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Her first love, in the craft of writing, is fiction, specifically, comedy. As an avid writer, she co-moderates two online writer critique groups and this year volunteered to be review editor and Spotlight interview editor for WOW online site (Women on Writing). These addresses below will link you to WOW, a very awesome writer site and of course Jody's personal web page, which is always a work in progress. Feel free to contact her. Jody Gore - Comedy Writer Fly Me To The Moon Women on Writing, Review editor & Spotlight interview editor Women on Writing REFLECTIONS OF A PAST By Jody Gore In my house I owned a mirror. It was my mirror. When I looked in the mirror, I saw my reflection. I was clear and bright. The mirror held magic for me. I danced. I could see myself. I sang. I looked lovely. I could be silly and it held no judgment. Just a reflection of who I was and what I could be. I was told I shouldn’t look in the mirror. It wasn’t really me. “Yes it is, look!” I exclaimed in innocence pointing to my reflection. They didn’t look. They didn’t see. I looked. I saw. The mirror didn’t tell lies. I was beautiful. “Don’t look in the mirror!” They exclaimed. “The mirror isn’t real!” I didn’t believe them. They showed me. “Look, your mirror has a crack!” They were right. In the farthest corner of the mirror there was a sliver of a crack. I saw the crack. It was small. It played in my mind, but I still looked in the mirror. I sang. I looked lovely. I danced. I could see myself. I could be silly. It held no judgement. I was beautiful. The crack grew larger running a hairline fissure from where it began. A deeper crack this time. “The mirror is dangerous. Don’t look at yourself.” I hesitated. I noticed no one else in the house had a mirror. I asked why. “Because, we look to see ourselves through another’s eyes to see what we should be.” I turned again to the mirror. The crack had grown encompassing large portions of my reflection. Making my image scatter. I danced, but my vision was blurred. I sang, but my mouth was grotesque. I tried to be silly, but felt only fear. I turned to them. I saw my reflection in their eyes. I didn’t dance there. I didn’t sing there. I saw judgement for my actions. I cried for my mirror. “You broke the mirror. The mirror isn’t real. It’s your fault. You should have listened.” They told me turning to each other and nodding. Once again they were right. When I turned to look in my mirror it had shattered. Large shrouded pieces of glass lay at my feet. I could see only small portions of my reflection. Each piece distorted and divided. I cried. “My mirror. I’ll never look the same again!” Looking up I saw my reflection in their eyes. “Don’t ever pick up the pieces of glass. It will hurt you. Just look at us. We know what’s best.” Eventually the magic in the mirror became a faint memory. I learned to look for my reflection In other people’s eyes. I didn’t dance, but who does? I didn’t sing, but who cares? Was I beautiful? Silliness became, fear and anger. Much more useful emotions. I eventually learned to dance. The right way. I sang the song I was taught. I used the emotions of fear and anger. I became dependant on looking at other people For my reflection. It was expected. I wanted my mirror. “If you pick up the pieces, you’ll feel pain. No one will embrace that you want the Magic in the mirror. It’s not real. Don’t do it!” My sight grew weak as I witnessed the Reflections that poured into me. I had grown scared of the mirror that I wanted. It haunted me in my sleep. Came into my Thoughts when I had no one to tell me how I should be. I chastised myself for wanting the mirror. Yet, without it, I wasn’t whole. I went to where the mirror had shattered. It was all there. Large pieces and small. I picked up a piece and put it where it belonged. A small piece. My finger bled. It healed. I picked up another larger piece. It cut a deep wound. I wept letting the blood Drip to the floor. Weakness overtook me at the sight of it. It took longer, but I healed. Healing gave me strength. Along the way, people whispered, pointing at the scars on my fingers, hands, And arms. “She tried to pick up the pieces of the mirror. We tried to tell her it wasn’t real.” Knowingly, they looked into each other’s eyes shaking their heads in disbelief. I cried. I cried. I knew even whole, my mirror would never be the same again. The mirror held a promise. I would dance again. Although I may stumble. I would sing and be heard by those who chose to listen. I would be silly and only judge myself for my actions. I needed the mirror to be complete. I picked up the pieces and with each new piercing of my flesh I cried the truth. “You! You, lied to me! You broke my mirror! I didn’t break my mirror! It wasn’t my fucking fault. I want my mirror back with all its ugly disoriented pieces! I have my mirror back. It’s cracked and imperfect. I know it. I sometimes hide it to keep people from Whispering, but I know that with my mirror I hold the truth. I hold myself. It will always be With me. Many strong and beautiful women and you my friend are one of them. |