Points

Points in a story are; endings, beginnings, turnings, and anything that really sticks. I've been told I know how to make a point in a story;

 I tried writing off the sounds as settling until I felt the eyes.

            I should have listened to myself. I should have gone for help.

This parting is an ending point of a frame in my chapbook (due the 15th for a contest).  Points in writing for me come easy; I have time to look over every element getting the words just right with no rush of anxiety and heart arch in between. My life is truly the moments that happen when making plans.

In reality, points never stick with me. 

Beginnings --that hard hitting opening --start quiet awkward. The beginning of my love story started with the dying need for a smoothie two day before our date. I had a lighter in my dress and no bra underneath and our first kiss was his lips on my cheek as something mesmerized me in the distance. 

When beginning a story, I usually sit on story-helper hoping some idea comes in and I can wing it. It usually works, but in real life, when beginning a new relationship with business contacts, I start with a well-rehearsed sentence stating my name and my purpose. I am a walking hypothesis from the Makery Lab. No matter how many times I practiced it before, I alway stutter when I see their closed off attitude. I can't edit my personality or product because someone doesn't like it; instead, I have to find the crowd that does. Day after day, I played with different genres starting new beginnings all over the literary world and once my beginning sticks, I'll write my story from there.

Turning --that drastic switch --points happen in the times I least expected them but need them most. In stories, I smoothly find the character flaw, establish it, and then mess with the situation until the character breaks. I'm sadistic with my writing. But I am more than a character. My personality can have a book within itself. After Europe, I learned the values in life and how to ease my troubled mind. I learned how to relax. After a physic visit, I learned how to overcome my roadblocks. Of course I was looking for these answers all my life but I found them unexpectedly. When my depression was dragging me through hell --when I finally cried to my boy --and I admitted I was weak, the next day, I learned how to overcome it. I learned the art of love and meditation. I can't say I am no longer depressed but I am no longer as weak.

Endings --the note that leaves a mark --stumble over into something everlasting. Endings in my love life happen too often for comfort. Either he leaves or I leave for a trip. We kiss each other and sit in each other's arms promising we'll be good. We tell each other they can meet someone new but secretly bite our tongues because we hope the other doesn't. Within an hour or so, we find each other together saying our goodbyes again. We can't get enough which is why I can only imagine what we will be a year from now.

My endings come before my beginnings in stories. I find the perfect twist, the perfect sting, to leave the reader with and work my way back. When it comes to my projects, I get too scared to end it. I wait until they trail off and either I or the other company forgets about it. I always wait for something else to happen --something more. 

But life isn't about that. I can't plan life and I can't be dull. I need to make my points and not worry. Points to make me unforgettable.