Since the release of my novel, Secondhand Shoes, some have asked me if I’m psychic. I know I posted a few weeks ago about my paternal grandmother. She definitely was. Me? ***shrugs***
If anything, I’m an intuitive empath. I know. Y’ll are going “What in the world is that, Shelly?”
An intuitive empath is some one who feels others’ energies. We feel your pain and your joy. We’re able to read your expressions and body language. But then again, I do work with the public on a daily basis.
When I worked at the law firm, the head attorney picked up on my gift. Before I knew it, he used me in depositions to determine if his client or the other side were lying and why. Funny too, the girls in the office always asked me if he was in a good or a bad mood right before going into his office. For some reason, I knew and was always right.
At the salon, if someone comes in I’ve never seen before, I pick up on their energies right away. If they’re too negative, I run to the bathroom and pray for the girl who ends up with them. Sorry, but its true.
A couple days ago that’s exactly what happened. My coworker was verbally attacked by someone who didn’t even know what she wanted. From what I could see, her hair was beautiful when she walked out of the salon. The woman got her style for free since she made such a stink.
Sadly, I don’t do malls or go to where a lot of people hang out. That is one of the reasons why I hate to go shopping. Too many people breed too much energy. And if its too negative, I get fatigued.
Shelly is a weirdo. I know what y’ll are thinking.
I figure over the next several weeks, I’ll be writing about psychics and intuitives. I’ll even be posting about some of my personal experiences with certain things. Ghosts. Visions. Psychic dreams. All three have touched me or been a part of my life.
And no, I don’t see dead people, but….
Yellow Prada’s is at 13,120 words to date. I haven’t worked on it since Friday. Hair loppings do get in the way. Seventeen on Friday afternoon and twenty-four yesterday. Today, I spent some time with a housebound friend. But tomorrow, I’ll be pecking away it.
Here’s a diddy:
Gram walked through the wall a few feet from the end of my hospital bed. She still wore her lavender chiffon coffin dress. The one she was buried in six months ago. “The Almighty sent me a message to get here quick.” She stopped before she made it over to me and stared at my mother, glancing from the top of mom’s head to her shoes. “Lands sakes! Who does she think she is? Jerry Hall, the super model?”
Also, I have the beginning of book three, Combat Boots, written.
Also, its time once again to decide whether or not you want to be a writing Ninja.
You can click onto my side bar for to the left of the screen for more info.
Hugs and chocolate,