Hi. I am going to post this author's tag that I found on Alyssa's blog. (This is my second time typing this. The first time I had just finished and it deleted it. Grrrr.)

Do you have a pen/pencil collection? How many of those are chewed? No I don't have a pencil collection. I have a box by my schoolwork with pencils in it, but they are switched out a lot. And no I don't chew pencils. I have braces and my orthodontist would kill me.

Do you prefer handwriting or typing furiously? Typing furiously. Although sometimes I like the satisfaction of sitting down and writing a story in a notebook.

How often do you get inspiration? Uh, it depends. It comes in spurts.

Are you blogging this on a computer or laptop? My laptop.

Do you get inspiration more in the early morning or late at night? I would say more often late at night. Especially since I like to imagine stories while I drift off to us.

Do certain movies/books/music inspire you? Yes, I often take an idea from a story I read or a movie I saw. And I like to have music playing in the background while I write.

How do you incorporate God into your stories? I like to either have characters become saved or go through faith challenging struggles.

Do you kill off your villains or make them repent? Um, I probably tend toward killing them off.

Is the majority of your characters magical beings, humans or halflings? Or something else? Human beings, period. I don't believe that as Christians we should be involved in magic.

What genre of writing are you most comfortable in? If you were to step out of your comfort zone, what would you write? I really like to write about people who have dramatic experiences. That is as close to a genre as I can come. I would probably try for an adventure novel. I have never really been able to do that type of thing.

Do you work better alone or with someone else? I work much better alone.

Do your stories make sense, or do they ramble wildly? Well I think that the first draft always rambles a bit, but with some editing manages to make some sense. Mrs. Marlow can attest to the fact that my e-mails really ramble.

Are your characters mostly Renegades, Peacekeepers or a mish-mash? I would probably say a mish-mash. I like to have some characters that are weak and cry a lot when I imagine a story in my head. For stories that I jot onto my computer screen I like stronger ones that have lessons to learn.

Are you a sucker for good grammar? Somewhat. I definitely try to give my stories a sense of being well written.

How is your handwriting? Bad. Really bad.

How evil are your villains? It really depends.

Are you long-winded or succinct? I am long-winded. I really like to add descriptiveness in my stories. I guess that is why I talk so much. :)

Do you have typical "writer" traits such as inkstains on your fingers or a pencil behind your ear? No but I do often get  a dreamy "writers" look. And I like to pace in a circle when I am writing in my head.

Would someone walking past you on the street consider you normal? Maybe. I like to dress modestly and I am not very good at matching colors.

Do you write mostly poetry, stories, novels or a mixture? Stories and novels mostly. And I write essay's for school.

Do your characters vary in accents, appearance and attitude or are they mostly the same? Yes. I have one character that is Irish and another one that is Scottish. I am having a lot of fun with those accents.

Do real people and/or places inspire your writing? Yes, sometimes.

How many blogs/websites do you have? I just have this one and my science blog, Biology is Fun. I haven't updated it in awhile but I may be able to soon.

What is your favorite character? Or do you choose to remain unbiased in case of a revolt? I have a few favorites. You always like the good characters over the bad ones, right. :)

Do you talk to your characters? Do they talk back? No I don't talk to my characters. I hope this doesn't sound weird to non-writers but I live through my characters and talk for them and think for them. So why talk to them?

Are you more comfortable with girl or boy main characters? I am much more comfortable with girl characters.

Do you follow basic overused plotlines with new twists thrown in or do you depart from the norm all the time? I really don't know. I try to use original stories.

Do you feel God has called you to be a writer/poet? Will you grasp "the power of the pen"? Huh? I don't really understand exactly what you are asking. I really enjoy writing and I try to write for God's glory. I trust that He will use my stories for His purposes.

Here is a story I wrote for the TOS short story contest. It is called, My Journey.





    “Julie!” Ana called.

    A few minutes later, Ana was rewarded by the young nurse entering the doorway.

    “What do you need, honey?” Julie asked.

    “Could you do something for me, please?” Her breath was coming in short gasps from the exertion of talking.

    “What is it?”

    Ana reached over to the table beside her bed and grabbed a notebook. She ran her hand over the leather cover of the book and handed it to Julie saying, “You know the doctor said it won’t be long until…” her voice trailed off and a faraway look entered her eyes. “I want to write down my story, but I am too weak. Will you write while I tell it to you?”

    Julie closed her eyes and Ana knew she was struggling with her emotions. A moment later, she nodded.

    Julie sat down at a small desk and with a pen held firmly in her hand said, “I’m ready.”

    Ana leaned back against her pillow and looked at herself in the mirror. Thoughtful, green eyes gazed back at her out of a pale, wasted face, making her appear older than her twelve years. Her thin body bore the marks of a long and painful illness. She sighed, remembering happier times, and began her story.


    I can still remember the day when it all began. I was playing in my room just after another doctor’s appointment. I hated those appointments. Doctors, nurses, and hospitals all made me nervous.

    Suddenly Mum called for me to come to the kitchen. When I entered the room I knew something was wrong. My parents were sitting at the table and they both were crying.

    “Ana,” my mum said. “We need to talk to you about something.”

    “What is wrong?” I asked.

    “At the appointment today the doctor said that you have cancer and-” here Dad’s voice broke.

    Mum finished for him, “You’re dying.”

    I was stunned by the news. But in a few moments the numbness was gone and something else had replaced it. Fear. Fear of what would happen. Fear of the world I knew that I had to face at the age of ten. A world full of doctors, hospitals, and tests.

    I ran to my mum and buried my face in her chest as I cried.

   
   
    The next year was a whirlwind of tests and procedures. There were days that I would just forget that I was sick, others when all I could do was lie in bed surrounded by my terrors.

    My parents tried to console me but in vain. Looking back, I think that the reason that they couldn’t provide comfort was because I was afraid to open up to anyone. I had locked myself in shell which no one could open.

     My biggest fear was that I wouldn’t go to heaven. My parents were Christians and I had always played the part, but I knew that it was an act. My “faith” wasn’t real, and I knew it.

    Those months were the worst in my life, or so I thought.

   
    My body was beginning to deteriorate when something occurred that drastically changed my life.

    I was home alone as Mum and Dad had gone to the hospital to talk to the doctor. He had been pushing them to place me in a hospital permanently because I needed full-time care. The thought filled me with dread. They were going to discuss the options with him.

    I had begged to stay at home and they let me. I think it was because I had been in good spirits lately and they thought that going to the hospital might make me depressed again.

    While they were gone the phone rang and when I answered it I heard a policeman telling me that my parents had been killed in a car accident.

     The phone fell from my hand as I dropped to my knees and sobbed.

    When a few hours later I had run out of tears, I thought, “What am I going to do?”

    I was alone in a cruel, miserable world. I had no friends, no relatives, and no idea of what would happen to me. Facing the battle with cancer totally alone was staring me in the face.

    In desperation, I called the only person I could think of; the doctor who had been taking care of me. He brought me to the hospital where I was placed in permanent care.

    There I drew further into my shell and soon all the nurses gave up trying to befriend me. All except one, that is.

    Julie was always kind and sweet to me. Even when I refused to talk to anyone and just stayed curled in a ball, she would manage to keep up a stream of chatter that made me feel a little better.

    Soon I began to enjoy her company. I would mostly listen while she told me about her family.

    I had been a part of a family like her’s at one time, but that world was slipping away from me. Lost in the dark with no light ahead, I found it hard to picture the happy life she described. 

    One morning when Julie came in to work I knew that something was wrong. She was acting normal but I could just sense that she was upset.

    I was lying in bed wondering what was wrong when I heard two nurses talking outside my door.

    “Did you hear about Julie’s sister?”

    “No.”

    “She was out walking last night and got hit by a car.”

    They moved further down the hall and I sat quietly for a few moments thinking about what I had heard.

    I was perplexed by Julie’s serenity, recalling my own hysterical response to my parents’ death.

    When she entered a few moments later, I asked her, “How do you do it?”

    She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

    “How do you stay so calm when…”

    She realized what I meant and pain swept over her face. But she composed herself and sat beside me. “I could never do it by myself. But the Lord Jesus gives me peace. I know I will see Emma again someday. It is hard, but Christ is my strength.”

    At that I burst into tears. Julie held me in her arms as I told her my story.

    “I don’t have the assurance that I will see them again,” I said, when I had finished. “I’m not a Christian. I am so sinful, how could God let me into heaven?”

    “He can’t. God is so perfect, sin cannot be in His presence,” she said. “None of us deserve to go to heaven. But God sent His Son, the sinless Lamb, to take our punishment and die.”

    I raised my head and looked into her face. I had heard the story before, but this time it pierced my heart. “He died for… me?”

    “Yes, Ana. If you repent of your sins and believe on Him, He will forgive you.”

    I threw myself at God’s feet and begged for forgiveness. It’s difficult for me to describe what happened then. God saved me that day, of that I am certain.

    These last months I have spent learning about the Lord and reading the Word. I have a peace that I never had before. I’m no longer terrified of dying for, “to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”

    Each day I grow weaker in body and stronger in my faith. The Lord has given me strength to face whatever lies ahead. There are still moments when fears threaten, but spending time in prayer sends them flying away.

    My point in telling this story is that I want others to know that they don’t have to die without hope. Christ can save you and give you peace.

    It won’t necessarily mean that your troubles will be gone. I am still lying in a hospital bed dying. Others around the world are suffering for their faith in Christ. But Christ will help you through all trials and most importantly He will save you from hell. He saved me.

   



    Ana held the notebook in her hands. It was finally written down, just as she had wanted. Perhaps it would encourage other Christians in their walk with the Lord, and help them understand what sufferers go through. “Maybe,” she thought with a smile. “Some other girl will see it and will have the strength to endure whatever her trial is.”

    “What do you want me to put for a title?” Julie asked, interrupting her reverie.

    Ana struggled into a sitting position, wincing as a wave of pain swept over her, and reached for the pen that Julie held in her hand.

    Julie pulled back her hand. “No, I don’t think you should do that. You’re too tired.”

    “Julie, I have to do this.”

    Julie relented and Ana took the pen. Holding it between her weak, trembling fingers, she wrote at the top of the page:   My Journey.