Gay Life..The Best Time Ever.

I never really understood the dynamics of my mother and folks around her. She always seem so free and like she knew the secrets of life. Always smiling and joking around. Everyone around her loved her, even today. My mother has a way of speaking that makes you want to know her story a little further. You want to get to know what in life she had to experience in order for her to be so wise. She's always been the happiest woman I know. Everywhere she goes its a guaranteed fun time. Yet with all of her wonderful attributes, she's never been the type to get along with someone for too long.

We lived at Padrino Pablito for a couple of years. I recall getting lectures from him about boys and not having them touch me. He would say, "No dejes que ningun hombre te manucee", which roughly translates into "Don't ever let any man put his hands all over you". I laugh now, considering I was only 6. But in retrospect, he was making sure I knew what was right and wrong. I had to prepare myself for the hardships of being a young lady.

I was always very close to Padrino Pablito. He was like a second father to me, my grandfather being my first dad. I can honestly say, he was more of a man than any heterosexual man I've ever met. He always defended my mother from her siblings. Particularly those who thought she was worshiping the devil since she was living in the house of a Santero. I remember him confronting one of my uncles who came with the intent of taking my mom back home by force. Hand on his hip, red as a tomato and with a very firm and feminine voice he told my uncle, "Vete pal' carajo, de aqui nadie saca a mi ahijada cabron". Maybe it was Padrino Pablitos 6 foot stature or maybe it was the look in his eyes, but my uncle left that house and never came back.

It was time later when my mom decided to move to her own apartment. It was a small place. I recall sleeping with my mom because there was only one bedroom. Of course I didn't mind, I think I never slept alone for most of my childhood. My mom and I always shared a bed.

But now that we lived on our own, I was more alone than ever. My mother being a single mother couldn't stop working. And taking me to my grandmother's was definitely not an option after what she discovered my abuse. So, she would instruct me what to eat when I arrived home from school. Asked that I not open the door to anyone and made sure that she called at almost every hour. I think this is why I've become such an independent person. Almost to a fault. It took many years for me to feel okay in asking anyone for help. This cycle went on for some time. There were weekends I stayed with my mother's friends because she had to work. I never felt comfortable at any one's house when my mother wasn't around. I was always treated differently as soon as my mom left. Even her friends treated me as if I was a pest. At times I overheard them speak about how my mom was irresponsible and that I was a bastard. So I would go to a corner and play with the toys my mother left me and wished that she would just hurry up and get me. I would get in trouble for not wanting to play with her friends kids. Those kids were bad, they would pull my hair and hit me. Take my barbies and rip the heads off.

I remember one time, I had a fight with my baby-sitter's daughter. The girl ended up telling her mother that I hit her, so I ended up punished. When the mother asked what happened, I told her that I didn't do anything. So she slapped me and called me a liar. She blamed my mother for being so lenient with me and that's why I was such a liar.

My mother arrived early Sunday morning to see my face completely red from being slapped. She looked at her friend and slapped her out of the blue and without warning. Then she asked, how did it feel. She went on to say other vulgarities about me coming out of her (you know what) and that no one needed to touch me but her. I never stayed at that house again.

Soon there after we were back at Padrino Pablito's house..thank God!

New Homes, Old Religions..

After my mother moved from my grandmother's house, things got really interesting in my house. My mother has never been the type to want to be in a home without a sense of family. So living alone was never her ideal option when moving out. So she decided to move in with her god-father, Pablo.

"Padrino Pablito", god-father Pablito, was a very large man who was the most eccentric individual that I have ever met. He was large, gay, loud, bold and proud of it all. Looking back he was a pioneer in the equal rights for all lifestyles before it was necessary. I remember his round bed. Yup, round bed. It was so comfortable and always had a new animal print blanket on it. Talk about stereo-types.

Padrino Pablito lived in a more urban area, so it was definitely a change in the surrounding. He owned the second and third floor of a building. So we lived the second floor and the third floor was a roof which had a built in kitchen and a small club house for me. I spent endless hours on that roof, playing with my dolls and pretending that they were my friends.

The problem was that at Padrino Pablito's there were never any kids. It was seldom when folk's kids were brought over. He never liked kids, he used to tell me that I had to be the first kids he's ever loved. He found kids to be annoying and too needy. I find this to be comical now, but back then I desperately wished I could at least play with anyone.

Another new addition to my world, the exposure to the Santeria religion. Pablito was very much involved in the religion. He had a room specifically for his "soperas" or porcelain containers used to house the saints. I would see folks at the house have these meetings, dressed all in white, speaking in tongues I never heard before and lots of music. In the beginning I found it to be very scary. I never truly understood what was going on but I knew that I didn't want to be part of anything, other than the music. I loved the sounds of the drums and singing. Being exposed to Santeria so early in life taught me to open minded to other folks' believes. To understand that there's more out there than just one way of thinking when loving "Papa Dios". (that's what I've been taught to call God).

What many folks don't understand about Santeria, is that is not a black and white as it refers to God. Santeros do believe in God as well as the assistance of other beings in their requests and prayers.

I always found it fascinating when Pablo used to read the "caracoles" to folks, and actually be right about things. I wondered how shells can actually give you insight on what is happening and will happen to you.

Soon after, Padrino's eccentricity, no kids and Santeria became very familiar. But like everything else in my life, once things become the norm something changes..

In the Beginning..Part 2

As a child I really didn't see much wrong with my family life. I believed everyone lived with their grandmother, 3 uncles, 1 aunt and their mother. Everyone shared rooms and slept in the same bed as their grandmother. I never missed having a father, mainly because you could never miss what you never had.

Santurce, Puerto Rico. Photographer: Jack Delano 1942

We lived in a very humble neighborhood called "Playita", which roughly translates to the little beach. Essentially it was a little street with several man-made houses. All of the houses were made of concrete, oddly shaped and ceilings made a wavy aluminum. It was a true treat to hear raindrops fall whenever it rained. Till this day, the very sound makes me relive those days.

Our home was built by my grandfather. He was in the process of finishing up the wall when he suffered an aneurysm. My grandmother never had the courage to have anyone finish the house, so it remained unfinished until her death in 2002.

Mano a Mano lounge at ESJ Towers. Hotel where my mom worked for many years

The first years of my life were pretty normal by all standards. I grew up very close to my grandmother, mainly because she was my main care taker while my mother worked in the hotel industry in Isla Verde. My mom had studied communications in college and decided to become a switchboard operator. There were times that she would work 24 hours straight and I would not see my mother for days. Looking back, she was just trying to do the best she could with what tools she had available to her.

What was not so normal were the constant fighting and physical altercations in my household. Unfortunately being the only child in the house I not only witness all of these altercations but at times became the victim. My abuse came at the hands of my aunt, my mother's younger sister.

I belive now that most of my physical abuse by her hands were just an outcry of her own frustrations. But its hard to justify an adult beating a 2 year old. It took some time for my mom to realize what was going on due to her extensive work schedule and my ability to always be a silly kid. She recounts the story of my having episodes where I would just not want to play and claim I had a headache. At first she would find it comical that her 2 year old would ask her to leave her alone because of headaches, but it wasn't long before she realize that there was truth to my claims. On an off day from her job, my mom was brushing my hair, when I started to cry and claim that I had a "chichon" (bump) on my head. When she felt my head full of long black hair, she felt not only one but several bumps.

I recall only the screams and my mother on top of my aunt. Soon after we moved from my grandmothers into a one bedroom studio. This was only the beginning of our many moves.

From the Beginning...

Deciding to give a more thorough background of me, I decided to start from the beginning of it all. I was born in Santurce, Puerto Rico on June 8th (mid 70s). My mother, a 21 year old full of life and lacking in experiences decided to become a single mom. She had met my dad, a medical school student, in New York City and started a brief but intense relationship. More on that later. Dad's family comes from India yet decided to migrate to Guyana. So most of his life he lived in tropical Guyana. He's a mix between Abbu from The Simpsons and Tony Montana.

From the start the details of my immediate family have been sketchy. From what I understand, my mom was summoned to Puerto Rico by my grandfather because he was sick. She left the next day after receiving word without really saying good bye to my father. Later, she finds out that she is in fact pregnant, but at that time my dad had moved and not left a forwarding address. It's not until later on in life that I find out the truth of the whole story.

As far as I can remember I never looked like anyone in my family. Besides my grandmother I was the only one with straight hair. My complexion was different, my features were different, my NAME was definitely different. I never really fit in with my mom's family although I was raised to respect and love them. I was mostly close to my grandma after my grandfather death. I never really missed a "father figure" because I had 4 uncles that were constantly looking after me. They made sure I was spoiled, disciplined, loved and defended. It was not until my mom decided to move away from the family that I began to realize that not only am I different than anyone I've grown up with, but I also did not have a father living in my house. Not once had I used the word "dad" or "daddy" in my childhood.

This really affected me more than I realized at the time. But of course you don't realize this way until you're an adult that you realize how deep your childhood affects you....

30 Day Challenge!

So, I've decided to give myself a challenge. It seems that in order for me to actually get my butt writing is to put myself to work and not rely on "inspiration". So here it is. For the next 30 days I will be posting a new entry regarding the random things that happen to me and my personal search for the writer in me.

I've decided to be completely open and to share anything and everything that comes to my mind. This is a new one for me since I am infamous for keeping my personal feelings very private and not sharing with anyone anything other than kind words. It can get exhausting, especially when going through a break up and the other things that come with just being involved in living. But if I'm ever to really get to the point where I can write I will have to do some digging and sharing. Ugh!

I am totally anxious and hopeful that my over sharing will not come back to haunt me.

Can you be a better writer if you didn't have a T.V.?

I've become convinced that if I didnt' have a television I would be 100 times more efficient! I've been trying and trying to get myself to sit down and write, and guess what? Basketball Wives reunion show was on. How could I miss that!?! Then, I promise myself that after the show I would buckle down and start at the very least doing an outline. But then Cupcake Wars was on. How do I find the ideal balance between writing what I know needs to be written and watching the rich schedule of amazing shows (that although I can catch On Demand) are too enticing not to watch it right now!

Do I want it bad enough?

The Journey continues.....

Working From Home

It's incredible how the human mind works. I swear we must be born to be lazy! all of the time doI hear folks (including myself) say, "I'd write more, do more, if I had the time". Here I am working from home due to medical issues, and I haven't written not one word towards my works. I want to be able to be like those folks on tv that can dedicate hours on end writing about their life or their novel and it's plot. Instead, I find myself looking at my Facebook account, Twitter and trying to advertise my Adornos Boricua Organic Sofrito. The truth is that I know I want to write more, I have something that I know I can write about and others will enjoy, and yet I'm becoming my own personal obstacle.

I cannot be the only one that feels that way. Could it be insecurity in what I want to write about? Perhaps Its that once I start to dedicate some time to writing I go into a blank. I don't know.

Muah and God bless!
Charlotte

What it takes to make a dream come true???

So apparently making your dreams come true in any arena take a back seat when you have to support yourself...I've decided to go into business with my mom and develop a new line of Gourmet Quality Latino Foods starting with our new Organic Sofrito. We called this venture Adornos Boricua! Usually we would pick this business up every Christmas in order to make extra cash for gifts and such. At that time we add things like "Coquito" and "Flanes" to the mix. The awesome thing is that one, the process seems almost organic to both of us. Mami loves to do something where she feels useful and I adore working on a new venture that I know everything about. I mean, I've been around Spanish food ALL OF MY LIFE.

So going into business all year around seem like the next natural step. It's turning out harder than expected. Between getting all of the licenses and permits and figuring out the best marketing venue, there are times that I go to bed incredibly exhausted!

The next day I wake up and do it all over again. The problem is that during the hours of 9 to 5 I'm working on someone elses dream and I barely have time to work on my own. The dilemma starts forming in my head...is it worth to exhaust myself on someone elses dream? There should be a support group for Entrepreneurs who have regular jobs!

Muah and God Bless!
Charlotte

Lazy or Insecure?

I would've never imagined that attempting to write a book would have me reading so much! I'm currently reading "Author 101: Best Selling Non-Fiction". In it we (aspiring authors) are asked that we visit our local bookstore and become familiarized with books in the subject matter we are writing about. Of couse, I run to the local Barnes and Noble only to find there's a multitude of books regarding posivite psychology and self esteem but none that combines both notions. I am very excited! This means that it's a new take on what I am proposing. What's even better news, is that I am well versed in both subjects. Great News!...Why is it then that I have yet to write a concise and put together attempt of an outline. Ugh!!!!

It's frustrating to know what you want to write about, and half way through your impulse feel like perhaps no one will want to really read what you have to say. I have a tad bit of insecurity, considering what I will be writing about I feel more like a fraud than an expert. I should be able to know it out! Instead I find myself entertaining my "writing hour" with phone calls to the "boo", watching tv or reading trash magazines. When I actually make myself write, I end up with nothing to say. I'm hoping that I come out of this rut soon enough. I am sure there's someone out there that has felt the way I do. There's no way this cycle is unique to my experience.

In desperate need to loose weight!!!

In a Passionate Relationship with my Book…

No one tells you when you decide to write about your life, is that you are about to embark in the most passionate relationship you will have for the length it takes you to finish. The problem with this and I, is that I've never had a truly long term relationship with anyone. The most committed I've been has been to wake up every morning. I think I may suffer from ADD for life. But somehow, I'm going to need develop this sort of undying devotion to writing.

            The truth is that I've never been a lover of writing. Much less sitting there and writing for hours. But how else will I be able to share my lessons and experiences unless I write them down. In developing this commitment to writing , I'm going to have to address  all of my insecurities regarding writing.  I'm going to harness this need to voice my life via words. To feed my writing from something enjoyable to a sort of addiction will be my goal. I just wonder how will I accomplish this task…

Who Is Charlotte? Really?

Charlotte Sahadeo….I guess I've never really paid too much attention to my name. It's strange that I say that, being that my name is what I use to identify myself. Often times the first thing out of my mouth is "Hi my name is Charlotte". Yet in the grand scheme of things, I do not think much about the impact of my name in my life. As I started this exercise I decided to lookup the actual meaning of my name. Turns out it's a French dessert and in some instances used as a diminutive of Charles. I was not surprise since I've heard this before. What surprise me is that there was no deeper meaning other than that. I would hope the name actually meant something spiritual or of higher wisdom. I guess I'm just going to have to settle for what's defined and what I add on to it's meaning.

              Being raised in Puerto Rico, I can say for sure I was the only Charlotte in my school. The name was never pronounced correctly and so for years I believed that my name was "Charlo". Kids had a hard time pronouncing the name, but that was the least of their problems when it came to accepting me. In addition to a peculiar name I also was what one would call a unique child. I looked different; I spoke differently and even carried myself very differently from the other kids in my class. I didn't identify with the name Charlotte until much later in life. During the different stages in life I've grown into the name.

              During my earlier years, my family called me by my nickname, Lottie. The name stuck and till this day many of my family members do not even know my real name. They've just assumed that it's Lottie. Lottie was a playful kid surrounded by adults. She's learned to keep quite during adult conversations to be respectful to those around her and to be silent and not make much noise. She was an only child, so she had to make due with her dolls and imaginary friends. Not many of those around her had children, so she had to adapt a more mature personality if she was to have any kind of interaction with the folks around her. Finally the day came that it was time to start school and meet other kids. Lottie was excited and looked forward to playing with more than dolls, having friends that actually spoke back and seeing what other kids were like. That morning her mother put on her Preschool uniform, combed her jet black hair into two ponytails and packed her snacks and lunch. Lottie's mother walked her to school, escorted her in and introduced her to the teacher. Lottie's smiled and was anxious to walk into the classroom. Her mom had played teacher and student while showing Lottie how to spell and read, but this was the real thing! Her stomach felt funny, nothing like she's ever felt before. A feeling that would definitely be familiar for many years to come. As Lottie walked into the classroom, she noticed that the white walls were full of different colorful paintings, easeals with paper and paint, round tables with tiny chairs and TOYS. Her first impulse was to run to the toys but her mother knew her child too well. She tugged Lottie on the shoulder as her teacher introduced Lottie to the classroom. Lottie didn't know that this would be the first time she would no longer exists, from this point onward she would become "Charlo Sajadeo".

              The kids snickered and looked at Lottie strangely. Some of the girls would smile and others would just stare and point. Lottie noticed at that very moment that she had ceased to be like everyone else. Her eyes watered and a tear dropped from the eye that bared a peculiar mark. Lottie looked at her mother who turned to her and wiped the tear from her eyes. She smiled and said, "mamita, tu eres bella. No importa lo que los demas piensen. Mira para arriba y se orgullosa de como Papa Dios te hizo." She then gave her a kiss and went to work. On that very day in August Lottie was now "Charlo" which to her meant, Proud of how God made me.

              Soon after "Charlo's" mother moved to a different neighborhood. With the move came a new school and new faces to encounter. The funny feeling in the stomach returned. "Charlo's" cheeks blushed as she was asked to the front of the room to be introduced to the first grade class. The prior snickering and pointing now were in the form of questions. "Que te paso en el ojo?", one of the kids asked. It's my birthmark. My father has one just like it. "En el ojo tambien, parece que tienes un ojo morao" the kid replied. The entire class laughed, and "Charlo" decided to go back to her mother's words that first day of pre-k. "Charlo" was a dedicated student, shy and quite. She was adored by her teachers because she never gave them any trouble. Soon after her classmates considered her as the strange looking girl who's normal. The pointing decreased and the laughing became old. "Charlo" was able to make some friends, however, she longed for the days when she was just Lottie.

              One day "Charlo's" mother informed her that they were moving to the United States to live with her aunt. It excited her to know that she would go to the US. She's learned so much about the place from her history books and now she would get to see if for herself. Now in the second grade, she felt much more confident and determined to seem like everyone else. To blend in, to just one of the kids in her class.

              The first day of school came, and as always the funny feeling in the tummy came back. "Charlo's" cousins spent the entire walk to school prepping her about the un-written rules of the school. "Don't mess with this girl, don't let the teacher see you hit someone and if a kid that's bigger than you messes with you let me know", said Michelle her eldest cousin. "Charlo" now had to learn these rules in addition to fighting this weird feeling in her stomach. Michelle walked her to her classroom, where her bi-lingual teacher greeted her with a smile. The teacher's smile put "Charlo" at ease and without hesitation walked into the classroom. The usual whispers and pointing commenced, but "Charlo" just kept her chin up asked where her she should seat and continued on her way. Flustered with the obvious squirming of the kids, she decided to put her head down. It almost felt like in the darkness of her arms she was safe. Once she would raise her head again all of this would just disappear. Her daydreaming was interrupted by a loud bell that signaled for everyone to take their seats. A loud voice came from a squared wooden box in the corner of the room. This made "Charlo" laughed, she wondered how a loud man can fit in such a tiny box. The language was different, nothing like she's ever heard. The announcer spoke too fast for her to make heads or tails of what was being said. After the kids finished chanting strange sounds as they placed their hands to their chest, everyone took their seats and Mrs. Rodriguez began her class. So far so good, thought "Charlo" from the back of the room. This feeling of relief was quickly replaced with terror when she heard Mrs. Rodriguez asked that she walked to the front of the room. Hands sweaty, flushed cheeks and with her head down she walked towards her new teacher. She almost felt like she was walking towards her death. Her heart thumped so loudly, she could've sworn everyone in class could hear it. Mrs. Rodriguez grabbed her hand and told the class "Hola ninos, esta es "Charlotte", hello everyone this is Charlotte". "Charlo" almost felt like correcting Mrs. Rodriguez, who was pronouncing her name just like her mother did. Somehow hearing her mother's pronunciation in a stranger's voice brought great peace to her and courage. Charlotte now told the class that she just moved to New Jersey from Puerto Rico. The other kids asked what happened to her eye, which by now had become the second question for everyone she greeted. After explaining that it was a birthmark, everyone just fell silent and class continued. Now as Charlotte, she felt like maybe she can blend in with the rest of the kids. That was painless she thought. Other kids were speaking her language and most importantly just speaking to her.

              At noon, the loud bell interrupted the class once again. This time Mrs. Rodriguez asked the room to form a single line in order to go to lunch. This was exciting! Not only was she happy that she's blending in, but now she'll get to see other areas of the school where she can be a part of too. Charlotte peeked out of the room and saw that the other kids were also in single lines already on their way to lunch. Our classroom was the last to walk out, but it didn't bother Charlotte at all. She felt anxious to meet other kids. Attempt to learn this new language and possibly make new friends. After all, if other kids are as nice as my class I have nothing to worry about, she thought.

              Once in the first floor, Charlotte's class encountered other kids waiting to be escorted into the cafeteria. These kids spoke differently, but she recognized the looks and the whispers. Funny, she thought, it's (snickering and pointing) the same no matter how funny they speak. A young boy with red hair and blue eyes looked at our class and said, "hey, here comes the spics". For whatever reason this was incredibly funny to his class. I asked one of the girls in front of me what that meant, "Algo malo, los blanquitos no nos quieren aqui". The red haired kid then turn his attention to her and said, "that girl has a black eye!", which caused even further laughter no only for his class, but the other classes all around.

              Just like that "Charlo" was now Charlotte, which stood for Proud of how God made me, a spic with a black eye.

              Years passed and Charlotte decided to ignore the whispers and pointing of other kids. Focus on studying and attempt to learn as much as she can. One day, she thought I'll be better than all of them. They'll know not to ever make fun of me.

Charlotte and her mother then moved to Philadelphia. Charlotte's mom started a new relationship and now she had a new home, new school and a new family. Charlotte's mom decided to start a new relationship and this was the reason why they had moved. She was now 12, full of dreams, able to speak the language and armored with courage to once again be the new girl in school.

              Saint Michaels seemed like a great school. It was much smaller than her previous school and this gave her a sense of security. To her this meant fewer kids to ignore when they made fun of her. Charlotte walked to the second floor and met with Sister Ruthann, her seventh grade teacher. A nun, Charlotte thought, this is new. Sister Ruthann greeted Charlotte and asked that she remove her make-up. Charlotte found this very funny, she's heard many insults or theories about her birthmark but make up? Sister Ruthann took a second look and realized her mistake. She quickly apologized and asked that she take a seat in the third row. Now trained not to look directly at any of the kids, she did not want to risk feeling anything in her stomach or feel the flush that came with seeing kids pointing and whispering. Sister Ruthann greeted everyone and introduced Charlotte. She asked that she stand up and say something about herself. So Charlotte stood up, looked straight and said, "my name is Charlotte, I'm 12 and I have a birthmark on my eye." Short and to the point, she knew that the only thing that these kids really wanted to know is what happened to her eye. She was determined not to let other define who she was. She was Charlotte, Proud of how God made me, a spic with a black eye that's a birthmark.

              Many years passed before the Charlotte defined herself differently. Other's attempted to define her. Her step-father was murdered in 1991, so she was briefly known as Charlotte who has the mark on her eye who's step dad was killed. A year later her mother was diagnosed with cancer, then she was known as Charlotte, the poor girl who's mother is dying of cancer. Fortunately, her mother survived. The neighborhood continued describing her depending on the circumstances she was experiencing. Charlotte remained in school, head up high and took care of her mother. At times she'd forget to eat because between school, after-school job and visiting her mother in the hospital there was nothing else left to do in a day but to sleep and do it all over the next day. She struggled, worked hard and pressed on without focusing on anything negative. She's had her ups and her downs but one learn early in life this will happen inevitably.

Charlotte is Proud of how God made me, a spic with a black eye that's a birthmark, who will continue on and fight for the survival of her family, who refuses to allow anyone to define her but herself.

She got a book deal? WTF?

   So it's day two in my journey to seriously get myself published! I was compelled to look over the new best sellers out there, and I come across folks like Lauren Conrad, Kardashian sisters and even Paris Hilton. My Christian side feels happy that they were making dreams come true (Specially Lauren-She truly is awesome) but my frustrated "hater-istic" side is screaming "WTF??". Really Paris Hilton? This should be the push that I need to buckle up and get my butt in gear. Young ladies out there are looking up to someone who pretends cocaine is candy as a role model. This is the figure they look at when attempting to style themselves? Ugh! Tonight I will once again look at my screen and attempt to write something. I've decided to just write and care less whether it has anything to do with my topic. One of my many problems is that I truly hate combing through old writing sessions and slicing what has to do with a topic. Some would call that editing, I call it torture from the depths of literary hell. (I know, a bit dramatic).

How Can I Write, What I Don't Know How To Say

I've learned a whole lot regarding self esteem. I know that I have lots to share with other girls and women out there. The problem is that whenever I try to sit down and break apart what I want to write about, I always end up in the same place… a blank screen. I'd like to tell them how I grew up feeling inadequate and at times wondered if I really was meant to be. Just be. Be alive, be in the family that I was born into, and just be as a being. I want to share about each and every time I was a new girl in school. The story behind me having to be in 11 grade schools. I want to let folks know that they're not the only ones with that gut feeling, that awful feeling you get when you feel that all eyes are on you. But then my mind goes blank. All of the experiences that I had that have shaped me into the woman I am today, simply disappear from my mind.
I'd hate to have someone go through half of the low self esteem situations and experiences that I went through truly believing that they are the only ones in the world that can possibly feel that way.
The problem is that if there's something I know about is feeling inferior and intensely afraid that you will be ridiculed because of how you look or the way you speak. So why am I having such a hard time gathering my thoughts together? Am I really meant to write this story? The story of an ordinary person like everyone else who can help others by retelling her stories and the lessons learned?

Here's the first day of my journey to write the most important story of my life. The story of how I overcame the fear of not being liked. How Can I Write, What I Don't Know How To Say

Future Sold Out Author's Meeting Today!!!

Hi Guys,

Sorry I have not written in a while. Sometimes life's bumps can affect your plans. I'm happy to report that we are indeed having our meeting tonight for all that want to join. We will be meeting at 6 pm at the WholeFoods Supermarket on 21st and Callowhill.

Our topic for tonight is childhood nurseries and how they apply to our lives today as adults. I cannot wait to get some more feedback from my fellow writers!

God Bless!

Guide to Writing Your First Book!!!

Guys, I was able to download the e-book "Guide to Writing Your Frist Book"! It's full of great resources, guidance and writing exercises! You can access it via the Latina Writers Today folder or could just leave a comment.

Happy Writing!

99 Great Links and Book Resources

A great guide for a bit of inspiration and direction! You should be able to access this via the Latina Writers Today folder. If you would like access contact me at inforchildrenofsolomon@gmail.com or just leave a comment.

Happy Writing!

Writing Skills and Strategies

Hi guys, just uploaded a guide for those of us that need a little help in the writing department. You should be able to access it via the Latina Writers Today folder. If you would like to have access please email me at infochildrenofsolomon@gmail.com or just leave a comment.

Happy Writing!

How To Write From Personal Experiences

I've added to the shared folder an awesome article by Moira Allen on how to write from personal experiences. Make sure and check it out! =)

Childhood Memories...

Think of your favorite childhood book or nursery rhyme and re-write it from more adult perspective.