Blog Layout
New Website, Old Blogs
J.L. LaPointe • October 24, 2021
Combining blogs. <3
You'll notice here a blend of new and old blogs. I'm upping my website game and transferring over older blogs one or two at a time, while also writing new blogs. Hope you enjoy them!
Your Love-of-Literacy Story
Originally published August 26th, 2020
"Where's your accent come from?"
"Accent? Umm, that's a speech impediment."
Think back... What was your first Love-Of-Literacy moment? When did you realize you prefer pen and paper over talking? My moment dates back to before I can remember—early elementary, pre-speech-therapy days. After all, it's easy to fall in love with the written word when it's incredibly difficult to say things like written word. World, whirl, round, run, just about any name beginning with the letter R—including my husband's name, Robert—all impossible to say before 4th grade.
So at a very early age, I grew accustomed to writing my thoughts rather than saying them. Short stories, poetry... Hundreds of letters passed between friends folded into funky origami and often written in our own secret language—which, by the way, actually scored me brownie points with our 7th grade English teacher one day after she intercepted an undoubtedly nonsensical note. I kept a diary on me at all times, which seldom stayed private. During my freshman year in high school, it was weeks before I spoke a word at our lunch table. Even after years of speech therapy, I feared what others would say.
I spoke slowly, considering each word carefully to avoid anything too difficult to properly articulate. If it were possible to freeze time, I would've carried a thesaurus on me, and people would've assumed my vocabulary extensive—boundless, even. Without a time machine, though, I stuttered, I faltered, and my anxiety grew more and more with each conversation.
Fortunately, I've since aced the art of rolling my tongue and pronouncing my R's, so much so I can actually say that sentence aloud without people questioning my words. If I haven't been chewing ice, that is. However, they do ask my dialect, which is always humorous—at least, on my end.
"Where are you from?"
"Born and raised here in Florida."
"Oh, really?"
"Yep, my whole life."
"But where is your accent from?"
"Accent? Oh, that's just a speech impediment."
*Awkward silence*
So, there you have it—my Love-Of-Literacy story. I may now possess the ability, for the most part, to speak correctly. But the love of writing stuck with me, and there's no going back now. What's your story?
Hi, guys! Let’s have a little Q&A! I’ll be honest, this blog came to be because I’m doing an in-person meet-and-greet, and it’s got my nerves a little on edge. You can email me or text me all day long, and I’ll be fine, but talking to a stranger in a personal setting? That’ll send me running! So here are a few practice questions a good friend asked, and I’d like to share the answers with you all. Q. What is the Chronicle of the Mythical Rebellion series about? The series is about a group of mythical creatures (gnomes, merfolk, ogres, elves, fairies, etc.) fighting a sort of civil war against a power-hungry king who’s been domesticating them, turning them into pets and servants for humans. In the first novel you follow Izzy, a 14-year-old eóla, as he first learns about the rebellion. Q. What’s an eóla? A. An eóla is similar to a faun, only more Berenstain Bearish. They’re furry and small in stature. Almost like an Ewok. They have horns between their ears at the tops of their heads, and they two pretty pronounced fanged teeth. Q. What inspired you to write this book? My husband Robert and I used to walk along McKay Bay, near our house, and talk about different book ideas. Izzy’s story was one of them. Originally he was a mischievous imp who’d accidentally travelled through a magical mirror, landing in a world full of humans. It evolved into something much more than that, though. I wanted to touch on equality, respect, and love for your neighbor, without getting too social-justicy about it. Q. Were any of the characters inspired by real people? Mariah is what I imagine I’d be, if I were a character in a fantasy novel. She’s empathetic, strong, and patient. Willie is loosely based off of my father—tough and outdoorsy. When I wrote about Daniel and Nathaniel I did have a couple of childhood friends in mind, but seeing as it doesn't paint them in the best of picture I won't name any names. I think any time a person writes fiction they're going to pull from the world around them, even if it's subconsciously. Q. What did you like least and most about the book? Writing the action scenes was probably the thing I liked least. I feel as though it’s never as clear as what’s in my mind, and I can only hope the reader is seeing what I see. Surprisingly, my favorite thing about this project was writing Miya’s scenes. I know she’s the villain, and we aren’t supposed to like her, but she possessed so much power! I enjoyed writing her scenes because of it. Without giving any spoilers away, there’s a character in the second novel, The Land of Superstition , who's just as powerful but in a different way. I really enjoyed writing about her, as well. Q. Which books would you say are similar to this one? It’s no secret that The Chronicles of Narnia series inspired some of my writing—though, it was an editor who suggested I use the term “Chronicles” in my series. I’d originally titled it The History of the Mythical Rebellion . J.K. Rowling inspired me, as well. And a book called Mrs. Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children , by Ransom Riggs. Books about travelling to a new land that’s so close to your own always catch my interest. But the imagery, in my mind, was mostly inspired by a video game (originally a graphic novel), The Witcher 3. I listen to music from The Witcher 3 when I write and it definitely puts me in the right frame of mind. Well, that’s all I’ve got for now! Let me know in the comments below if there are any questions you’d like answered!
Originally Published February 11th, 2021 Technically, this is less blog and more personal essay. I'm writing a little more in my free time now, entering a few contests along the way and sharpening my skills a bit. This essay is a product of that. We lost Alan sixteen years ago. It was an incredibly difficult time for just about anybody who knew him personally. I've never written about it before, for whatever reason; I didn't want to bring up bad memories, or make his family and friends uncomfortable, or my own husband, for that matter (which is ridiculous, when you consider how secure we are in our marriage). I found excuses to shove those memories back into the furthest depths of my mind—until just recently. I was prompted to write a personal essay about an event in my life. Well, this is about as personal as it gets. And now I'm putting it out there, for the world to see, regardless of insecurities or vulnerability. This is how we grow. So here it is. A Kindred Soul, Taken I can't breathe. I can not breathe. Oh. This is what hyperventilating feels like. Well, this is a new sensation. What do I do? I 'm sitting on the front steps of our trailer, and the pair of homicide detectives standing in front of me aren't doling out any advice, so I put my head between my legs. It seems to help. I'm so confused. Wasn't it just this morning when I sent a prayer up to the Lord, thanking Him for gracing me with such a kind-hearted man? No. It's 4 o'clock in the morning, so that would've been yesterday. Eighteen hours ago, I whispered my gratitude to God. Now I'm describing every detail of the man I love; my Alan. The crack in his glasses, the skulls on his arm, the tiger on his shoulder. And, with every word, their expressions grow evermore grim; they're silently confirming what I already know. I've known it for four hours. I knew it when he failed to return to the hotel—when he left me to walk home from work alone. The convenience store he'd set out for was only a block away. I'd checked it. I checked the motel across the street, wandering the halls, trying to remember his friend's room number. I checked back with my co-workers, but there was no sign of him. I walked home in the dark and called the front desk every thirty minutes to see if he'd come back. I sat in the hallway of our trailer and cried because I knew it then, despite our roommate's best efforts to console me—his concern for my safety would never allow him to abandon me so. The detectives don't confirm my suspicion, though; they can't, not right away. I'm only the fiancé, not next of kin. Never mind his promises to marry me next month. Never mind my studded leather engagement bracelet or my turquoise marijuana-leaf ring. I'm nobody. His sister? Did they ask about his sister, or did our roommate mention her? She's here, in the same park, but in hiding. They assure me, they don't care about the warrant for her arrest. And I need so desperately to know. I need confirmation. It's obvious, my gut tells me, but I need the words to escape their tightened lips. "Your brother is dead," our roommate tells Alan's best friend, sleeping on the couch. Your brother is dead; my God, what a shocking wake. But his girlfriend is here to console him. Our roommate's boyfriend is here, for her. Alan's sister, his mother; their somebodies are alive. My somebody is gone; he's never coming back. My entire future's changed in a matter of minutes, and my shoulder to cry on is never coming back. I've never felt such loneliness. But I don't speak of it. I bury these words for decades. Because it isn't about me. It isn't about his mother, his grandmother, his siblings. It's about him. It's about a life taken too soon—a beautiful, charitable, knowledgeable life—my kindred soul.
If I could change the past without changing the present, I would have listened to my mother when she told me at my sister’s seventh birthday party to go inside. That day, five-year-old me played chicken with a one-hundred-and-some-odd-pound Rottweiler and lost. Dog. His name was Dog, and he was the sweetest. My grandfather would have put him to sleep that day, if not for my grandmother holding her ground. It wasn’t Dog’s fault, after all—my nickname growing up was Klutz for a reason. But Dog shied away from me for years after that… I suspect he was more traumatized by the events that day than I was. My sister’s birthday was ruined, of course—something she never once threw in my face. It was a nasty break. My parents rushed me to the hospital, my father nearly went white when they drilled that traction rod through my knee, and I woke up afterward in a full-body cast. The next three weeks presented me with my mother sleeping on a couch in my hospital room, a birthday cake baked by a nurse for my 6th birthday, many gifts, including a stuffed cat from my grandfather who never bought presents on his own, and countless replays of my Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory VHS tape. My mother, by the way, is a saint. Five-going-on-six is a rough age for a child to be strapped to a hospital bed, so she did everything she could to make it better. She tied three ribbons to the trapeze bar I used to lift myself when it was time to change the sheets and taught me how to braid. She suffered through my obsessions with Gene Wilder and Julie Andrews, listening to me sing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious more times than I’d like to admit. And she stayed by my side, away from the comfort of home. But more importantly, she kept me in check. Because like I said, five-going-on-six is a rough age for a child in the hospital. My birthday cake didn’t have cherries on it. I didn’t get to choose my birthday dinner. The orderlies were all elderly, and I didn’t have friends to keep me company. So, when little ol’ me started to feel a sense of entitlement, she’d throw a meow my way. Literally, she would meow at me. It was her very polite, discrete cue, telling me to mind myself. And it worked—hell, it still works. After that, they removed my cast—too soon, unfortunately. The day I went home, I wanted to sit on the porch with my sister and her friend, but going downstairs was no easy task with crutches and I tumbled. Only, I couldn’t go back to the hospital, I’d just gotten home. I cried, I begged, and I talked my parents into letting me sleep in a recliner in the living room that night. The next morning we went back to the hospital and found out that I’d broken the bone again. However, since we postponed our return trip, the bones had begun to fuse together improperly. The only fix? For the doctor to break it, of course. Within one month the bone in my leg had seen three breaks. I started the second grade in a new city with a cast and crutches, couldn’t run a mile without limping, couldn’t play sports in school... I still can’t straighten my leg completely and will have issues with my knee for the rest of my life. But those aren’t the reasons for my regret… My regret comes from adulthood, from the knowledge of what life really is once you’re older. I was the youngest of three children. We were considered, at best, upper-lower-class well into my teenage years, at which point we finally hit lower-middle-class just as lower-middle-class became obsolete. My mother suffered from a chronic stomach bug (a mystery to her many doctors for a full decade, and another story all on its own), and could barely keep down food or water so she was prone to fainting spells and constantly accused of drug abuse. My father worked full-time, but it was a struggle. And my mother worked as much as she could, usually at a diner near home, but when you’re hardly able to stand, how can you work a full-time job? So here my parents were, doing their absolute best to raise my brother, my sister, and myself. And I had to go break my leg. Thousands in debt and weeks of taking me back and forth to the All Children’s Hospital, simply because I did not go inside when my mother told me to. If I could change the past without changing the present, I would have saved my parents so much heartache and so much stress. And I know, of course, it isn’t possible to relive your regrets, to make better decisions, to take wiser paths… But oh, how I wish I could.
