, daughter, sister, girlfriend, or wife and be a support and helpmeet to someone else. What it means it that we can do all those of things, but that we mustn’t forget ourselves and the role that we play for us. Your first role: you. Don’t forget you. Don’t forget your strength. Don’t forget your spirit. Don’t forget your glorious. Don’t forget your beautiful.

A friend once said to me: “I think you could leave yourself a bit more space in the center of the stage.”

And you know what? I think they are right. It’s time for me to reclaim my space. Maybe we all could leave ourselves a bit more space in the center of the stage.

A Sorting Hat Rhyme

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So I am guilty of exactly ONE piece of Harry Potter fanfiction from several years ago (not including the online Hogwarts forum roleplay game that I ran for a short amount of time), and I will say that I worked very hard on the Sorting Hat rhyme for the beginning of the story. Hope you like it.

Welcome to Hogwarts,

First years of all.

We welcome all,

Witches tall and small.

Wizards bold or quiet as mice.

You’ll learn your lessons here

In a quick trice.

Now I am brought here

To Sort you, you see,

Into Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,

Or Ravenclaw tree.

Or perhaps into Slytherin,

Sly as a snake.

Here’s hoping that you all

Will very well take

To the House you belong in,

Made so long ago

By witches and wizards

Of the very best, you know.

Gryffindor, brave and strong

As a beast.

Ravenclaw’s intelligence when

All else has ceased.

Hufflepuffs work away to

Achieve the best marks.

Slytherins plot and plan.

In them, resourcefulness is art.

So step forward now

No need to be shy.

I am the Sorting Hat!

You’ll go where

Say I.

The Sorting Hat by liquidscissors on Deviantart.com

Flash Fiction: The Despairing Truth

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“You must stop this, sir! You mustn’t speak this way!”

The lady’s hand pressed against the bodice of her dress as if to keep her heart from breaking through the cage of her ribs, corset, and stays and bursting right through the delicate silk of her dress. His words shocked and startled her and she struggled to stand her ground.

“Nay, Madame! I must and will speak my mind,” the gentleman insisted.

The lady drew back from him as if in fear. Spoken words were dangerous, as they could not be unsaid. Spoken minds were even worse, as they could be forever remembered.

“I beg you, say no more!” she pled, anger beginning to forment within her at this intrusion to her serenity. “I am a married woman, I remind you.”

“And your husband is a fool to make such a devoted wife penniless after his own foolishness!” he spoke hotly now at her mindless defense of the man all knew to be a thoughtless cad.

Her breath was stolen by that hard-slung word.

“Penniless?” Impossible. “You are mistaken, sir. Utterly mistaken. My family–”

“Has been in debit for months, Madame.” His voice betrayed his sadness as this fact. “Your fortune is in shambles. Your husband has borrowed against promises and his debts are being called in. Even now, the bailiffs are on their way to your residence.”

The warm summer day had turned deathly chill to her and she felt herself grow faint, grasping at the tree under which they stood to keep herself upright. He reached to help her but she held up a trembling hand to ward him off.

“I must get home. The staff will be aghast and my children so frightened. Please, take me home, Stanton, and, as we go, you will tell me all. Do you hear me? All!”

Stanton did as commanded, offering her his arm to lean on. He led her back towards the road, hailed a hansom and, as they drove through the busy morning streets as quickly as may, he detailed Isabelle’s husband’s descent into disgrace, shame, and penury at the gambling tables and moneylender’s counters.

Isabelle’s face grew pale and then stoney as marble by turns as her eyes were opened to the unabashed truth to which only she had been a stranger. “Then we are indeed ruined,” she breathed in horror-stricken resignation, “Utterly ruined.” Not only in lack of money but their respectability – her respectability – was now stricken through in black. Lowell had ruined not only himself but also her, shattered their children’s prospects, and their family name.

She turned her eyes to the man who sat across from her, those eyes made brighter by the tears that filled them, her hands twisted together so tightly as to almost tear her delicate gloves. But she did not cry. Instead, she fixed her face like a flint on this man who claimed to be her friend and asked,

“Stanton, what am I to do?”

The look on his face said all she needed to know.

[RPG] To See Beyond What Is Seen

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Did you know that Odin was not the only Aesir to be blind? Oh, no! Tales tell of Frida, daughter of Heimdall, who was unlucked by fate to lose her sight, bereft of the beauty of the world around her and her work, which she so loved. But she refused to be cowed by such luck and worked ever more the harder. She was eventually rewarded by another goddess for her ingenuity and given magical sight, her senses stretching far beyond and into the world, like her father. Some say, in battle, her voice could be heard above the fray calling encouragement and inspiration to her fellow gods, godlings, and demigods, for she was unwilling to let any fall for lack of her effort.

Frida knew that dark days ahead awaited the Aesir but she forged onward nonetheless. She is credited with innovation, strength in adversity, the unraveling of secrets and puzzles, and the opening of doors.

*Original Character Concept created for Scion game “Rains of Ruin”.

Sneaky Contentment

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I am constantly amazed by how content I find myself to be in so relatively simple a space as that which I call home. Today, I sat on a bench in the park behind my house, enjoying a bright, cloudless morning, a cool breeze at my back, and the rustle of the trees above in my ears, and, for the moment, the world was still and beautiful and I utterly content within it. I looked out at the world around me – the bright blue of the sky, the shimmering green of the grass, the sight of my daughter fearlessly climbing the slide steps all by herself to slide down with glee – and I wondered just how it could be possible to have all of this and be unhappy? I have a husband who adores me and I him, who is my partner in all things, a house to call our own, a child who is healthy, hearty, and hale, cars that get us from A-B-A, friends to go through life with, and hobbies that make us us happy and keep us challenged and having fun. I have so very much and yet I am amazed to find myself content. Is it a bad thing to find contentment so surprising in this day and age? Maybe it is, but I am content and therein I choose to be happy.

Stormy Music

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I am lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and watching the rain fall from above through a gap in the curtains, fat drops dripping from the eaves amongst the millions of raindrops fast falling. The thunder almost sounds like a purr thrumming into me, lulling me to sleep. This sound that once frightened me as a child now provides a soothing bass line as my day wends towards its end. The most natural position, I find, is with my left arm up on the pillow beside my head, right hand resting on my stomach, my head turned slightly to the left, and my eyes closed. This feels right, this feels…perfect.

There are things to do, of course. Yes, there is always something to do. Laundry to be done, corn to be shucked and boiled for dinner. But for here, for now, this is where I am to be. In these forgotten minutes that make up my fringe hours. Listening to the music of the clouds, an orchestra playing the oldest lullaby just for me.