Blah

I did not win ScriptFrenzy, though I am almost finished with my original sitcom and I have a good outline (except for the end) for a Modern Family spec. Things got accomplished, just not all the things I wanted. I try to do too much because I think I can and when I don't, I feel as if I've failed. But if I hadn't had the goal I had, I wouldn't have gotten as much done as I did. Thanks to everyone who wrote or called and encouraged me.

I'm not feeling very good today. As if I'm aging right before my eyes, I'm beset with a series of complaints. The muscles around my sciatic nerve contract at least once weekly in the past few weeks to make me nearly lame, my shoulder hurts so bad sometimes it makes me want to throw up, my lower back gives me problems all the time. My advice: Don't be in car accidents after the age of 30. Well, I'm still alive and for that I'm grateful. This is the accident that happened in December of 08, so don't get too worried.

I have a book idea in mind. Not necessarily a good one, but an idea nonetheless. I never thought about writing a book (this one would be sort of non-fiction, though creative non-fiction - and no, not a memoir). I've always only wanted to either do short stories or write for television. Frankly, the idea of writing long fiction frightens me. I've done it. I won NaNoWriMo one year with a completely horrible 57,000 word piece of crap. I'm proud I completed, but not proud it exists.

Right now, I'm tired. I wish I weren't. This is when I feel old age, when I would rather just sit around than do the things I know I want to do. Maybe when I start my book idea, it will bolster my other efforts because working on the book will also give me stories for my articles and maybe the interesting characters I meet will provide comedic fodder for my other ventures.

I know I complain a lot (as the Honey says, I'm the Queen of Complaining), but I do know that I have a goal and I will achieve it, whether I do it in inches or in miles.

Trivia Nerd

I have a friend who comes down from Alabama to visit his family and when he does, we make plans to meet on Wednesday for Trivia. The last two times he was in town, we won overall, which is a $20 bar tab.

So I head to the bar and run into a couple of friends on the way, one of which decides that she will join me for trivia. I expected my friend to be late, so the two of us are answering the questions by ourselves until he arrives.

The first round of questions ends with us winning. The winner of each round gets a pitcher of beer, which is a nice, free way to get your drinking done when you are as poor as we are right now. Of course, 2 glasses of beer later, we find ourselves the surprise winners of round 2. We guessed on at least 3 questions and didn't think we got the 30pt questions correct, but we did. Total guessing. That's another pitcher of beer for us and my friend has yet to show. Because we are so anal about not looking as if we're cheating, we usually leave our phones alone, but I check to see if he's left a text. He has. He's going to be much later. It's the final round, how much later is he gonna be?

He got there for the final jeopardy style question, well after the 3rd round. We got it wrong, but if we'd listened to him, we would have won it all! I only had one more free drink after that because that was all I needed, but it turned into a hell of a party, even with the dj being as lame as he always is.

I like drinking beer and having fun with my friends, but I have the most fun when I'm playing trivia. Maybe it's because it reminds me of being in college, when we would go to the Red Dog Pub in Cambridge and play NTN trivia. A bunch of us would walk over from Boston, grab a booth and a drink and we would try to outnerd all the other nerds in the place. The trivia I play now is similar, but we've all developed a camaraderie that is nice. Friendly and competitive, we talk smack but are okay if the other person wins. It's almost a family in a way. We expect to see each other every week, we complain about the questions, but we always enjoy getting together every week and trying to be the biggest nerds in the room.

Catch Up

I'm about to head to the A to visit a friend and while talking on the phone with said friend last night, I realize that I had not really met my obligations for writing, obligations I'd promised myself and in turn you guys - since you're the ones that are supposed to be holding me accountable. If I don't do this every day, it won't become the habit I want and need it to become. I've been out of practice of everyday writing. I need to get back in practice... so I practice...

Today's prompt:
"What do you take? You have ten minutes to evacuate your house forever! All family and pets have already escaped. Write about what you'd imagine yourself taking with you with only the limited time you have."

The first stop is the bedroom where I will scoop up my stuffed animals. They are all unique little animals that have a story behind them. Bear, my big stuffed brown teddy bear, has been with me since I was a senior in high school and has traveled with me everywhere (though he didn't make it to Africa because I was afraid I might lose him), Bayer, my little brown stuffed Teddy Bear that I got as a gift from a pen pal, Bunkey, who is a monkey dressed in a bunny suit that my husband bought me for Easter the year I demanded the Easter Basket my parents never gave me. It also included bubbles and chocolates, which has already been blown and eaten, as well as Porkchop, a pink pig that somehow has an expression when I take pictures of it.

The second stop would be my hard drive, which has ever episode from Doctor Who that has been released since 1963. Every episode from 63- now. I couldn't bear to have to try to get them all again.

While I'm in the office, where the hard drive resides, I will also try to find the David Bowie, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Beatles and John Schneider albums. I will give myself to the count of 15 to put my hands on these. In fact, I'm going to go organize the pile of records so that the pile on the right are the albums I want to keep.

Next, I will stop by my bar area to get the glasses Little Sister bought from me, then run to the living room. In the hallway is a photo of my husband and myself with the date of our wedding. I will pull that picture from the wall. I would grab every elephant from my mantle piece (there happens to be a lot, even though I don't collect them), the small box of photos that are also on the mantle piece, the wedding photos on the coffee table and the art that is hanging on the living room wall, a wedding gift from my husband's best friend to us.

If I had to leave anything off the list, it would be elephants.

The thing that has bothered me for most of my life is that I don't have photos. Our photographic memories were lost in a fire nearly 15 years ago. It is not one of my happiest thoughts. To know that there is no photographic reference to myself before the age of 19 is a bit depressing, although my grandparents have one of me giving Santa the decidedly evil eye and a little pendant picture of me as a child in overalls, flashing nip. I like taking that walk though the life of the people you know, seeing them as they were then, maybe coming to understand a bit about who they were and how that plays into how they are. It's an interesting tale, something that shines a light and obscures at the same time. So pictures are precious to me and would be the main thing worth saving.

Writing Prompt #2
"Who told you that you couldn't, and you really wanted to prove them wrong? Write about it."
I am not a bad student. Some people might actually say I'm a very good student. I don't go that far because learning once came very easy to me. I don't have a photographic memory, but I had a very good reference memory. If I could remember the clues, I could always find the answer. And the writing I had to do in high school... well, let's just say I was good enough that I could write a paper in homeroom for my first period class and get an A.

But math, that was another story.

I wouldn't have disliked math so much if it hadn't made me cry. Math made me cry huge, angry tears of frustration and represented the first C grade I was every presented with. Well, let me take that back. It's not math's fault. It's Algebra 2/Trig's fault. Algebra 2/Trig and my math teacher who hated me.

Now, when a student says a teacher hated them, they usually are instigators who have angered the authority figure in the classroom. I was not that person. I said yessir and yesma'am with a contriteness that would make my mother's traditional heart swell with pride. I turned in my school work, I asked questions, I tried to understand, I worked into the wee hours of the night and I never gave up. Yet at every turn, my teacher would ridicule my inability to understand the numbers because they were so different from the words I'd grown to know and love.

I remember one time in particular when we learned to do three dimensional graphing. I was working out the problem, graphing the solution and I saw that it formed a box. From that point on, I would plot the answer and if it didn't form a box, I would know that one of my equations was incorrect. It was my eureka moment! Filled with the enthusiasm of someone who knows something without any doubt, I walked around the class saying, "It forms a box! It forms a box!" Of course, my classmates did not pick up on this, nor did they understand what the hell I was talking about. So I picked the guy who eventually became our co-valedictorian and showed him what I was talking about. Suddenly, the light was in his eyes. We both went around the class bringing our fellow students into the light and our teacher came up to D and asked him how he'd figured it out. He pointed at me. She turned to look at me with more surprise than should have been in her face and said, "M figured it out? Well would you look at that!" (M is my maiden name). I could feel my face turning red, but I stood my ground. "Well, why don't you explain it to the whole class then," she said. I did. Everyone got it. It made me feel awesome.

Yeah, that was the only time.

At the end of the school year, when she was advising me on my classes for the next year, she recommended I take Statistics. I asked what she recommended for the other students. Pre-Calculus.

Damn. Pre-Calculus. I had to swallow hard on that one because I knew that Algebra 2/Trig had basically kicked my ass, but I wasn't going to be the only AP/Honor student not in Pre-Calculus.

So I told her I was going to take Pre-Calculus. She basically said, "It's your funeral." I passed Algebra 2/Trig with a C. I passed Pre-Calculus with an A and got a B in Calculus my 12th grad year. If any of you have ever taken calculus, you know they rely on letters and words much more than any other math. That, a pretty stellar teacher and someone behind me not believing in me pushed me to achieve more than I ever thought I would.

Sometimes I want to thank her for not liking me so much. I don't give her credit for pushing me in a reverse psychology kind of way. I don't have that kind of faith in her.

Pondering

I visited my grandmother tonight. My father's mother, who is not my grandmother, but is. I wanted to talk to her about searching for my family, but the same thing that stopped me telling my dad that I knew he wasn't my biological dad stopped me from mentioning anything to her.

I just wasn't sure if she wouldn't see it as an insult.

It wouldn't be an insult, of course, but it could easily be misconstrued as such. I know that my grandmother knows that she is not my grandmother, even though she is. I can't spend 34 years with her and her not feel something for me. I wonder if, since I've pulled away from her and my family (my fault, not there's - other than the vague feeling I've always, that I don't belong with them, even before my knowledge was complete), she believes that I've discovered the truth and she has begun the process of anticipating my rejection.

I've always felt a lot different from my family. I wonder if it was noticeable even then. Yes, I get picked on by my white husband that I enjoy more things from Stuff White People Like than he does, what with me not being white and all, but stick that in the ghetto and you get someone not only different from their family, but also from the community they were brought up in. That must come from somewhere. I've never let myself wonder where because what if I didn't find out the answers? What if I asked the questions and never got the answers? The questions (maybe even the answers) would be floating in the nether forever. It's been nearly 10 years since the death of my bio-dad. I've never seen a picture. I've been forced to subtract my mother's features from my face (and I am very like my mother) and try to put a face to the remaining features. What if I get unanswerable questions? What then?

I'm just gonna stop promising you things. You really do hold me accountable when I don't complete them.

Marriage

Today, I'm going to teach my students about marriage. To that end, I'm going to watch a Tyler Perry movie called, "Why Did I Get Married", which I know my students have seen. I want to be able to pull from that.

So, yes, I'm watching a movie at work. On days like today, I like my job.

I will do a writing prompt later on today. Comments about previous writing prompts (especially since you know what I'm trying to accomplish) would be welcome. Constructive criticism as well. I will try not to take it personally :)

I have a little more than half the number of pages I need to have and by the end of the day, if I haven't written, it will be less than half. Anyway, I'm writing and working. I will finish my scripts and you all will be responsible for helping me change dreck into gold.

Because you love me.

Weekend Blogging

I'm rubbish at it.

Writing Prompt:

Write about the fastest ride you ever had, but describe only a few seconds of it...as though it was happening to slow motion."

I could feel my insides shifting and the soft hair of my pigtails moving across my neck. I could feel myself lifted from my seat on the soft cushion of the back seat of the ancient cadillac. I was too young to know to lift my hands as we careened down the steep hill. It was a once a year pleasure, a street my mother had found long ago, like a roller coaster, with hardly any life on it. It was a road, absent of homes, that lead to somewhere, but the where was not important.

We felt a bit like daredevils, my brother and I, as we raged down the road. If I were to remind my mother of this now, she would say it never happened. She's not the reckless kind anymore. As we came to the end of the dip and made our way up, my insides came crashing down, our bodies pushed down into the ugly green felt, our fingers gripping the edge of the seat. There were no true g-forces, but I could feel my face shifting ever so slightly on the upward momentum. My mom did not look back to see our fun. Our squeals of joy spoke for us.

Ooops!

Dear Everybody,

I'm not in my right frame of mind today. We got to leave work early today and when I got home, I fell right to sleep. And now i'm about to go out to First Friday. I will owe you two posts tomorrow as well as two writing prompts. Do you forgive me internets?

Love,

ThisGirlTV

Here We Go!

Day one of ScriptFrenzy and I am restless. I haven't written anything, don't even really have an outline, but I do have a goal. I'm not supposed to worry about that at this time of day, but I do. Oh well, getting home will tell the tale. If I write my four pages today, I will indeed be doing something great!

Today I was driving with the windows down. You don't always get to do that in Georgia. Right now, it's the right kind of hot, not the stifling heat that will be upon us in the next 4 weeks. While I can drive with the windows down, I will.

So, every day this month, I will do at least one writing prompt on Little Southern Girl. It will be unedited and maybe not make sense, but it will be done. I'm going to try for mornings, but some days, it will be afternoon. Anyway, if you have anything you'd like me to write about, write it in the comments.

Today's Writing prompt: It's time for you and Writer's Block to part ways. Write a letter breaking up with Writer's Block, starting out with, "Dear Writer's Block, it's not you, it's me ... ."

Dear Writer's Block,

It's not you, it's me. We've met so many times, it seems like we were destined to be together. Do you remember the first time we met, when I was trying to write that romantic short story about two people who thought they hated each other but in the end fell in love? You were right to try to stop me, but wrong for doubting my dreams. I remember you stepping in just when I thought things were going great. With one fell swoop, you took every word that I had in my head from me. You demanded my time, my thoughts, and my attention, as if I didn't have writing I needed to get done. I expected you to be my rock, not my block, and you never had my back. Do you remember when I applied for that screenwriting class in California and I almost didn't make it because you decided to make an appearance and took my focus from what I was doing? I think that's when I knew it was over, even though I didn't want it to be. You're comfortable. Hypnotic. Like staring at a blank white screen, cursor blinking. You knew the end was coming. I saw you less and less. Maybe you went to talk to that guy writing a cookbook - maybe that girl trying to finish her thesis. I know you thought she was cute. But I didn't get jealous and maybe it's better to not get jealous, but when I don't miss you, you know it's time to part ways. So, Writer's Block, I hope you can find someone who will love you like I once did, who won't use you as a crutch, but word of advice: try being a little more supportive of the people you get with. That makes all the difference.

Yours truly,
ThisGirl

Pieces of Me

Some of you know about the complicated relationship I have with my family.

My father, whom I had known my whole life, turned out not to be my biological father. Oh, and I hated him with a cold, emotional hatred for more than 12 years of my life, a hatred I've never been able to resurrect for anyone. Which is a good thing.

I am the alien child in my family. I have never been like them. I have acted as if I were one of them, but I am not. I do like my family, but they don't like the real me, so I have to be another me to them. It's just the way the world works, sometimes. Not that they wouldn't love me, it's just not satisfactory for them.

But then again, that family is not my own. They belong to my non-biological dad. Ahhh, see then, it begins to make sense.

My mother and I are exactly like each other in many ways. We both have a similar sense of humour and anger, although I think I'm a little more explosive than she is. We are both very stubborn. We are both very arrogant. The things that irritate me about her are things that I find irritating in myself.

I don't see my family often, even though I feel like I should see them more. I saw my grandmother (my non-bio dad's mom) the other day and she has lost a lot of weight. We may be going to her funeral soon. But that's morbid.

Yes, I have a complicated relationship with the family I know, but today, something made me consider looking up the family I don't know.

One of the girls in my office learned a couple of years ago that the man she'd been taught to believe was her dad was, in fact, not her dad. She also learned that the man who was her dad had only died a few months before she was told of his existence. Robbed of the ability to get to know him, she set out to know of him through talking to his (and by blood, her) relatives, visiting his grave site, etc. She walked away from that encounter fulfilled. Knowing about her father has helped her answer some of the pesky questions in her life, like why she was so different from the rest of her family.

I'm a big believer in nature vs. nurture, but from all accounts, my bio-dad was not a great guy. Of course, I did spend more than 12 years hating the man who reared me as his own and died never knowing that I knew he wasn't. But what questions do I have about myself that could be answered by knowing a family that has no idea I exist.

Is it an adventure I want to go on? Is it worth examining? I feel like I've filled in the gaps of my difference with being as me-like as possible. I owe my personality to accepting and rejecting things that other people think I should do. Do I have questions? Can they be answered? I don't know.

For years, my uncle was like my father. He asked about my schooling, he kept up with my awards, he watched a particular news because I worked for it at one time, he read all of my writing... Maybe my dad did the same thing, but he never told me, never talked about it. My bio-dad died in 2000, many miles from the city, from the state, in which I live. I want nothing to do with the personality of a man who, from all accounts, was an abusive, drug dealing thug. But I hear that his brother, my uncle, is a stand up guy. Why is it that I can't find the right father? Why is it always someone else who is willing to invest in me like a daughter?

So, I'm asking the questions now. What do you think? Should I try to find out about these people? Should I risk having another set of people that are disappointed because I'm not what they thought I would be after all the work they put into making me that way? Can I deal with another disappointing family? Is it worth it as a person? As a writer? What do y'all think?

Month of Discipline

Ahhh, it's that time of year. I would say again, but I can't remember the last time I was actually disciplined.

So, the game plan. This year, I'm doing ScriptFrenzy, hopefully getting a first episode of an original spec and writing a spec for a current show. So, getting disciplined about my writing.

Start walking for 30 minutes - 1 hour a day. Disciplined about my health.

Stop going out nearly every night. Pick nights and times and stick to them. Disciplined about my time.

Stop drinking as much, which goes back to my health. Not cutting out drinking, just not drinking as much.

Get a little more organized and set up a schedule I can (and will) follow.

I'm hoping the month of "practice" will give me the impetus to follow this discipline for the rest of the year. I will add more socializing, but I kind of want to start from nearly zero and go up from there. I also want to get some of these projects I've had in my mind for a while and put the down on paper, finally. That's my problem. I don't get everything on paper like I want.

Maybe it will work, maybe not, but at least you will get to hear me complain about it. That's right, one of the disciplinary things I'm adding is to write about my day on this blog. I may also post my entries for my writing prompts. I need to write everyday, not just on my scripts for ScriptFrenzy, but also on the other things I want to write. So yeah, writing prompts, and story research, and grant finding, and all the like...

Only a few of you know how badly I want to be able to leave my job and just write. My job isn't bad, it's just no longer satisfying. My job is frustrating and uninspiring. Writing is frustrating, but when you break through and have a finished piece that you're even partially satisfied with, that is something. I want to do work and feel like that. My students adore me and listen to me and talk to me and that is satisfying, but they don't agree with me and that's the hard part, seeing them after I've taught them and having them say they wish they'd listened to me. It's hard and that part is not satisfying. Of course, I've talked to one student who said that they're glad they listened to me. That is satisfying, but it doesn't keep me going and striving for the ends I strive for when I teach.

Anyway, that's another story and one not thankfully told. I have other thoughts that reside outside of this post. I'm just challenging myself by letting you know. At least two people who read this page will keep me accountable (you know who you are) and maybe, just maybe, I can emerge from the month of April with some new habits for becoming a more successful writer.

St. Paddy's

Wednesday nights are trivia nights, and occasionally - or maybe a little more than occasionallly - followed by Ladies Night. Ladies Night is the night when ladies drink for free at a local bar.

Ladies Night fell on a St. Patrick's Day this year. Double Trouble.

Not only were there ladies getting drunk as hell, but the drink specials convinced the fellas to do the same. Normally, this isn't a problem, but there must have been a full moon or something that night.

The music was the same. Lame. We usually sit through the music for the free drinks, but 2 gin and tonics and a couple of 12 oz beers later, I knew I was gonna get on the dance floor, even if I also knew I wasn't going to have any real dancing fun.

My thing is dancing. Oh, I dabble in televison (and I know a lot about television) and I knit and spin yarn, and I love to write, but give me a good dj, some music made for dancing, and my feet will hit the floor and I won't sit down. I start dancing as soon as the music is up and won't sit down until it's over. I don't need alcohol to dance, like some people do, but it never hurts to have it.

The time on the dance floor started out like any other with this particular DJ. Dance for 2 minutes, stand on the dance floor holding my drink for the last 3 minutes of a song he'd decided not to change. During the second song, however, I was joined by a friend. By friend, I mean some drunk frat guy, a little taller than me with about 50 lbs. on me, who decided that instead of dancing, he would simply back into me. Putting my hand in the middle of his back, I gently, but firmly, pushed him away from me. He didn't acknowledge me nor did he do that thing that most people do when they bump into someone on the dance floor. Apologize. Even though it's unnecessary, it's a common courtesy thing that is welcomed. Rudeness aside (and he was pretty drunk), I kept dancing. The next thing I know, that same dude is backing into me again. I push him away again and this time I give him a dirty look. His friends get him off the floor.

Cut to about 20 minutes later. Little Sister is swing dancing with a guy we know when our friend from earlier decides he needs the dance floor, and he needs the space where Little Sister is. She pushes him away, but this time, he turns around and tries to start something with the guy. Little Sister steps in front of the guy to confront our friend. Usually, that makes a guy back down. Who yells at girls?

Drunk ass frat boys, that's who.

Of course, with this idiot yelling at my sister, I drew myself up to my full 5ft11in height, moved Little Sister out of the way and politely screamed that if he loved life, he'd better not get in my sister's face again. He then proceeded to tell me he was a man and that I couldn't talk to him that way. I told him that as long as he kept yelling at my sister, I was gonna talk to him however the fuck I pleased. We continued our repartee nose to nose for nearly two minutes before his friends pulled him away while I stared him down. He resisted, hoping to fight me I assume, and to be honest, I wanted to punch him myself, but I did the responsible thing. I watched him until he was pulled away then searched for the owners. They were nowhere to be found. So, on a cocktail napkin, I wrote, "There is a guy, blue shirt, khaki trousers, who is drunk as hell and bumping into girls on the dance floor. I just thought you'd want to know just in case I need to kick his ass." I passed the note when I got my drink and two seconds after I got on the dance floor, the bartender I'd passed it to was there to make sure that asshole didn't mess with another girl.

I avoided the guy, but Little Sister said that our friend kept staring at us for a bit. She said it looked like he considered coming back to start something, and while he started towards us a couple of times, he always thought better of it.

Both my maiden name and my married name is Irish. It's always been a joke that I'm more Irish than my husband, who has the most Irish name I know. A "black" Irish joke is usually imminent. Wednesday night, I almost got into a drunken brawl, and it's the most stereotypically Irish I've felt since the last time I wore my Kiss Me, I'm Irish t-shirt. Which was a long time ago.

Trying Not to Revert

Remembering to write is not as easy as you might think, even for someone that's a writer.

I mean, I'll eventually get words onto paper or finish a story at deadline, but remembering to visit this site to put down a few words... yeah, sometimes I forget.

Also, I've been a bit morose of late. Things get you down and it's hard to come back up from that. So you take part in pursuits that have no enduring value to the things you want to do just so that you're not reminded of life's shortcomings. I just have to remember, I'm not the first going through this, nor the last, and others are right there with me right now.

I can see why people become mommy bloggers. Kids do crazy things all the time. I've been fighting the urge to write about the cats - well, at least not write much. We have two cats. One is sweet and just wants to be cuddled. One is into everything and just want to know what "that" is. Oh yeah, "that" is everything. I want to get good video of her playing with her toys. It's the funniest thing that you will never care about.

Even though I have scaled back on some social activities to concentrate on writing, I'm still going out an awful lot. Well, this week, little sister is visiting, so I'll be out. That means I have to finish my articles because she's going to be taking up my non work times. Even though I'm going out a lot, most of the activities I engage in are nerd activities. Trivia on Tuesday and Wednesday nights at different bars. Cocktail Hour at different houses on Thursday nights. This week, a free concert Friday celebrating Anti-Valentine's Day (oh how I love this!), a friend is putting out a free album Wednesday, another friend is playing a small concert at a local bookstore on Tuesday - Not sure what is going on Saturday, but I'm pretty sure friends will try to get me to go out Thursday night to a college bar that I feel too old to even look at and Saturday night to sit in a smoke filled room drinking and listening to somebody's southern rock and screaming over the noise. I hope somebody brings a banjo.

The street I live on is putting on a block party and I think the Honey and his friends are going to play it. I don't think they're going to be the main form of entertainment, but it will be interesting to see him performing in front of a live audience. He's been in bands before. I know he doesn't have anxiety about it - I mean, no more than normal - and he must like the work or he wouldn't have let anyone else hear it. To me, it's fantastic. I already have the melodies of some of the songs in my head. I wish I could remember the words. He hasn't given me a copy, but then again, I haven't asked.

I got into a long conversation with a friend about our connection to Africa. She said she grew up feeling an emptiness that she felt might be filled with knowing her African roots. I said I never felt that calling, as if a part of myself were missing. If, by some miracle of records keeping I were to be able to actually trace my roots to country of origin, I would definitely want to see where I would have grown up should I have survived birth, but I think the complete me is what I am today. Even knowing my bio-dad's family wouldn't offer any form of completion for me. But I remember being on the Zambezi River with the wind flowing through my hair and being very touched by where I was, but also very satisfied with what I'd seen. Not too satisfied, mind you, but enough.

I had my tarot read the other day by a friend who's been dying to do so. The cards think we'll be okay. And who can't trust the cards?

Location, Location, Location

I live near the downtown area of my city. That is enough to take away the suckiness that is my hometown.

I spent the majority of my life dreaming about getting away. I lived in the ghetto, or damn near it if you want to get technical, and as you might imagine, that does not instill a sense of wonder and awe. I wanted to go to there, there being anywhere that was not here. Whether it was Victorian England in the crappy (and not so crappy) romance novels I read, or to the stark northern environment that served as the non sci-fi backdrop of Madeleine L'Engle stories, I always wanted to be somewhere else. I read, I watched tv (when I was allowed to watch tv), I talked to old people at my grandfather's nursing home, people who were more than willing to share about times when they had been someplace other than there, all in an attempt to escape.

Finally, it was my time. I got into the plane without so much as a backwards glance to my home state and swept myself and my stuff up the eastern seaboard to my new home of Boston, MA. Pearl Jam's "Rearview Mirror" was my theme song and the line "I gather speed from you fucking with me" echoed in my head. I was there for two years. When I returned home, which fires and other misfortunes generally make you do, I realized I knew more about my adopted city of Boston, and the surrounding area of Cambridge, than I did about the place in which I lived for more than 17 years.

Actually, first I mourned. Six months in my pajamas, teaching our new dog to love the music of Korn, Pantera, and The Doors, roaming my boring neighborhood freely without knowing that my brother ran interference with every thug he played ball with so that I would be "looked after" but not sexually accosted by said gang members on my runs. I stayed up late, slept long, and ate little until one day my mom told me I was going to have to do something, get a job, volunteer, something(!) if I was gonna stay at her new, not burned down house.

So I got out, volunteered at a nearby school, realized I needed money, got a job, wanted to go back to school, met some nice people who introduced me to Downtown.

Now, at this point, the late 90s, the Downtown area was coming off of an all time low. Prostitution had once been so rampant, there was a city law that stated you couldn't walk down Cherry Street in red heels. I love that that's the sign of a prostitute. Anyway, drug deals and only a few businesses made it supposedly scary to be around Downtown at night, which meant no one was, especially once the drug dealers and prostitutes left from lack of business. Most had deserted this once beautiful area, but not all.

The place was a little nothing of a spot with a beautiful bay window, right next to this elegant, old hotel that had been turned into low income housing for old people. Inside, little cafe tables were spread haphazardly around the floor with clear line to the counter at the back of the store. On the inside of the bay window was a stage where you could get up and read your poetry or play music. It was not my first experience with a coffee house, but it is my most enduring coffee house memory. I went there with friends, some I've lost touch with, some who have died, and others who still remember those days. AOL disks as coasters, the best tea I've ever had in Macon, and delicious deserts, not to mention the bad poems and easy laughs we were always so willing to share, come flooding back when I think of J and the CC.

A few years later, I was invited by a comic book artist to share his creative space and write with him. Weeks later, he left town and I stayed in that creative art space as a writer for nearly 5 years. That was when I knew that my heart would belong to downtown. I walked constantly, never needing to fear for my life, although some lost possessions and one person lost their life just by being downtown. But couldn't it happen anywhere? I met people, I've seen establishments come and go. Even when I got married, I dreamed of the moment when my husband was as assured of my ability to take care of myself as I was so we could make the move downtown. For nearly three years, I lived and worked away from downtown, but as soon as I saw the opening, I pounced.

I ran into someone at the grocery story yesterday, an old friend from school. She asked me if I saw myself and my Honey moving any time soon. I told her we were going with the winds of grad school when that time came, but for now, I was content to be here because I lived downtown.

Don't get me wrong. The allure of being other places still haunts me. I dream of Africa weekly. I imagine Asia, going to China and Japan, going back to Paris and Barcelona and the want of those places weakens my knees. I think about our last trip to Boston and how walking around Cambridge made me long to be back in that area again. Also, since we drove from California back to Georgia, both the Honey and I have kind of kept Albuquerque in mind as a "someday, maybe" place. There are definitely other places I would like to be, but the friends I've made, the home I've made, and the connections I've made makes me not mind it if I have to stay right where I am for a long, long time.

Sorry for the Silence

I was working on an article that was due last week. Took a lot out of me. But now I'm better.

I've started knitting again. I decided, however, to teach myself to knit in the continental method. I was doing the English method, with is characterized by throwing the yarn (your hands move in much larger swoops) while the continental methods is characterized by picking up the yarn with your needles. The movements are much more efficient.

I mean, it will be once I figure the damn thing out. It's like learning to knit all over again. I'm not awesome at knitting, I have to watch every knit to make sure I'm doing the right thing, whether it be purling or knitting. I'm following a pattern, so you can see it if I mess up... It's completely ridiculous and completely fun.

I need another rotator thingy for my spinning wheel so I can combine to strands of yarn I've already spun. I made the strands super thin so that I could spin them together. I guess I could wind each one separately and use it as sock yarn, but I wanted to maybe put together a shawl or something for my mom. Maybe I will just make it something lacy and use the thin strands. Actually, I just want to get these strands off of my spindles so that I can work on this other yarn I've been itching to spin. It's got tinsel in it. I was thinking of doing it with some thin pieces and some thick pieces so that it would make an interesting looking scarf. I have enough to do that and I wouldn't have to worry about the strands being so thin.

When I told my mom I was spinning my own yarn, she said I was becoming the Proverbs 31 wife. I loved to cook, I had a garden, I was "making" our own clothes and some people have said I could sell my knitting, and if I'm spinning my own fiber, it would not be cost prohibitive. She doesn't think that any more, about me being a Proverbs 31 wife, even though I still do all that stuff. I think the belief in Jesus Christ as Lord has to be present for me to be that, although, technically, that was written without the concept of Christ being introduced to the readers. Also, I don't have a city gate at which I could sell my stuff.

I have a lot of work to do now that I have a rough idea of where I want my writing to go. I'm hoping I get to sit down with this other freelance writer and learn what my further options are. I also need to find a way to take classes. With The Honey going to a better, but private, college, fundage has been $0 at best, -$ at worst. Keeping up with my other website (the one I have to pay for) and taking classes to help me become a better writer is on the agenda, but is rapidly being pushed down past the top 10, even though it is what I need. I'm being positive though. If this next article is a cover story and I can pitch a couple more, I will be rapidly moving towards increasing my income, growing my writing career, and putting myself in a better position to get the further education I need.

Yay!

But the work must begin in earnest. I did neglect a few things to finish, but I didn't really put aside the unnecessary things of life this past week. I did my fair share of going out and I didn't watch enough tv for my tv blog, although I did a little catching up this weekend. I am not as tired as I usually am at this time of day, but I certainly did not want to get up and go to work today. But I do have a job that I can enjoy and that is a good thing.

Get Back

I've been up since 6:30am. I don't like getting up that early. I have a lot of writing to try to do today before 6pm - maybe even until midnight if it comes down to it, so I will be brief in this format.

I was so ready to go home yesterday and when I got home, I was so glad to be there that I didn't ever want to leave. For those of you who pray and for those of you who ask things of the universe, my one request is that this year I am successful. Ask that for me.

I'm not talking success as in my name is known worldwide - although that would be nice. I'm not even talking big publications in big... publications. I'm talking about able to support myself and my college captured husband solely on writing. We're working on him supporting me in the future. But now, let's work on me for support.

We knew when we took this step, it was going to be hard. We knew there would be times when we wouldn't have any money. But now we are looking at bills we didn't even know existed (poor record keeping. My bad) and having no money once all the monthly stuff is paid. I wish we could get a break. The thing that put us over was switching to a new school. Extra money we weren't expecting to pay... they waited until it was too late to make the switch back to the old school which wouldn't have been as expensive, although it would be a waste of time because nothing else he took would transfer... and we would have lost the "hold" money we had to pay once they accepted him into the school. It feels like a racket.

And as much as I talk about wanting to do something else, I'm so grateful for my job. I could be without a job. I know several people who are. I could have to try to do this all on half of my salary, which is what almost any other job would pay. I'm glad that I am coming up with ideas that may help us in the future, but I wish that those ideas could be paying for us now.

Can you see how much our financial woes are affecting me? So I worry and my hair doesn't grow and my skin gets dry and the area behind my eyes are tired and I find myself slipping into despair (yeah, that bad). And then I remember we've been able to survive with the help of friends and neighbors and occasionally, my mom. At least when my dad was alive, before the end, I could count on an infusion of $80 every couple of weeks because he'd won somebody's lottery. I'd buy an orange soda and sit in the car with him as if these were old times. They were not. Our landlord is awesome too. Not enough can be said about his generosity and kindness to us in our hard times.

Financially, the thing I miss the most is eating out. I need to start writing food reviews again. Maybe I can do them on my own and take them out of taxes next year. I still haven't tried the brunch at a couple of places. I hear there's a Bloody Mary bar (Make your own Bloody Mary's? Heaven. With lots of hot sauce) and they put hollandaise sauce on the omelets.

Oh well, eventually, we will get out of this hole and be the better for it. Maybe we will learn to be frugal people and will become people who learn to save our abundance.

This Morning

It's cold, I waited in the cold for my ride, and when I walked into my office, I had a bunch of work piled in my seat. Fortunately, I've been a better record keeper than I had been before, so it was all good, but still, no little break of relaxation to ease me into work.

My desk is also a mess, play-doh strewn about as if some invisible kids have been living in my office, though it was really an object lesson for my 9th graders that put the 'doh on my desk.

My head has been hurting for the last 3-4 days, my eyes have been hot, like my body is trying to come down with something but also refusing to do so at the same time.

I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. It was warm and relaxing, despite the kittys fighting at our feet. My husband finally caught the smallest one and threw her out of the room. The older kitty walked out, tail and head down, although I know she will dig up the carpet in protest. The smaller one also knocked bottles off of my desk to check out what were making the bird sounds outside our window. To her delight, it was birds. When my alarm sounded, I hit the snooze button and snuggled closer for 9 more minutes.

I hate facing the world. I wish I could start it off slowly, a pot of coffee with a tv show before finally opening Google Docs and getting to whatever story I've chosen to work on. Then, maybe around noon head out to somewhere for lunch and a table that will welcome my papers and books as I write or read to my hearts content because eventually, it will net me a profit. Then I would head home to be with The Honey when he comes home from school with amazing stories from philosophy of mind or philosophy of literature or art history or European history or poetry class. Then I would cook dinner because I miss getting my hands into food or getting the beautiful apron Little Sister made for me dirty.

Deciding to do something and actually doing something are two different things. As the sheer magnitude of work involved in a proposed project comes to mind, I realize that though it will be something that could be awesome, it is also something that could be time intensive and I'm not sure if my writing can handle me doing one more thing.

I could really use a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts right now...

Like Bringing Down a Skyscraper

We now own two cats. The first cat was a mutual decision. The second cat was a surprise to The Honey, a bit unwelcomed at first, as unasked for surprises often are, but now is part of the family.

KitKat and Twix. We love our candy bars.

KitKat is a beautiful Siamese, the sweetest cat in our house. She's very talkative (which is crazy cat lady speak for meows a lot), very snuggly and so very, very sweet. Twix, on the other hand, is very young. She can't sit still. She bounds around the house, her nails clicking on the wood parts. I've heard her hit her head on the metal part of our bed while running into our room. She can play with anything. Shiny crinkly things, balls with bells inside, dryer sheets, that spot on the floor. It's comical to watch her play with any of these objects, batting it around, jumping around it. We have so much fun watching her playing.

She was so little when we got her. Too old to be without her mom, but with the mom dead, someone had to take care of her and she was just too cute. Even now, more than a month after she came to the house, she is still so tiny, though her legs are really shooting out.

Last night, after we had gotten into bed, nice and cozy, we heard a loud crash. In the room. Only one culprit. We jump out of the bed. Our dresser is face down on the floor. We panic. We hope that Twix is not underneath it all. I'm pretty sure that's the most panicked I've even been. Luckily, she'd run free of the falling behemoth. Mike found her in the office, staring at our bedroom. Not just looking. Staring with deep concentration. It took her a while to come up to Mike. She didn't start crowding me in bed until much, much later that night. She's still very jumpy.

Once we realized that she was fine, we started laughing. How could that tiny, tiny kitten bring down our dresser. The Honey was incredulous. Twix is so small, he equated her taking down the dresser to the two of us knocking over a skyscraper. We laughed really hard because the imagery was funny and because we were really relieved that we hadn't lost our feline baby.

The Hills Are Alive

I'm learning how to play guitar.

It is an ugly, ugly thing. My fingers are sore. No. Sore is an understatement.

They hurt like hell. Even as I type. Particularly because I'm typing.

I can play Smoke on the Water in the wrong key and one string at a time, which is an accomplishment. A major accomplishment.

The Honey asked me why I wanted to learn to play guitar... As I watched him go through song after song, doing with several notes what I can barely do with one finger on one fret. It's interesting, learning how to play. I haven't quite figured out what this will mean for me. Will I learn to be better and bust out the guitar when my musician friends start playing around? Will I start my own band? Will I just fiddle with the guitar in home only and around close friends? I don't know. Is this my third life crisis? I started knitting when I was 28. I start guitar now that I'm 34. What will I start 6 years from now?

Is there something about getting old that leads us to reinventing ourselves? I know that I'm not always happy with who I am. I want to change. My hair, the languages I know, my sense of style, my "fount" of knowledge, etc. There is almost an aching need to know more, to move past the old boundaries that existed in my mind. I sang karaoke for the first time, although sing might not quite be the word. I'd like to convince myself that my cold was to blame, but who am I kidding? The thing is, I did it. I embarrassed myself in front of a room full of children and it was liberating. I felt invincible. Now, another goal is before me and I can only respond to the sound of music.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that I actually know what fret means now.

Where Do I Stand?

This is a topic I've been avoiding for about 3 years now, but it is something that is becoming very important since I've been communicating with my mom much more in the past few months.

Where do I stand with God.

Frankly, I have nothing against God. I kinda like the guy. Jesus is alright too. What I don't like is religion and unfortunately, love of God has to be tied up with some kind of religion in everyone's mind.

I told my mom about my financial problems and she asked me if I've prayed. I wanted to say, Well, duh! because I'm one of those people who actually like prayer. Where it goes, I don't know. What the results of the prayers are has been me in the straits I'm in, but I've never fallen through the gaps. It's definitely not my doing, though I do work hard to keep control of the strings I have my hands on, but so much is out of my control that I feel the prayer helps.

That's my mind, though. After 10 years of loving God but following religion, I finally had to throw off the shroud of religion. When I hear my mom telling me that if I follow God's teaching and if I do what He says in His Book (that's right, capital B), then I don't have to worry about my finances.

I already knew I didn't have to worry about my finances. We are two intelligent human beings that see what we are doing wrong and right and it is only in continuing the right and quelling the wrong that we have sustained ourselves. I think prayer is a comfort for me and in my head, I have this little thought that if there IS someone (something) listening and helping, they have grown used to my voice for the last 15 years and are offering some help. But it is a comfort and a superstition I'm okay with having.

I have a few books that I want to read that let me hold on to my belief in God while giving me the out to not have to go to church. It's a relief, actually, to not have to go to church. Though there are some things that having a church family could help. If I hadn't had a church family, I would never have gotten my first car for a dollar. Support for my writing endeavors also came from my church family, despite the curse words at times, because we were in the same family.

But what I do not miss is the recriminations and the "the only way it can be done, He can be followed, is the way I say it". If I were to ask my mom which "Book" she thought I should get my wisdom of God from, she would think it sacrilege to look anywhere but the Bible yet would firmly agree that the wisdom of God is in anything wise.

I can't win, so in my family, I'm not a Christian, just to make it easier. But one day I'm going to have to sit down and figure out where I actually stand, just for me.

2010

Where the hell did the time go???

I started this website nearly a year and a half ago because I thought that things were going to change. I was going to be a new person and that the horizons that were opening up because of my travels would be the flipped switch I needed.

I was wrong. Well, not very wrong. A lot of interesting things came out in those travels. The year I traveled, I wrote more than I ever had. I completed NaNoWriMo, writing a syrupy romance novel about three sisters, one of which went to Africa to find herself, which will never see the light of day. I discovered how much I love my friends because that's who I went with and I discovered how much I love my husband who would sacrifice just to see me happy.

Every year, I usually complain about getting older, but at the end of 2009, I didn't dwell on the upcoming 34th birthday or scramble to get my New Year Resolutions down. I just blew my nose (I had a terrible cold), but on my flour length brown dress with blue-ish green sparkles (yes, Big Ben, sparkles), threw on some flip flops, put my heels in my hands and walked down to my NYE event. I drank, I danced, I sang, I shouted, I screamed, I took pictures and I had a blast.

I'm not going to live every day like it's my last. I'm looking forward to the future. But I'm also taking it one day at a time, hoping that those around me will look favourably upon me, that my words will expand from this tiny metro to the world around me, that my thoughts will become solidified and tangible, that my heart will grow in love for others (because I stinkin' hate people right now), that I get my priorities in order and that I just shut the fuck up and write.

Of all the things I've become lax on, being lax on my work ethic has hurt me the most. There was a time where I was writing every day, reading every day and being productive. I'm learning so much now that the old work ethic would have resulted in at least two completed short stories in the last year and a half. Life experiences have increased as well and my once fiercely held beliefs are crumpled in a puzzle at my feet, waiting for me to put them together in a way that makes sense to the life I've lived. I've got to get that back, that missing piece that I didn't notice at first, but that grows bigger with each step I take towards making my dream of living as a working writer a reality.

I can't say that this year will be any better. I can't say that I will regain the work ethic or the insight or even grow from the lessons I've learned, but I can say I will try to shut the fuck up and write and take each day one at a time.