My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Why I keep writing for ViewsHound

Friday, December 23, 2011

Why I keep writing for ViewsHound

Photo from allowwomenstalk.com

Positive comments and feedbacks to my articles are the reasons why I keep writing for ViewsHound (VH). However, if by a twist of fortune and luck, I win a couple more awards, it will be icing on the cake and will be highly appreciated.

I started writing for VH last August. As of today, I have submitted more than sixty articles and photographs. I have over 23,500 views, 22 followers, 9 badges, a gold and bronze winning articles. The following are my favorite commentators and their comments: M. Abott, D. Hamilton, G. Maoli, L. Arota, J. Bird, S. Ozmore, D. Page, D. Reynolds, J. Willoughby, S. Powers, S.C. Joy, L. Silverman, M. Dragoo, F. Lachica, V. Vizarra and G. Buesnel.

Mark Abbott.UTEP- Comment to, You have to fail on order to succeed.

I think this is the most positive thing I've read all week and possibly even all month. I wish everyone had the "can do" attitude that you have. I've been struggling like hell to perfect it for some time now and as discouraging as it can be at times, I think I've made a great deal of progress. I remember reading someones quote once (can't remember who it was) that said if you fail 999 times out of 1,000, you actually succeeded in finding 999 ways NOT to do something. Thanks so much for posting this. It makes a world of difference to see the necessary little reminders in the work of other writers.

Deb Hamilton · Top Commenter · Chicago, Illinois- Comment to, The best Christmas gift I have ever received.

I really loved this story! You must make friends easily... or I don't think your support system would have been this strong. You deserve some of the credit here, for sure. Very sweet tale.

Gianandrea Maoli · Top Commenter · Freelance writer at ViewsHound- Comment to, Am I a born or made writer?

Wow! One of the most encouraging pieces I've seen on VH! I would say that as far as great writers are concerned, I think there's a combination of being born to be great and being made into one. I think that even if your are born into it, it does take a writer a lot of time, patience, and even courage to keep writing and learning until they find the right way to express themselves. I do agree with you that it has great therapy tools to express your thoughts which is what I try to do with short stories in general. You did that very well in this work and I hope to see others from you in the future.

Lorna Paroginog Arota · Chinese Gen. Hospital school of nursing -Comment to, Childhood memories of the Japanese-American war in the Philippines-Part 2

You captured the WWII story through your wife's perspective in such an emotional and personal way. Your mother in- law lost a sister very dear to her heart from the hands of merciless Japanese soldiers who by no means will not spare any lives if you're in their way. I don't blame your mother for hating the Japanese, as my mother also did. That is the cruelty of war. Great article! you deserve another gold prize Dave.

Jan Bird · Top Commenter · College of Ripon & York St John -Comment to, Am I a born or made Writer?

This is the first article I've read today, David and it's a good one! I'm flattered to be quoted but I've never thought of myself as a "born" writer. I'm not fishing there, it's just not how I think of it. I think you can always learn and that we're all learning, constantly, from everything we write and everything we read, whether it's fiction, other writers' articles or mainstream journalism. We learn both how to do it and how not to do it. It is a craft and we can spend a lifetime perfecting and refining it. That's going to be one of life's pleasures for me for the rest of my life. I'm delighted for you that you've discovered such a love for writing and such a talent for getting your personal thoughts into words. You followed your heart and it shows. Your pieces are always deeply personal and reflective and I really enjoy that.

Susan Ozmore · Top Commenter- Comment to, I have an inferiority complex writing for ViewsHound

I really enjoyed your article. I'm a math/science person and also feel a sense of inferiority when compared to people who have spent far more time writing than I have. Although, I've done quite a bit of technical writing and have been told I do a very good job "translating" complex things into understandable prose, I still haven't gotten up the nerve to write for ViewsHound. I have started a blog though, and knowing that I'm not alone in feeling inadequate, maybe I'll get up the nerve soon to write for VH. The only thing is that your article is Excellent! I don't know if I can compare :-) Keep writing!

Dennis L. Page · Top Commenter · Onondaga- Comment to, Childhood memories of the Japanese-American war in the Philippines

You have presented the reader with a gut wrenching and true to life experience that only those like you, who experience such things can relay to the rest of us. My deceased father served in the United States Army in combat during WW II. First he was in New Guinea and then in the jungles of the Philippines. He was also taken from the front lines to learn how to do the initial land invasion of Japan. That, of course, never happened, but my dad always spoke highly of the Filipino people.

Debra Copley Reynolds · Top Commenter · Consultant at Princess House, Inc. -Comment to, Childhood memories of the Japanese-American war in the Philippines

A fascinating read, thank you. My grandfather served on a supply ship during WWII and told a few stories, I wish I had listened closer. Consider writing your tale in book length, please!

Jessica Willoughby · Top Commenter · Hard to Define at Developmental Skills Center-Comment to, Why I have an inferiority complex writing for ViewsHound

David, thank you for your kind words in your article. I love that you wrote this from such an authentic and honest viewpoint of how you felt. However, I want you to know that you are not alone in that feeling. To be completely honest, I think we all feel that way about something at some point. The very people you were so kind to put me in the company of, leave me in awe with their words. I could only aspire to someday write half as well as them. I think that you are a good writer. I write about topics which feel comfortable and creative for me. I love to read the work of so many others people because I can gain knowledge on topics that I am naive on. I enjoy reading about the things you write about, and there is never a need to feel inferior to anyone else. Easier said than done, I know. I am much better at giving that advice, than living that advice. Thanks again for your kind words. Nice piece, and keep up the good work. The more we write, the better we become. You know the old adage, practice makes perfect :) Have a great evening David!

Sarah Powers · Milwaukee, Wisconsin- Comment to, Domestic abuse against men: the battered husband

Thank you for writing this article, I know of a lot of people who don't believe, excuse, ignore, or even laugh at abuse of husbands. It's unfortunate that society feels this way about the abuse, and even rape of men. Hopefully articles like this will inspire people to think critically about these issues and what equality really means.

Susan Creamer Joy · Top Commenter · Works at Freelance Artist- Comment to, Memorable excerpts from the writings of my favorite authors at ViewsHound

Leslie is correct, David. We'll need enlarged exits from VH now:)) As for me, I am flattered and thrilled to be among this talented bunch and am equally inspired by and impressed with the many other wonderful writers here, yourself included:) Now, will someone call my driver and fetch my wrap? :)) Thank you, indeed!

Leslie Silverman · Top Commenter- Comment to, Why I am writing for ViewsHound

As always, David - honest, and direct well stated. Thanks for the mention. Keep writing for viewshound so we have the pleasure of reading you!

Michelle Dragoo · Top Commenter · Supervisor, Anatomic Pathology at Edward Hospital-Comment to, Memorable excerpts from my favorite ViewsHound authors

I have never been recognized, so, thank YOU. This truly brought tears to my eyes. I feel blessed to be in this esteemed group of writers.

Fernando Ceballos Lachica · Top Commenter · Works at Triond-Comment to, I have inferiority complex writing for ViewsHound.

Your writing style is great and I loved it! I can relate to your article actually. A Gold for you today! Cheers David!

Vic Vizarra · Top Commenter · Technology Consultant/Managing Owner at Viz-Mart Int'l. Computers-Comment to-Afterglows in the sunset of our lives.

I am now beginning to follow your articles and blogs. Hopefully you could lead me to your article about the revival of the Bataan Nuclear Power Plant. I was then an electrical engineering student in 1977 when I visited the nuclear power plant as part of our field trip requirement for graduation. I was pretty much impressed by the design and set-up of said power plant and was just sad to know it just got wasted and not utilized as intended.

**Gail Buesnel · Top Commenter-Comment to, Childhood memories of the Japanese-American War in the Philippines**

David thank you for this aspect of the war. My uncle was a British POW held by the Japanese and freed by General MacArthur the same day the Japanese sent in death squads to murder all prisoners. He has written a book and a portion of it deals with his POW experiences. It would be fascinating to have all aspects recorded in a book, yours as a civillian, the POW's, the liberating Americans and even a Japanese soldier. I am going to try to send this article to my uncle via my cousin. Congratulations on winning the prize.

I have several more positive comments from my other articles for the ViewsHound community. But this article is already long. May I reiterate that the above comments had inspired me to continue writing for ViewsHound-one of my favorite writing site. If you read ViewsHound, please continue your feedbacks and I will continue writing for ViewsHound.

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Friday, December 23, 2011

Why I keep writing for ViewsHound

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