Poetry

I’ve recently started writing poetry again. Like, within the last year. Which is odd, because all through middle and high school I primarily wrote poetry, always thought I’d be a poet, and then I got into longer prose. But it’s good to get back to where I started from.

For anyone who hasn’t read a good deal of my poetry or short stories, a word of warning: my stuff tends to be dark. Like, ranging from gloomy at its best to down right macabre at its worst. This isn’t a cry for help, it’s just artistic expression. Some people listen to head banging music at obscene decibels when they get in a mood, I write.

That said, here are a few I wrote over the past year. They were written in a variety of moods, pulling from a variety of emotions and experiences through my life. And they’re all works in progress (although, isn’t all writing?).

 

Blankets and Sheets

I only miss you at night.
In the dark, the distance between your side of the bed and mine
stretches to fathoms.
I reach out
to cross the distance
fingers seeking flesh
finding only cheap polyester blend and low thread count.
And as the sheet of sleep pulls back
I remember.

I remember the hours caught
between dusk and dawn,
waking and reaching for each other
blankets replaced with skin,
the soft breaths of sleep replaced with those of love
and extra cups of coffee
promised in the morning.

I remember the citadel of pillows and blankets you erected
slowly
so slowly
added to piece by piece
so that I didn’t even realize it was being built
until one day I set out to cross the distance
and I couldn’t breech your walls.

I remember when a half empty bed became the norm
when I’d have to get into the car and drive
to your brother’s
your friend’s
the party de jour
to reach for you in my sleep.
And so I’d pull your pillow into my arms
press my face into the fabric
and say it’s enough.

I remember when your side and mine merged into all mine
and I wondered why one person would need
so much space.
And I dreaded the night
and the emptiness
and the darkness.
Because in the space between wakefulness and sleep
I would forget
and have to remember all over again.

 

Sticks and Stones

His words cut into your skin
like the razors you trace over your wrists
telling yourself to stop being a pussy
and press.
But that’s the shitty thing:
even though your soul has given up,
your spirit has died,
your body is a selfish bastard
and calls the shots
and won’t let you go.
Says you’ll thank me tomorrow
next month
when you’re forty.
So you do the only thing you can,
pressing just enough
to achieve some release,
and hope that one day
it won’t be paying attention
and you’ll escape.

 

Skinny

I used to be skinny.
My tummy was flat,
my thighs didn’t touch,
and when guys drove by, they’d whistle at me.

And it was great.

But I was so tired.

I was tired of always being hungry.
Of my throat feeling like I’d swallowed lye
of my teeth pounding out their incessant rhythm of pain.

I was tired of looking at a plate of food
and knowing which order to eat it in so I’d digest the fewest calories.
Of entering a building and scoping out the bathroom I’d use in case of “emergency.”

I was tired of my mother telling me I was getting too thin
but every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the same fat girl looking back.

I was tired of trying.
Of fighting so hard, and getting nowhere.

I was tired of hating myself.

I’m done.

I’m done comparing myself to everyone else.
Done holding myself up to false idols on glossy, air-brushed pages.
Done letting drive-by assholes objectifying me define my self-worth.

I’m done fighting my mother’s hips and my grandmother’s thighs.
Done trying to fit my ass into a size zero, cause that just ain’t gonna happen.

I’m done looking in the mirror and wanting to change everything I see there.

I am a glorious fucked up mess

and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Writing is like playing with Legos

At first, you're given the big chunky ones, but eventually you work your way up to the smaller guys, maybe even to the funky little round pegs and such. As time goes on, you gather more Legos, and you can build bigger, grander projects. You may even learn how to build ridiculously detailed things, like a to scale X-wing. But as you're looking at your Lego collection, you may decide that today you're going to build a castle. As you build, you usually end up tearing sections apart because they just aren't working as is. Sometimes you decide that you just don't want a turret on that side, other times you decide that you'd rather a round turret to a square one, or you might just decide that you want it to look a bit more like Gryffindor Tower. Some people obsess over getting everything perfect as they go along, and end up with a completed castle that's exactly what they want when they finish. Others build all at once, then go back and correct what they don't like afterwards. Sometimes they just tear apart this part here and that one there, other times they take everything down and start from scratch so they can recreate the foundation to better meet their vision. Or they may tear it down because they realize that they didn't want to make a castle after all, they wanted to build a futuristic metropolis. And that's okay. Because the fun part about playing with Legos isn't just building the new things you've imagined, it's also tearing them apart so you can build it up again.

The slut: fact or fiction?

I’ve been hearing a lot about slut-shaming the past couple weeks; watched a bunch of videos on Youtube about it today. But I’ve got to admit, this is a fairly new term in my vocabulary. I mean, I’ve heard (and used) slut since I was a teen. When I found out a girl had slept with someone else’s boyfriend, I said she was sort of a slut. When one of my friends felt they had slept with a guy too soon, they said they felt like a slut. When I wore something out that exposed what I felt was too much skin, I said I looked like a slut. But here’s the thing—the thing that I never really thought about until the other day—I don’t know that I believe that sluts are real.

Now, I can hear the snorts of derision through the computer, so hear me out. I’ve come to the conclusion that the term “slut” is nothing more than society’s (and our own) way of shaming us for behavior that they deem unacceptable. Because, really, the term slut is only applied to women, and it’s applied fairly widely (and liberally). What if a man did these things that gets a woman branded as a slut? If a guy brings a girl home from the bar, he’s at best a stud, at worst just “boys being boys,” but that girl’s a slut. Tramp. Whore. If a guy walks into a bar wearing next to nothing, he might get called cocky, maybe an idiot. But a girl is a slut. Jake from the football team nails two chicks at once? He’s a legend, a god. Those girls? Sluts. If a guy racks up multiple partners, he’s a stud, sowing his wild oats, making another notch in his bedpost. The girl with multiple partners? Well, that depends on how many, but in most cases if that number spills over onto a second hand (or if she wasn’t in relationships with all the guys), she’s—you guessed it—a  slut. So if behavior that is not only accepted, but in many cases expected and even encouraged, in men is fine, but discouraged in women, can sluts actually exist, or is it just our generation’s scarlet A emblazoned on the Facebook page of any woman who dare explore her sexuality?

Looking back, I’m fairly certain that I’ve long doubted the existence of the fabled slut. When a friend would cry that she shouldn’t have slept with this new guy, the one she’d only known for a week, that she was a slut, my response was always the same: No, you’re not. It’s okay for men to do it, so why can’t you? Well, I think I know the answer now. Society has long damned women for being as sexual as their male counterparts, hell, less even. For ages women were expected to enter the bridal chamber “intact” (read: with their hymens undisturbed), while men could pretty much have as much experience as they could get (and in some cultures, this was expected of them).

But why? Some people say that women are more delicate, that they can’t handle the emotions that go along with having multiple, often casual, partners. Well, I’m going to call bullshit on that one. Personally, I believe that it has more to do with Darwinism than anything. A man could theoretically have as many children as he has sexual partners, so from an evolutionary standpoint, it makes the most since for him to spread his seed around. The more mini-me’s he has running about, the more likely his line is to be passed on successfully. A woman, however, can only have a finite number of offspring, so she has to be more judicious about who she breeds with, lest all her children be fathered by idiots who think that just because a girl wears a short skirt or low-cut top that it means she’s open season. But you see, that was before the time of things like the pill and the condom. Women can be just as choosy as they want when it comes to who fathers their children. And really, men, how many of you go around getting laid with the intentions of having a little one arrive nine months later? That’s what I thought. So this whole idea of it’s okay for men to screw whomever they want, whenever, and however is just crap.

Here’s the truth of it. The term “slut”? It’s just a way for society to make us feel shame for being sexual creatures. It is a continuation of a centuries old oppression, and quite frankly, I’m done with it. If a woman has 2 partners, or 20, or 200 (or go on adding zeros to that number), she is not a slut. If she doesn’t use protection on these sexual excursions, she is engaging in risky behavior, but she still isn’t a slut. And here’s the one that I’ve only just recently come to terms with: I used to say that as long as a girl was having sex for herself, because it made her feel good, and not because she thought it would make the guy like her or to make her feel better about herself, that she wasn’t a slut. But this implies that if this isn’t the case, that she is one. And this is not true. She may have a low self esteem, she might have self image issues that need to be worked on, but she is not a slut. Because sluts, they’ve gone the way of the unicorn.

Random silliness

Like everyone else in this world, I've noticed a lot of people (girls mostly, but some guys too) making that duck face in all their photos. So I decided to take it to the next level. So ladies, I see your duck face

and I raise you a fishy face

Anyone care to call?

50 Books to read before graduation

This past January I decided that I wanted to read fifty books this year. I sat down and made a list of books that met certain requirements I thought would work for me. They all had to be books I'd never read before; they couldn't be part of a series, have a prequel or sequel, or run any chance of me saying "I have to read book X so I can find out what happens next;" I really didn't want to repeat authors (although there were a couple cases where I did anyway); and they had to be of a wide variety, no sticking to one or two genres for me. It took me a few days, but I got one made up that met (most of) my criteria. I have an extensive to be read list running in my head that I plucked titles from, there were a few books mentioned on NPR that sounded too good to pass up, and there were some that were mentioned again and again in various writing books I'd been reading that I stuck in there as well.

Sadly, days after making the list (and before I could type it up), I misplaced it. I went from memory as much as I could, but I have never been known for my memory. Then the other day when I was cleaning out my desk, low and behold, I found the list! I'd managed to read eleven of the books on there (and a bunch others, though I'm no where near fifty), but that still leaves 39 books that I still haven't read.

While I'd like to say that I'll get most of them read before December 31, since I'm starting school in a few days, I highly doubt it. So I'm instead renaming my list. The previously named 50 Books of 2012 (or Epic List of Doom, depending on my mood), is now just 50 Books to Read Before Graduation (which should be the spring of 2015). The list is as follows, in no particular order:

The Postman Always Rings Twice

One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest

A Clockwork Orange

Lolita

Lady Chatterley's Lover

1984

The Great Gatsby

Moby Dick

The Catcher in the Rye

Dracula

Anthem

The Lord of the Flies

Misery

Anna Karenina

The Notebook

Wuthering Heights

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Great Expectations

Jayne Eyre

Persuasion

The Caine Mutiny

The First Wives Club

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The Deer Park

When She Woke

When She Was Good

The Grapes of Wrath

Push

The Devil's Advocate

Hollywood Wives

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

The World According to Garp

Uncle Tom's Cabin

Gravedigger

Jurassic Park

Vanity Fair

The Tropic of Cancer

Mrs. Dalloway

Please don't eat the daisies

The Deep End of the Ocean

Thank You for Smoking

Brideshead Revisited

The Dispossessed

Catch 22

Bright Lights, Big City

The Secret Life of Bees

Fight Club

The Help

11/22/63

The Firm

So there's the original list, with the books I read crossed off. But here's the thing: because of those eleven books being crossed off, it's no longer a list of fifty books to be read by graduation, it's 39 books. Well, there's one way to fix that.

The eleven books I'll read in addition to the ones above to make fifty books by graduation:

The Hobbit

The Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring

The Lord of the Rings, Two Towers

The Lord of the Rings, Return of the King

The Stand

Incendiary

I Know This Much Is True

The Russia House

The Fisher King

The Bonfire of the Vanities

Venus in Furs

Edit 5/28/14:
I've gone in and crossed off a few more books. Not looking like I'm going to make it by graduation, though.

Fifty Shades of...well...you know...

I have been stewing over this for quite a while. Ever since I first saw that the big studios were in talks about making the "hot new bestseller" into a movie and I realized exactly what they were talking about. I've ranted, I've raved, I've warned people not to go any where near this book; predictably, none of it has worked. It's still out there, selling a disgusting number of copies, and invariably raising my blood pressure every time I hear about it.

Most people around me don't understand. Sometimes I don't understand why I'm getting so upset myself. Scores of badly written books have topped the bestseller lists, and I couldn't have cared less. Hell, there are books I don't even like that do amazingly well, and while I might not understand why, I just shrug it off. Crappy books are made into crappy movies almost every day, and my world goes on turning. I have no problem with fan fiction being published, even when it does well. (Hello, Wicked and Scarlett are both, essentially, fic, and I loved both dearly.) Hell, when I first heard about Fifty, I thought it was a different piece of fic, and I was all but dancing in the streets I was so pleased. So what is my issue?

I'm sure much of it is my frustration with people not being able to see how terrible this book really is. Everything else aside, it's poorly written. That could be overlooked when it was being posted as fan fiction (hell, it's pretty much expected from fic), but once you send something out to a publisher, and that publisher sends it out into the world, a higher quality is expected. And the fact that it was picked up by Vintage, a publisher known for putting out literature (a word which makes me think of a higher quality of work than, say Fifty) just boggles my mind.

Honestly, I can't remember exactly what was wrong with it, as the last I read it it was still being written and posted on Twilighted. I just remember being distracted by all the editing I was having to do in my head. Which is probably part of why I kept reading as long as I did; I wasn't really doing much more than proof reading. I also remember spending a lot of my time reading with an arched eyebrow, trying to figure out why it was so popular. After the engagement, I just gave up, realizing that obviously there was something going on that everyone else saw but I didn't.

This would probably be a good time to mention that I have not read Fifty Shades of Grey, or any of the following installments. I only read it while it was still "Master of the Universe," but that was enough for me. I am basing my opinions of Fifty on MotU. Normally I would think of this as unfair, but I have heard from enough people who have read both that she changed little but the character's names. I've also seen some evidence supporting these claims, so I'm satisfied on that front.

But I'm upset over more than just some poorly written book selling millions of copies. I'm more than slightly miffed that it's outselling Potter, but whatever. I think what is getting me really upset is what this phenomenon is saying not only about the women of the world today, but what world our daughters are going to face.

This is what the women who love Fifty don't seem to understand: it's not some spicy, naughty tale about two people involved in a BDSM relationship. It's a story about a man who needs serious help (of the three sessions a week for several years with a licensed therapist variety) and the naive young woman he preys upon. It's not a romance; it's a tragedy. And the fact that women everywhere are emulating this book makes it even more so.

It seems like every week I read something new. Hardware stores are selling out of clothesline. Women's magazines are publishing tricks based on Fifty. People are sharing stories of their often funny, sometimes scary forays into the taboo. And I have to wonder if this is it, if this is the draw of the book that pushes people past the weak characters and poorly written sex scenes. People tend to look at BDSM as wrong and taboo, mostly because they don't understand it. All I can guess is that experiencing it, whether through experimentation or vicariously through a book, gives one the sense of being naughty. A little thrill to spice up an otherwise ordinary life.

But if you enter into something like BDSM without doing the research first, things can go very wrong very quickly. Sure, handcuffs and a gag might sound like fun, but how are you supposed to tell your partner if something's wrong? Might not sound like something you'd need to worry about, but I read a blog entry where something similar happened to a guy, and whether he was playing it up for comedic value or not, there was, at least for a moment, some fear he might asphyxiate.


Let me say here that I have no problem with BDSM. I'll admit, I don't know much about it, but it seems to me that when done safely, it's a form of sexual expression that many people rely upon. However, from what I've gathered during my nosing around the subject, there's plenty of discussion about likes and limits, and both parties are okay with what goes down. More "Let's talk about why you might be uncomfortable with x and how I can help to change that," and less "You'll learn to like it." (Can you guess which one is Fifty?)

What people decide to experiment with aside, if women are trying out things from the book in their bedrooms, what other areas of their lives is Fifty going to slip into? How many women who are already staying with a bad/abusive boyfriend for all the wrong reasons (he's attractive, he can support her, he's sometimes nice, the excuses are endless, and almost all of them are covered in Fifty), will now see another reason to stay: maybe he's just a hurt soul who can be healed if she just tries harder. Women who are already talking themselves into staying in this kind of situation are going to read this book and just see more validation for not only their partner's actions, but for their lack of it. And women who are finding (or will one day find) themselves in a similar situation will look back on Fifty and wonder.

We don't need any more books out there where the man overpowers the woman because he knows better. There were too many written during the era of bodice rippers (where men frequently raped women because they couldn't control their passion...and the women ended up enjoying it before the end). Being feminine doesn't mean letting a man walk all over you. You can give a man control in the bedroom without giving him control over your life; just remember, you're giving control, it can be yanked right back whenever needed. And a woman can have more than book smarts, she can have common sense too. Any man who doesn't realize, accept, and appreciate all this, is better off kicked to the curb. No matter what else he has going for him.

Coffee and cigarettes

My second semester of college I took a creative writing course. This was back before I had decided that going to school for creative writing was an option. The course was just fun, filler until I could get into the school I wanted and get on to the course work I would need for whatever major I had decided on at that moment. In three months I'll be back in school, and this time it will be for creative writing. Scary stuff, folks.


Between this and getting Remembrance ready to go out to the test readers, I've been thinking a lot about the things I've written in the past. Those stepping stones on my path to becoming an honest to goodness writer. Well, here's one of them.


One of our assignments in that creative writing course was to take a few elements, and use them in five different shorts. I think they had to be 250 words or less. In the fic world, we call them drabbles. I chose a girl (or woman), sitting alone in a coffee shop, smoking a cigarette. Here's what I ended up with.


I'm not really going to edit these, so I apologize ahead of time if there are spelling or grammatical errors. Part of this is so I can show (and see for myself) just how far I've come.


Just to forewarn ya'll, while most of these won't offend anyone, there is one that deals with a girl considering a very controversial subject matter. I'll mark it, but just so you can't bitch at me for springing it on you, you've been warned.


Drabble 1:


Emily pulled four things from her purse: a notepad, a personalized ball point pen that her mother gave her for Christmas the year after she graduated from college, a pack of Virginia Slims Menthol Lights 120s, and a book of matches.  She set her notepad and pen on the table, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, exhaling the sweet nicotine with a flourish of neck and wrist.  She had started smoking to look styled, sophisticated, and now, wouldn’t you know it, smoking was out and she was addicted.  Didn’t matter to her much; she felt it made her look every bit the high end journalist that she would one day be.  This interviewing of animal rights activists and local business owners would one day be behind her and she would be on to bigger and better things: award winning actors, civil rights leaders, the President.  One day she would move up from the dinky “In Your Area” column and into the vast department of “In the World Today.”  Until then she would continue interviewing the Lindsay Ann, high school science fair winners of the world, arching her eyebrows conspiratorially as she asked the questions she wanted to know.  At least if she had to write these stories, she’d do so with a flourish. 


Drabble 2:


Ashley puffed on her Misty Ultra Light as she fingered the worn copy of Sense and Sensibility that was sitting in front of her.  Lord only knew what made her sign on to that stupid dating site in the first place, not to mention actually accepting a date with one of the fools who use said sites.  Well, she thought to herself, I guess I’m one of those fools now, as well. She casually flipped through the Austen novel sitting in front of her, the only relic she kept from her horrific three year relationship with John.  In a way, John was the whole reason why Ashley was sitting in this run down coffee shop, fingering a run down book in the first place.  If he had been able to keep his zipper closed and his hands off any female being that wiggled, Ashley would still be engaged, and well on the way to living out the rest of her life exactly the way she had planned it out with her Barbies when she was younger.  Instead, she turned to the world wide web to look for what she could not find in real life, beginning with Ebay, but quickly moving to E-Harmony.  It was there that she met Ralf, the down to Earth father of two who recently lost his wife to cancer and also enjoyed a good Jane Austen novel.


Ashley looked at her watch and, noting that Ralf (what kind of name is that anyway?) was ten minutes late, picked up her book and was about to leave when a tall, well groomed man walked into the coffee shop, carrying a well worn copy of Sense and Sensibility.  


Drabble 3:


Victoria sat in the high class coffee shop, smoking her high class cigarette, musing over her life’s accomplishments.  She had managed to lure a total of now two dozen men from their wives, a talent she discovered in high school.  Mr. Gibbons was a terrible teacher–actually, he was terrible at many things–but he was all too willing to give out extra credit to girls willing to do certain after school activities.  Vicki applied this same concept in college, earning herself a diploma without doing an ounce of homework for her male professors, of whom there were many.  She now owned a girly bar, where married men flocked to cheat on their wives without actually ever touching another woman. 


Her newest conquest was Willard, a broker with a beautiful wife, a beautiful house, and three beautiful children; Vicki had seen pictures of them all.  She sipped champagne, still nude under her Egyptian sheets, as Willard dressed, about to return to the office.  Before leaving, he turned to her and asked, “Do you ever tire of being the mistress?  Wouldn’t you ever want to be the missus?”  Vicki thought about this as she took another drag off her cigarette and stirred the nonfat latte the waitress just brought her.  No, she decided. I never would want to worry about my husband meeting a woman like me.

Drabble 4:

Candice looked over her list one last time and took out the pack of cigarettes she had hiding in her pocketbook.  She had tried quitting hundreds of times, but this wedding was just putting too much stress on her, and she needed the relief, so she bought the pack for “just in case.”  Well, if this didn’t qualify as “just in case,” she wasn’t sure what would.  She inhaled and was calmed, but only marginally.  There was still so much to do.  She still had to pick up the bride’s maids dresses, confirm the cake style, tell the live band that she had decided to go with the DJ, and send in the newest version of the RSVP list in to the caterer.  That wasn’t even mentioning going over flower arrangements, picking up her own dress, and the whole of the rehearsal dinner.  All in just over a week.


Candice looked at the diamond sitting on her left ring finger, and remembered how Michael had proposed, right at the very table she was now sitting at.  He had done it in a very Michael fashion, tossing her the ring box when she returned from the bathroom and waggling his eyebrows at her.  She tossed the box right back to him, and told him that she would not marry him until he asked properly.  So, of course, he called the attention of the entire coffee shop, got down on one knee with a grand flourish, and gave a very corny proposal speech.  Candice smiled as she thought that if any man was worth the hassle of a wedding, it was Michael.  She decided, somewhat sarcastically, that if she ever were to marry again, however, she would elope.          

Drabble 5 (the one that you might want to skip if you're sensitive):

Liza’s hands shook as she tried to light her Gold Coast Red with her purple Bic lighter.  She finally got it lit and inhaled sharply, thanking the waitress who brought her coffee with a puff of smoke.  She loaded the inky liquid down with sugar and creamer, changing its color from rich black to creamy brown.  She took a sip and closed her eyes.  Pregnant.  Ten weeks, according to the doctor.  That gave her three weeks to decide what she was going to do.  Or rather, three weeks to convince Ron that it was the right choice and to give her the four hundred dollars for the abortion.  Four hundred dollars, that sure as hell was a lot of money, especially when she was out of work.  She looked at the cigarette in her hand and almost laughed.  Theoretically, she shouldn’t be smoking in her condition, but since she wasn’t about to keep the being growing inside of her, she didn’t see the sense in quitting now.  


She thought back on the diagram the nurse had shown her in the clinic.  Her baby looked about like a baby chicken right now.  Actually, it looked like every other baby animal at that approximate stage.  It helped her conscious to know that if put in a lineup, she wouldn’t be able to tell her baby from one of another species.  Liza shook her head.  She didn’t like the idea of “her baby,” she wanted to find a more removed term.  What was it the nurse called it?  The embryo, that’s right.  Liza took another drag off her cigarette and another sip of coffee as she contemplated the future of her embryo and herself.

Well, there you have it; five shorts written by yours truly over seven years ago. 

My how time does fly

My my my, it has been a long time. I'd say the delay hasn't been my fault, that my laptop had spoiled me with it's cushy blogging feature, so when I got said laptop back and that feature was gone I couldn't stand to go on without it. But that would be only a partial truth. I'm just a flaky person. Oh well.

Remembrance is going well. I decided to put off writing much of Mouse's portion of the story until I'd gotten a better hold on what Sam's portion of the story was about. I finished my first edit of the first draft the other day, and have started on the more detailed second edit. To give everyone an idea of what I'm dealing with, I did most of my first edit at work. Fifteen minute break, thirty minute lunch, and I could get through around 25 pages a night. The other day I worked on the manuscript for two hours. And got through four pages. Out of 200. I now understand why some authors take seven years to put out a book, and I have no fricking clue how authors like Stephen King and Nora Roberts can be so prolific.

Anywho, to celebrate the momentous occasion of me actually finishing something, I figured I would share the story's (exceptionally short) prologue. So, ladies and gents, here we have it, the opening words of Remembrance:

Before the dreams and memories that weren't mine started, I was a fairly normal girl. Did well in school, liked to spend time with my friends, couldn't wait to get to college and away from the mother I couldn't stand. There were things that made my life different from most teenagers'--my parents and the life they wanted for me for one--but I still felt normal, even if it sometimes seemed like the people around me weren't.

Before the dreams I had a future. Hopes and dreams of my own. Goals and expectations for my life. But after they started, that was all gone. My future paled next to another's past. And there was always the same question. Why?

51215

Otherwise known as GOAL!!! I was a little worried there. A few days went by when I just stared at the computer and could only get a couple hundred words down. And my laptop went phooy. *sigh* It was a fairly dramatic NaNo.

And I'm not done yet. I still have three scenes I need to write for Sam, all of Mouse's stuff, whatever needs to be written to weave everything together, and the ending. So, next month will be my first MiNoWriMo. Goal is 50k again, so (to make things easy), let's say 101k by New Year's Eve. I can do it. Hoorah!

*cough*

Anywho, I did a midway count over on Facebook, so here's what I've gone through during November while writing Rememberance:

154 pieces of gum
98 cans of Diet Dew
41 pages of notebook paper
$20 to pull my files off my dead laptop
$15 on a mini past life reading
6 24oz bottles of Pepsi Max
1 pen
1 laptop hard drive
And a partridge in a fricking pear tree

40069

My laptop has died. One day I was at the library, writing away, the next, it refused to start. The hard drive fried. *sniff* Thankfully, everything was able to be saved, and my brother was sweet enough to bring his desktop into my room so I can continue writing. So yay.

Now I have to make a special trip to the library on the 30th so that I can load up all my words for NaNo's counter, though. Oh well. Could be worse.

I have also decided that I'm going to continue doing my own version of NaNo through December and January, aiming for 50k each time. I get that it will put me over 150k by February, but I figure I'll edit at least 30k out, so it'll work. I'll be calling these months MiNoWriMo (Miki Novel Writing Month). I find myself so clever at times. Tee hee.

The story's coming along quite nicely, though. Things have changed, and other's have developed in a way that I never expected. But that always happens. I just hope the creative juices keep flowing straight through to the end, including through the editing process. Here's hoping.

I'd love to be able to close with a clip from the story. It feels wrong not to. And there are so many little bits that would work so well. *sigh* Maybe next time.

15228

Whoot! Yesterday was the first day I actually not only met my daily word goal, but I surpassed it. I’m hoping I can keep that up. I know that most of what I’m drabbling on about is just crap that’ll end up getting cut, but it’s through the crap that I discover the characters and am able to get to what’s worth keeping.

I’d go on more, as it seems like I’m always so full of ideas of what to write here, even when I’ve no idea what to write for the book, but my brain is dead at the moment. So, I leave you with a tidbit:

I tried not to pout as I cast my mind around for something to shut him up. I crunched on the pretzel as I thought.

“I have a tattoo.”

That did it.

“Seriously?” he asked again, this time intrigued. I nodded. “Can I see it?”

I felt my face go scarlet.

“It’s not exactly placed for public viewing,” I mumbled.

“Now I really want to see it,” he said with a grin that should be illegal.

…

“At least tell me what it is.”

I looked up from my binder. Kyle was scribbling in his notebook, hopefully jotting down notes on what I’d just told him, but most likely trying to figure out where my tattoo might be.

“It’s a shamrock.”

He grinned at me, and I could tell he was trying to picture me with a shamrock somewhere on my body.

“I could make a joke about finding your lucky charms, but I’ll resist.”

3329

Another year, another NaNo. I’m running behind this year (wasn’t that the same tune I was singing all 2009?). I should be at 6668. So…eek! But, I’m hoping to write more when I get home. Thing is, I don’t have an office this year, somewhere I can go where there’s no TV, nothing to distract me. I need to learn how to focus myself. Or I need to start going somewhere after work where I can write for an hour or four.

Right, anywho, I’m working on the story with Sam, Mouse, Kyle, and Tommy that I’ve been brainstorming for the past year. I’ve posted a couple clips that I’ve come up with, as well as a couple pictures of actors that would look just like Tommy and Kyle, if only they were teenagers.

I’m going to keep this short, partially because if I’m going to be writing, it should be for the story, and partially because I worked all night, and it’s almost my bedtime. So here’s a clip, some more of the Sam and Kyle back and forth that I love so much:

“There’s a lot about me that would surprise you,” I told Kyle, realizing even as I spoke I sounded like a petulant child.

“Oh yeah?” he said with a smirk, obviously not believing me. “Such as?”

Oh crap.

I thought for a moment, trying to come up with something that would shut Kyle up but not embarrass me, all the while trying to ignore his increasingly smug expression.

“I have a wicked potty mouth,” I finally said.

Kyle burst into laughter.

“Seriously?” he chuckled.

“What?” I asked, pissed that I’d managed to embarrass myself despite my efforts.

“’A potty mouth’?” he asked incredulously. “If you word it like that, you so don’t have a ‘potty mouth.’” He snickered some more.

“And how should I have worded it?” I asked, glowering at him.

“I dunno, ‘I like to fucking swear?’”

“Ass,” I said, throwing a pillow at him.

“Oh, there’s the potty mouth,” he teased.

Of Fics and Potterheads

So recently I started working overnights. Being Sunday, part of my job was to piece together and put out the Sunday papers, including the Sunday New York Times. Well, one of the very first things that I noticed was that the Arts and Entertainment section was dominated by a collage of Harry Potter centric pictures. So, being the fan that I am, I of course had to pause to read the article. It was fairly interesting, focusing mainly on the immense success of the films and movies, and how fans have developed some level of ownership of the franchise through fansites and fanfic.

Now, I must admit, embarrassing as it is, that I have been reading and writing fanfic since I was sixteen. That’s nine years. I realize that since I am no longer sixteen, nor do I live in my mother’s basement, I no longer should have this habit. I firmly maintain, however, that it has only strengthened my writing habits. Any fic site worth its salt requires that submissions be edited. And after getting my first fic rejected a dozen times, I learned how to edit my own crap fairly well. It also has helped me deal with rejection (see above), and get a feel for my own style (even though I was mimicking someone else’s). And the interaction with both readers and other writers has proven to be an invaluable resource. So, while I should be ashamed (and am, to a point), I’m not stopping.

Anywho, I digress.

So I’m reading this article, and having been involved in the world of Potter fic for a number of years, about died of laughter when I read the line “surprisingly, er, friendly Harry and Draco liaisons.” I knew, right off, the type of fic he was referring to.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, fan fiction is mainly used to explore things not explored in the books. So if you’ve always wondered what Dumbledore was like as a teen, you’d either hunt down a fic that meets those needs, or write one yourself. Same goes if you, say, believe that Harry and Draco have been at each other’s throats because of suppressed sexual tension.

Dargis also mentions a fic titled “Strawberry Yields,” another slash (fic that features a same sex relationship) lemon (fic where the main focus is of a sexual nature). Of course, being me, I went to hunt this fic down. I was expecting something on some big fic site, with a few thousand (or at least a few hundred) reviews. What I found was a fic on a site I’d never heard of with no reviews. I was the first person to comment, and it’s been up for over a year.

So I have to wonder, how is it that this writer for the Times found at least two slashy, lemony stories? Lemons are not terribly popular in Potter fic. Sure, they’re out there, and probably much more abundant than the average person on the street would think. But compared to, say, Twilight (a vast majority of Twific I’ve come across is citrusy in nature), it’s a small percentage. Most Potter fic, in my experience, are missing moments, stories that follow cannon (the Potter universe as laid out by the books and information JKR has released), but seek to tell what happened that we missed. Kind of funny, if you think of it.

Oh, just for the record, I’ve no problem with either slash or lemons. In fact, one of my favorite pieces of Twific is a slashy lemon.

I found the article interesting, though, as an overly obsessed Potterhead myself. I think that it’s important that fans hold some level of ownership of the things that they love. I’m not saying that I’m going to start printing Potter shirts and selling them on the street, but fansites and fic are a great way to keep fans interested in the books and movies, even in the lull between releases, and it doesn’t cost the people who really own the story a dime. Honestly, you’d think they’d be all for it.

Forbidden words

Anyone who knows me knows that I can be foul mouthed. I tend to follow George Carlin’s view on language: there are no bad words. Bad thoughts, bad intentions, and then the words that we tend to attach to them. Our words only have the power we give them.

However, much as I believe this for almost every word I’ve come across, there are two that I will not say, under any circumstances. These two words have never crossed my lips, and if I have been required to refer to them in the past (typically only if I’m sharing that someone else has spoken these forbidden words), I refer to them by their first letter only, much like a child would. They have become “the c-word” and “the n-word” to me, and even insinuating them bothers me.

So why, if I tend to follow the “words are just letters arranged on the page, neither negative nor positive” view point, why am I so against these words? Possibly because of the negative emotions behind them. They have been so strong, for so long, that I have been unable to remove the emotions from the words. Or it could be some residual influence from my mother, these were her forbidden words as well. Or maybe it’s society, I know of many people for whom these words are forbidden.

So, as a writer, I have an issue. These words are not taboo for everyone. In fact, many people use them on a daily basis, in both a negative and positive way (though, the same people don’t tend to use them as both). And by restricting my vocabulary, by saying “these are the two words I will never say or write, under any circumstances,” I am restricting myself. There have been two times, one for each word, that in the natural flow of dialogue that occurs in my head as I write (I’ve often said that I watch the characters interact, listen to them speak to each other and to me, and then write what I’ve witnessed), these words have cropped up, and I’ve ignored them.

The first was when I was writing a short story for a creative writing class. It’s a particularly violent story following the minutes before a girl is raped. A topic most would consider taboo, but I stepped outside my comfort zone, wrote even though I was disgusted—both with the character and with myself—wrote through the feeling of bugs crawling under my skin and of needing a shower, and got the story to paper. But when the male character, in a fit of temper, hits the female character and called her one of my forbidden words, I stalled. I heard it, plain as day, the way his voice rasped, almost spat the word out. I saw the way his face contorted in rage, saw his thin lips form the word, his yellowed teeth almost biting out the end. But I couldn’t do it. Here I was, writing a story about one of the worst atrocities that could happen to a woman, and I couldn’t type out a four lettered word. Instead I used “cooze,” a slang term popular in Vietnam during the conflict that meant much the same thing. I’ve considered going in and editing it, of putting in the word as I heard it, but I haven’t.

The second time was more recent, as I was brainstorming a story I was going to write for myself. Set in Georgia, either slightly before or towards the beginning of the Civil War, the main character was set to be the son of a wealthy plantation owner. His father, getting on in years, has started handing over responsibilities to his son, including management of the dozen or so slaves he will inherit with the house and the land. The son, through his interaction with the family’s slaves, falls in love with one of the girls. Not lust, as was common for the time, but honest to god love. He starts to daydream about a world where he could take this girl as his wife, where she would be the mistress of his house, where they would have and raise children together, and sit out on the porch, drinking sweet tea, as they watched them play in the summer sun. However, he realized that this would never happen, considered setting her free, hating himself for imprisoning the woman he loved, and wanting her freedom, her happiness, over his own. But he realized that this, too, was unlikely to happen. He knows that freed slaves, even in the North, still run the risk of being captured, brought back to the South, and sold back into slavery. The thought of what would happen to her if she belonged to another, and possibly a small measure of selfish longing, keeps him from letting her go.

As with most of my writing, the idea for this story grew into being around a scene that played out in my head, where one of the lower class white boys that the father hired to help manage the slaves is bullying the son’s love interest. He steps in, and the boy spits out insults and curses, one of them including one of my forbidden words. In this case, I simply never wrote the story.

I feel very strongly about these words, often wishing that they would be done away with, that they never existed. But the fact of the matter is that they do exist, and that for some people they are used as commonly as I use “ah hell.” And so I wonder, if I cannot even bring myself to type them, even if it’s once in a blue moon, and only with careful thought and consideration, does that make me noble some how, or does it hurt my writing?

Everyday craziness

So since I missed NaNo this year, I’m considering doing Script Frenzy.  I’ve written a script before, actually it was the very first full length thing that I did write. I was about 14, it was called Saving Amy, and it was destined to be a Lifetime Movie Network film. However, someone (coughmybrothercough) asked to borrow the script and subsequently misplaced it. I was not a happy Miki. Since it was 10 years ago, I think I’d be fine in trying to rewrite Saving Amy. I mean, at this point, I’m back to just having the premise in my head, since I don’t have anything written down any more (copies, people, copies!).

I’m caught between that and this idea my new apartment has been giving me. It seems like everything and anything that could go wrong has been here. Not that I’m complaining or anything, I’m just happy I have a place to live, and in a way I think it’s great. I mean, none of it is terribly serious, and it’s such great fodder for stories. Especially the one that’s been brewing in my head.

I’m thinking a modern day version of the Odd Couple crossed with The Money Pit. Our two main characters would be college grads, one of whom has recently been told by his well to do parents that it’s time he stands on his own two feet and starts paying his own way—right as he’s getting ready to start grad school. The other is trying to figure out what to do with his life and how to be a grown up (even though he’s been done with school for a few years).

And because I’m me, I’ve already got a visual of each character. As Jake (the guy in his late 20s who still acts like a teen), I see, rather predictably, Seth Rogen. And as Anthony, our gent in his early 20s who is trying to figure out how he is going to be able to afford living on his own and pay for grad school at the same time, we have Robert Pattison. Course, I’m not thinking the suave and debonair Pattison from the cover of GQ, or even the Edward Cullen or Tyler Hawkins versions. Hell, I’m not even thinking Diggory. I am thinking of Daniel Gale. Geeky, awkward, bumbling, not obviously attractive, thick glasses, prudish, and extremely quiet and reserved.

Honestly, either of these roles could be played by just about anyone, but those were just the two people who came to mind as I’ve been brainstorming.

So whether I chose to rewrite Saving Amy, or start in on this as yet unnamed endeavor, it should be an interesting April.

Taking that first step

So I went out New Years Eve, like so many did.  And I had a little too much to drink, like so many did.  So I took a taxi home, like I hope so many did.  But my taxi driver was special.  He used to be an editor in NYC.

Granted, he edited technical instruction manuals, which is a far cry from editing fiction, but he knew enough about the trade to offer me some advice, which, although I was very drunk, I took happily.  He told me to write a summary of my novel, even if I’m stuck or haven’t written anything yet, and start sending that out to publishers. 

I’d read a lot of “this is how you publish your book” articles that gave this same advice over the years, but it just seemed not the thing for me.  I mean, what sense does that make, trying to get someone to buy something that’s not even finished yet. That be like saying, “Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the house will be right here, where this foundation is poured.  The kitchen will be about…here—just imagine a stove right here—and if you look about 12 feet up, right around this area here, that is where the master bedroom will be.  Now, how about that down payment?”  Just sounds stupid. 

But, and this could be the alcohol interfering with my judgment, this man made sense.  I’m going to keep trying to work on my novel anyway, and so long as I’m doing that, I might as well throw the idea out there into the universe.  Who knows, I might get some one who wants a fresh name, likes my idea, and wants to send me a thousand dollars to finish it.  *coughwishfulthinkingcough*

Even if I get a rejection letter for every ten I send out (and jack shit for the other nine), that’s something.  I don’t know what’s in these letters, if they just tell you your idea is crap or if they give you some “we would be more likely to purchase your novel if you did x, y, and z” advice, but I’m open to either.

Not that I want rejection letters.  Honestly, I’d rather get several, “Your idea is amazing, Miss. D.  We predict it will be a best seller, and want to offer you a disgustingly large advance,” letters, but I know that’s highly unlikely.  I mean, didn’t Stephanie Meyer get something like 50 rejection letters for Twilight?  Betcha those guys got their asses kicked.

So, that’s my plan for this year.  I need to come up with a summary, compile a list of publishers and agents that take unsolicited submissions, and get my stamps out.

I think, though, that I’ll send out summaries for Remberance instead of Revelations.  There’s just so much more research I have to do for Revelations, and I don’t want to put it out there until that’s done.  True, I have research that needs to be done for Remberance, like what life was like for a teen in the 50s, what music was popular, common slang, etc.  But, I figure between Google and a few long conversations with my grandparents (who, while not teens in the 50s, were young adults), I will be well on my way.

Yet another idea

So I’ve been working on that story for NaNo. Writing notes on characters (11 pages on Sam, 5 on Mouse thus far), working out the plot details in my head so I can get an outline on paper, all that fun stuff. I’ve been discovering a lot about the characters. For example, Sam has a tattoo (totally shocked the hell out of me), and Kyle isn’t actually a stoner. He looks like a stoner, dresses like one, acts like one, but when he has touched the stuff from time to time (“I can admit it, I inhaled.”), it doesn’t happen often.

I’m starting to really like Kyle. He isn’t the brash, cocky ass hole I thought he was. He comes off that way at first, but it’s all show. Once you get to know him, he’s a sweetheart. A smart ass, but a sweetheart all the same.

On that note, I give you a little more Sam and Kyle:

“You,” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction, “are a literary snob.”

“Am not,” I replied childishly.

“Oh, you so are,” he countered with a grin. He cleared his throat and raised his chin, pointing his nose heavenward. “My favorite book is Frankenstein,” he said in a high pitched voice. “I also enjoy Shakespeare and Melville—“

“No one enjoys Melville,” I cut in.

“—and pre-American literature. I read the Encyclopedia Britannica, but I found it dry and repetitive. Very unoriginal.”

“Har har,” I said dryly.

He just smiled at me, like he knew he was right and there was no swaying him.

“Fine,” I said, getting off the floor and going to my bookcase. I ignored his chuckles as I slid my Encyclopedia Britannica set aside and removed the three books hiding behind them.

Walking back over to where Kyle was sitting, I dropped the books unceremoniously in his lap, refusing to admit, even to myself, that the fact that I kept these hidden only served to prove his point.

“Pop lit,” he chuckled, looking through the titles. “Nice.”

He opened one book midway, and the way his eyes bugged made me want to snatch the books back from him.

“Dude, these are practically porn!” He continued to laugh as he flipped through a few pages.

“See,” I said, snatching the books from his hands and returning them to their hiding place. “Not a literary snob.”

***

I like they way they interact, the back and forth they keep having in my head. The way Kyle draws Sam out, but how she draws him out of himself as well.

I’m hoping to finish my first draft of this story during NaNo. This is a story that I want to tell, want to get out there. I mean, I feel that way about all my stories, but this one is different.

Brainstormin'

So, the little glimpse that I did before work today is from a story I've been brainstorming for a while. Title is still in the works, but I'm thinking something along the lines of "Remembrance." I have some other things that need writing, but when I get some time, I'm going to start work on an outline. This time when NaNoWriMo comes around, I'll be ready.

Anywho, I've been thinking about the characters I know about, and keeping in mind that these characters are in high school, here's actors I've found that look close to how I'm seeing the characters in my head:

Tommy

Kyle

The difficult thing about this story will be telling the two stories in all the detail they deserve, yet still being clear how they tie together. Because there will be Sam's story (POV from earlier), and Maureen/Mouse's story. I know why they're so important and need to be told together, but I don't want the reader to know for a while. *sigh* So an outline is a must this time around.

Idea

This just hit me when I was getting ready for work, so I’m going to try to get it down real quick:

Kyle slid my glasses up my nose and over my forehead, letting them rest amongst my unmanageable frizz like a headband.  He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear, letting his fingers caress down my jaw and over my chin.

My breath caught.  Oh shit, this was really going to happen.

Kyle licked his lips slowly, tilted his head to the side, and began his decent.

I couldn’t help but think of my mother at that moment.  Of how she would rather walk in on me blowing the entire football team than kissing a stoner like Kyle.  Somehow that made the idea of making out with Kyle even more appealing.

He paused with his mouth just out of my reach as though he were waiting for permission or something, which was just bizarre; Kyle never waited for permission from anyone.  As his short breaths fanned over my face, I was hit with an image that was so clear it was practically a memory.  A girl standing just as I was, her back against a wall, and a guy with his hair greased back standing in front of her, leaning in to kiss her.  Right before his lips touched hers, she whispered his name.

The name was right on the tip of my tongue.  If Kyle hadn’t closed the gap right then, I probably would have ruined everything by repeating the name.

Tommy.

Missing muse

So, things have been crazy since November.  December was spent getting ready for the holidays, and January to date has been spent recovering from them.  I got a new laptop, which is always great, and spent a good deal of time trying to transfer everything over from the old one to this one.  And now I’m trying to learn all the fun little features included in this computer (like the blogging feature that I’m using now).

In the midst of all this insanity, my muse seems to have decided to take a break.  So Elijah and Elizabeth are on the road, set to be married when the rebels get settled.  I know what’s going to happen eventually, but I can’t get them there.  *sigh*

It’s not just Revelations that’s misbehaving, my fic writings are muse-less as well.  I just fail all around.