So I have received feed back from numerous people I respect and trust that I really should begin writing– creatively that is. One of my greatest mentors told me I was a “great storyteller”. I think that was a covert compliment. One part is lovely, I understand how to engage people and take them on an emotional journey that is exciting. The other part to that is that I also, like Pinnochio, lie. I lie all the time… about silly things!

Have you ever caught yourself doing that? It’s so ridiculous. Like, why not just tell your friends you ate the chocolate cake? Why lie about the way you lost your front tooth? Somehow the story is so much more compelling than the truth. Lie. What are the implications of such a habit? No trust from anyone. That is one.

Huh, so to transition lies to storytelling… maybe I use my powers for good rather than evil. I will practice telling stories. I bought a book. Yes, I believe there is a book for everything, and I bought one for a daily writing practice.
It is called “A Writer’s Book of Days. It was written by a woman named Judy Reeves and it gives you a writing exercise every day.

So September 1, I started.

I thought I would share what I write with you all and if you like, you can write along and post as well! Sort of like an online writing group! Yay community!

Here goes:

September 8th, 2009
_________ is the color I remember.

Orange is the color I remember. Burnt orange. Burnt, vibrant, deep rich orange.
I remember cutting the flesh of a vegetable that reminded me of skin coated in iodine.
The smell of iron overwhelmed anything having to do with the banana bread baking in the kitchen.
I was 14 and I had just gotten my belly button pierced and iodine was the answer to infection at that point.
So every day I laid down in the living room, and poured the metallic liquid into the button on my belly so as to ward off evil bacteria from the new hole I chose to impose upon my body.
It was back to school time. Autumn in Los Angeles is a time of clearing skies and smokey sunsets.
The Santa Anna winds rush the overly dried desert with fires across the coast line for weeks in the end of August. And everyone is always so surprised.
It happens every year, and yet we have no memory of the past.
Why is it that certain things stick in our minds, burned into the folds of our brain, never to be forgotten, and other things we repeat as though we are on a loop track?
I suppose the enjoyment of living in Malibu supersedes the annual fires that blaze through the properties there.
I think of these things as I enjoy the burn of air that floats around me and twist my belly button ring in and around the internal and external portion of my soulful carrying case.
“I am such a rebel”, I tell myself. “Blake Heron is going to think I am so hot!”. Oh yes, the puncture wound was an attention strategy for a boy. I wanted desperately to be dangerous. To be desired. To be mysterious. And so I had a human pin cushion jam a needle through my abdomen and called it “cool”. Several years later I would repeat this patten with needles and ink. Scarring myself with pigment and indentations on my chest and ankle as a way to disprove my own value and confirm the value I found in the approval of the man next to me.
Just like the people who refuse to acknowledge the annual fires that dance along the Los Angeles coast line. So do I refuse to acknowledge the life time commitment to consistent abnegation of worth or trust for the next cool, confident, powerful person in the room.
Permission, permission to learn, permission to move on, permission to grow.
Permission to explore other places to live that may be equally as beautiful, but without the fires.
Hmm, that’s a thought.

Add yours Comments – 86

  • jp

    on September 23, 2009 at 7:05 pm

    I have some interesting ideas and writings that I would like to share with you. When is the next comic-con that you will be at? I would like to send you some ideas.

  • Robin

    on September 24, 2009 at 7:52 am

    I recently attended a funeral for my Great Aunt. At the wake as the different generations of family chatted a photo was produced of all the great Aunts and Uncles and their parents -an entire generation almost gone, anyway upon thinking about that day’s events I have written the following…

    Remember me…

    Will I be remembered as someone good or bad,
    Might strangers look upon my image and wonder if I were happy or sad,

    Does it matter if our names are spoken of when we are long past,
    As possessions pass on and graves stones fade to weather so harsh,

    For in twenty, fifty, a hundred years who will care,
    Except a few whose likeness in art or sculpture might strangers stare,

    But do not cry nor feel pity or sorrow,
    Not through physical form will our true selves be known in the tomorrow,

    It is in our acts in each moment that we help shape some furture day,
    Be it a smile, kind word or shake of the hand thay may,

    Help other’s be happy, laugh dance think question and ponder,
    As through our actions it’s best we remembered, unsung – our spirit lasting ever longer…

  • Ruthie

    on September 24, 2009 at 11:15 am

    Wow, Josh…beautiful. I loved reading that peice!

  • josh

    on September 25, 2009 at 6:36 am

    Thanks, Ruthie. I checked out your blog and I dig the vibe.

  • Pablo

    on September 25, 2009 at 11:17 am

    Allison, I leave a poem you, in Spanish, my maternal language, since my knowledge of English are not sufficient like realising a translation adapted to a poetry.
    If you have somebody you can translate, I let to you in freedom share it with that you wish.
    Thanks to characterize to your personage Chloe Sullivan with as much passion, tenderness and give, really have touched my more sensible fibers.
    You are amazing, like actress and person.
    An affectionate greeting,

    Envidio al afortunado mortal que ha tenido la dicha de cobijarte en sus brazos,
    De sentir tu cálido aliento, tu cabello acariciando su rostro y ocultándolo a la noche.
    Envidio su mano, que acarició tu piel, sus ojos, que debieron admirar con ternura tu bella faz,
    Acunandote contra su pecho y sintiendo el latir de tu corazón contra el suyo.
    Envidio cada segundo que pasó junto a tí, las noches de suspiros y las mañanas de tiernos besos,
    susurrando suspiros, llamándose uno a la otra con promesas cumplidas, con deseos satisfechos.
    Envidio la pasión, el ardor juvenil de tu cuerpo entregado al suyo, las promesas de amor,
    Aquellas caricias, delicadas, aleteantes como mariposas, que te hicieron temblar de pasión.

    Hoy miro mi vida y encuentro un vacío difícil de llenar, imposible de sobrellevar.
    Te añoro en la lejanía de un sueño imposible, mirando en la bruma de mi interior, llorando,
    Con el alma quebrada en múltiples cristales, con el corazón añorando tu encuentro.
    Hoy miro mis manos, flojas a mi lado, sin fuerzas, sin poder contener mis anhelos,
    Tan vacías de tí, tan faltas de tu arrullo, cada día, cada noche, … cada segundo del día.
    Es una pena adherezada con hiel, macerando mi corazón con el agrio gusto de la desolación,
    Alcanzando la cúspide del dolor, por no verte, ni tenerte, … ni poder amarte.
    Ya solo queda el dolor, la angustia y la desesperación.

    Quisiera sólo seguir envidiandolo, sentir sólo envidia, pero mi corazón es el dueño de mi dolor,
    Abraza a la angustia y desecha la felicidad, que otra alma pudiera brindarme.
    Quisiera ser aquél con el que sueñas despierta, y el que arrulla tus sueños en la noche oscura,
    El que acaricia tu cabello y murmura dulces palabras en tu oido, embelesado por tí.
    Desearía compartir tu mundo, tus alegrías, tus anhelos y más profundos deseos que tu alma guarda,
    Recordar tu nombre cada minuto del día, y decirlo como una plegaria.
    Me alcanzaría con siquiera poder mirarte, escucharte.
    Leería tu alma como un libro de poesía, ya que es delicada y frágil, abierta y dulce.

    Si me regalaras una sonrisa, entonces, podría decir que mi día se iluminó como un amanecer,
    Si te escuchara reir, creería que los ángeles están bajando del cielo,
    Y si te escucho llorar, entonces mi mundo se ennegrecerá, llegando la oscuridad a mi corazón,
    Porque tu tristeza nublaría mi razón, debilitaría mi cuerpo y destrozaría mi alma.
    Eres mi centro, mi todo, eres aquello que siempre he deseado, el sentido de mi vivir,
    Porque nadie jamás podrá explorar mi alma como tu podrías hacerlo, como quisiera que hicieras.
    Corazón de fuego, rebosante de amor, como pétalos de lirios flotando en un lago,
    Alma de ninfa, ligera, volátil y encantadora. Solo te amo a tí. Solo te deseo a tí.

  • Issac_Ketron

    on September 27, 2009 at 1:38 pm

    i loved your story, it shows off one of your many talents, Allison, i believe you are going to captivate many people, with great literature. so keep on writing stories, p.s. you’re awesome 🙂

  • Ruthie

    on September 29, 2009 at 4:26 am

    Gold is the color I remember.
    I sat on the curb of West Street at the very edge of town, so far west that an expanse of golden swaying wheat shocks stretched as far as I could see, only hedged in by a distant tree line. The sun sank slowly, cradled by limbs and leaves. Blinding, searing gold melted into subtle red, orange, pinks. And that quiet voice inside whispered comfort to my needful self, “for you.” Just before dusk, that quiet glow wrapped me and everything else in a warmth before darkness settled in and I peddled home, street lamps catching flecks of my flaxen gold hair.

  • Ruthie

    on September 29, 2009 at 8:45 am

    …and here I am 20 years later pining over the freedom I had then to trail away on my bicycle to a quiet alone place.
    But I needed that time then.
    I needed to create a physical place around me where I could be who I imagined myself to be, unhindered by fear, self-loathing or inadequacies.
    Sometimes when I look back on that girl, a life so distant from me now, I feel a compassion and love that I never could have felt for myself then.
    I no longer need to run away to find peace.
    My inner-landscape is different now.

    The challenge I face now, as an artist and a growing soul is to embrace all of my experience with authenticity rather than leaving the painful bits and pieces in the dusky shadows…
    Seeing beauty in the entire process of unfolding life. hmmmn.

  • Nick

    on September 29, 2009 at 2:20 pm


    I really enjoyed your story and I’m looking forward to the next one.

  • Vegas911

    on September 30, 2009 at 2:15 pm

    Josh, your story was so enjoyable…..your descriptions were so great I could picture you in the water…well done!!!

    Robin thank you for your compliment!!! I also enjoyed reading yours…I love poetry!!! It is one of my favorite genre’s to read!!! Great job to you both!!!

  • Vegas911

    on September 30, 2009 at 2:18 pm

    I have a simple poem that I would like to tell…..I think that it’s beauty is in how simple it is…but here goes….

    Living life is more then about how you feel, for this world is just an illusion attempting to be real.

  • roninworldwide

    on September 30, 2009 at 8:02 pm

    I think the season opener just rocked!! Toms new outfit was great and was very cool. I was glad to see everyone and the new people too (Zod). Allison you looked great, will stop in time to time to chat. I hope you can help your cat, what a bummer. I ve got seven and all of them are clustered around me as I write this. They are a my kids and always want to know what I am doing. I have watched you grow and develop and hope to read more. I think that if you meditate near a beautiful lake in the fall, especially in the City of Vancouver that it will inspire you!!!

  • Ivy Icetree

    on September 30, 2009 at 10:21 pm

    Red is the color I remember—the color those around me remember. Red is what I see every time I conduct a miscalculation. Red is the result of an overestimation, or an underestimation. Red is what I get when the blade accidentally slips.
    The red I’ve gone so close to, the red within me, haunts and pleases. Never does it fade. Darker and darker it becomes. Darker then dry…or is it dry first then darker? The red, it grows and spreads…accumulates. Heat comes first, cold comes second. Numbness is next, I suppose? I wouldn’t know. For the red is only an imagination, and the instance, a memory of the imagination.
    But red does bring back times of happiness. I’m back to being a carefree seven year old, staring at the toy that comes with a Happy Meal. It was red. I remember my dad giving it to me because it was red. It’s his birthday today, and I have nothing to give. As usual.
    I remember the red that brings me sadness—that reminds me I have everything and nothing to give. Red is the color of my selfishness.

  • argira

    on October 1, 2009 at 7:33 pm

    The colour I rember is white
    White, brilliant, magic. It was the first time I saw snow, I was 16 in a different country, with new temporary parents and my heart full of lonelines and mourn. My hearth felt an ache, it was only a year ago that mom had died, it was november too.

    I felt amazed by life, a painful cold and beautiful warmth, pure, clear, white, like my mother’s soul.

    I am sorry it tourn out to be a sad one.. but is amazing I had never connected the two events until now.

  • josh

    on October 4, 2009 at 7:10 pm

    I don’t know if I can do this, but what the heck, I proved my goodwill by actually doing the assignment. I just thought I’d let y’all know I just wrote about the time I met Allison over on my blog at:
    Hugs not drugs!

  • Torias

    on October 8, 2009 at 12:27 am

    Sorry I’m late to the party. That was pretty good. I consider myself well read. I live in the L.A. area, and I’m very well acquainted with the fairly regular autumn wildfires, and the teen angst thing. Well done.

  • bwhited1968

    on October 11, 2009 at 9:42 pm

    I remember Orange, orange and black. The color of candy. I remember as the teacher handed out the candy for our Halloween party, staring at the vibrant color combination of orange and black. Not just any candy could carry the significance of that day. The day when the colors of fall are rich, and carry a special meaning. The hope of a new year to come, and the farewell to another summer. The orange was the moon. The black was a cat. Made into the center of the special candy. Many classmates hungrily gorged themselves not thinking of the colors, season, or the significance. I simply took the candy and placed it in my pocket. Too sentimental to simply eat such a work of art, I had to study this combination of beauty and functionality. The color of the harvest moon. Orange was the color of pumpkins, maple leaves, and a most wonderful time of year. Red, Purple, Yellow and yes, Orange. No wonder fall is my favorite time of year.
    Happy Harvest everyone!

  • willow110

    on October 17, 2009 at 2:21 am

    writing isn’t really my thing, i prefer writing poetry. still allison’s work was great and she should definately think of writing a novel as she obviously has a talent for it.
    here is my attempt..for Jamie Simpson 1988-2002. R.I.P simmo x

    Grey is the colour I remember. I was thirteen and awoke one morning to find my loved ones faces somber. Had I done something to upset them? My nievity. I remember the fresh grey paint smells drifting in to my dinning room from the kitchen. I was the only one who noticed the smell that morning. Not wanting to disturb them and feeling confused, I wandered into the kitchen, where the faint metallic paint smell grew until it was almost overwhelming, and made my breakfast as usual.
    Returning to the dinning room with my crunchy peanut butter on toast, I sat at the table and plucked up the courage to say, ‘so who died then?’ then I felt myself smile at my assumed wit. It is wrong to assume. All at once i felt all eyes look up from the floor and burn into my flesh. Still no one spoke. The room was deathly silent and still, with the grey paint still wafting in and the clock ticking about to turn 8. The realisation was upon me. There was a reason for this unbearable silence.
    After a minitue or so my father was able to say, ‘Jamie’ before retreating to the kitchen. He tried to hide but his sobs could still be heard. Jamie. Fun loving, happy go lucky, crazy yet lovable Jamie. ‘So young, so young’, my mother said as i heard my taxi beep.It was 8.45. Where the time went I know not, that time is lost to me forever.
    I did not want to go to school that day. That day should of been spent in mourning, alone in my room. yet the sense of normality that school provided was a welomed distraction from the harsh reality that had still not even began to sink in.
    we each have our own way of dealing with death. Each has his or her own rituals and coping mechanisms. That kitchen was blue when i returned home that day. But I, I will always remember the grey.

  • rward9182

    on October 22, 2009 at 3:37 pm

    Maybe, where ever you go take your fire with you. Kindle it with wit, creativity, whimsy and real life, let others see it shine in who you are and who you can be.

  • Dennys

    on October 24, 2009 at 7:11 pm

    i think lie is an act that everybody does and/or have done at least once in life…

    sometimes is funny but you may be sure that this act isn´t gonna cause drastic consequences…

    Lol, i was a big fan of your interpretations but now i have another reason for it! xD

    keep writing!!

  • flor2196

    on November 8, 2009 at 12:12 pm

    that is great! keep doing that, you are really good!kisses

  • Jake3Alan

    on November 11, 2009 at 9:37 pm

    Hello. I just wanted to ask if you like sports? What teams do you like? I am from Atlanta and I love all my home teams.

  • LinZ107k

    on November 14, 2009 at 7:00 am

    Red is the color I remember
    It all happened so fast. Too fast to remember much of anything other than the blood. The crimson pool slowly covered the floor around her head.
    Great Grandma Flossy had been visiting for the week and we had just gotten home from some outing. We came through the garage door, which opens onto a tiny landing that leads into the basement. I’m not even sure how it happened.
    I don’t remember her falling or hitting the floor. I just remember time slowing down for me, coming to a near stop before speeding up again.
    All of a sudden people were moving around and shouting orders. Somehow the phone ended up in my hand. Someone must have told me to call 911, but I just stared dumbly until someone took it from me.
    Eventually the paramedics arrived and took Grandma away. The next time I saw her was at her funeral in a coffin with crimson lining.

    The crazy thing is, that I told my mother about this memory years later and she told me that there hadn’t been any blood. Although she died the next day, the only bone she broke was her pinky.

  • Sabrina

    on November 20, 2009 at 9:15 pm

    Pink is the color I remember. I surrounded myself with pink peonies, the only flower I truly love, on the day I said the two most important words of my life, “I do.” It was a pale whisper of pink, completely contrary to my usual technicolor life. But walking down an aisle in the prettiest dress I have ever owned and seeing the friends I love the most swathed in that lovely hue made me feel as if, for just a moment, the dreams of a little girl twirling in long skirts had been realized. I could see the hope for happy years to come shining in the eyes of the man nervously waiting for me beside the pastor. In that moment, life was all it should be, miracles were possible, and yet somehow all I could think was, “don’t lock your knees.” When I reached the stage, all nerves and excitement, my Jeremy looked at me with such sincerity and said the sweetest statement I have ever heard. “You look really pretty,” he whispered sweetly. His face glowing like a child who has just discovered that the gift he has always wanted is sitting under the Christmas tree.
    Since then, life’s journey has continued down its routine path. Bills have come due, dinners have been made and cleaned, and the same pair of pants has gone through more than a few washes. None of that matters because I still have my very best friend by my side. But on the days that are less than perfect, as some days are bound to be, I think back and I remember the color pink.

  • LinZ107k

    on November 21, 2009 at 10:04 pm

    Wow, Sabrina, that’s really beautiful. Mine was a little bit morbid, but hey, it was the first thing that popped into my head. The funny thing is that I’m usually an upbeat person and not normally so dark.
    I love how you conveyed your story. I especially like how you started with the color pink and came back to it in the end. It really comes full circle.

  • Dream_Walker

    on November 29, 2009 at 6:05 am

    We all lie in our daily lives… Who sayes otherwise.. lies 😀 It may be big or small depending of person agenda and moral values. Personally i find myself telling little lies too its not so much bothering as it is concerning.. Why do we like to smoothen the holes in truths with lies? When does truth become lie? Its like riding a pumpy road with potholes, you smooth the road with little lies like shock absorbers absorb the holes, but You still know they are there…. I find if lie doesnt hurt anyone, cause problems or have no obvious backthought agenda its ok. Yet they always stack up on Youre conscious, so the little we try to lie everyday the better otherwise someway or another truth ends up getting so twisted u get tangled up and have no idea how that happen 😀
    I believe You would make a wonderful writer, You have exceptional fantasy and freedom of mind so im really excited to see what Youre creations may be, Best of Luck, DW

  • mjones

    on December 1, 2009 at 1:54 am

    I really like the honesty in this.

  • luzaleja

    on January 13, 2010 at 10:34 pm

    OK… 1st… I think many of us have done sth,not exactly the belly piercing thing or a tattoo… but even minor things like changing your hair style to try and make someone like you counts lol… and not only men… also friends… or people we think are our friends… at least when we are younger some of us are weaker to what people think… so i didnt pierce my belly button… but i did get a second piercing on both my ears… how sad is it that i dont even wear earrings on them now… i guess what im trying to say here is that i Loved ur writting… just i think its a great story and i can relate on some level 🙂
    now on the lies… I can totally understand you… I do find myself sometimes telling lies for no reason at all… like not a good one (and im guessing that would be saving someone from pain or sth… although i do think sometimes its better to say the truth even if it hurts…) but just because… maybe i dont like the truth… i dunno… i guess sometimes it makes it easier to confront some situations, though… always… after i have told the lie… i regret it… I guess that is why im trying not to lie much now haha
    thanks for ur honesty! 🙂

  • luzaleja

    on January 13, 2010 at 10:34 pm

    LOL… i just realized u put a 1st without a 2nd… oh well… do as if it wasnt there hahaha

  • flor2196

    on January 21, 2010 at 3:05 pm

    hey i was wondering what happend with smallville. i can t see a new chapter since a while.

  • flor2196

    on January 21, 2010 at 3:07 pm

    usually i don t like this things about the blogs and things like that. but i think it s pretty cool that an actress like you, do this. i mean it s a chance for everyone to know you a little better. your a great actress 🙂

  • 3tesla

    on January 28, 2010 at 4:55 am

    Wow – I have enjoyed reading this blog entry, and the wonderful comments too *so* much!

    And here is my humble contribution by way of a thank you:

    Yellow And Blue Are The Colours That I Remember …

    The garish but bold stripes on the rugby shirt (jersey) I proudly wore for my senior (high) school’s rugby union First XV.

    Rugby union is all about teamwork – the whole being far, far greater than the sum of the parts – so I cannot separate the blue from the yellow, nor do I dare to choose one over the other.

    Such pride that I felt; such an honour to be allowed to join the elite; such sheer, physical, visceral, primitive joy in taking part; striving to win for the full eighty minutes; elation in victory, commiseration in defeat; fully alive, fully belonging!

    Always driving the ball onwards towards the goal! Never giving up! Respect for, and trust in your co-workers! Respect for the referee! Respect and honour for, and communion with your worthy opponents! All great life-lessons for a young man to lean – precious memories, treasured wisdom, great days indeed.

  • 3tesla

    on January 28, 2010 at 5:11 am

    For ‘stripes’ please read ‘hoops’.

  • jayp

    on March 12, 2010 at 3:01 am

    Hy Allison,

    Interesting poem. I liked to read it. After a short reflecting period I asked myself, what would you like to say with it? It sounds like fiction, but I think you want it to have a deeper meaning. I am writing a short expose about questions in life. From my point of view, it is not possible not to lie. As sad as it is, and it usually always leads to disaster, even if you lie to protect someone else, trust me. BUT: Anyone can start to tell the truth, beginning with questions you ask yourself.
    If you want, I can send you some.

    Best wishes


  • CassieT.

    on May 1, 2010 at 2:52 pm

    it’s raining like crazy here, and the light hitting the rain makes it look like gold. It’s really pretty, so I thought I’d tale some inspiration from the “color I remember” theme and write about he people out here in the rain:

    drops of humanity

    Rain falls .
    People hurry under the water as it reflects the city lights. I look up and see the little drops of light falling slowly to earth, kissing the gray cement and old city grates along the walkway.

    The lucky ones with umbrellas walk slowly, savoring escape from the ordinary. Others rush past them, seeking shelter from an uninvited intrusion. A small girl listens curiously to nature’s first lullaby: the golden rain, staccato drops hitting the ground.

    Under my street lamp I see the amber drops cascading down around me and I wonder at the reactions of people walking by, their stories having changed with the appearance of unforeseen weather.

    In each face I see the same lost expression. Did this rain halt their evening and leave them stranded? Or did it wake them from a daydream they had been caught in far too long, opening their blurry eyes to the world for the first time in years?

    Lost people, wandering down a wet street, trying to remember how they got here. One by one, they fall back asleep and hurry on.

    But a few stay,
    looking up at the halcyon raindrops welcoming them home.

  • velludo

    on February 6, 2011 at 10:56 am

    Allison “I Love You” “Te Amo” perfect you