So honoured to be promoted by a fellow author and blogger. Check it out and hurry, hurry…it’s set to self-destruct at midnight! ;0)
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged Creativity, Determination, Drive, Goals, Success on April 9, 2013 | 6 Comments »
Through the fog, it vies for my attention. I can barely see it just below the surface of the sand. Grains scattered over the exterior, it’s mottled, difficult to visualize. Dust surrounding, settling, my view is nearly blocked.
People walk past, not seeing what I can almost see, busy, distracted. Although the sun skips on the water’s tips, a haze keeps me from seeing clearly.
I stab and strive, but can’t reach it.
The longer I wait, the deeper it drives. Rooting itself in the bottomless beneath and I fear I will miss my chance. Never see it again.
I beckon passersby, begging them to nab it. I wave and yell, scream. They take no notice of it or me, oblivious to my struggle.
I reach out for what I’m sure will be my last chance and its edges finally hint at my fingertips.
“I am yours,” it murmurs, “and only you can keep me from sinking.”
I sat outside a coffee shop on callous, stony concrete hoping someone would give me something, anything; money, food, a coffee, kindness. It was bitter and my fingers were understandably numb.
Men in unyielding suits talked on their phones and held doors for people completely capable of opening them on their own. I watched women with big hair chatter and chide, wrinkle their noses and throw half full cups into the trash as they skipped away.
Not one looked at me.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and savored the small touch of warmth my breath provided. It was getting colder and my muscles stiffened. I sat on, unable to think of much else other than where I’d be in a few hours.
“Could you hang on to my dog?” My body tightened at the unexpected voice.
I looked at the little curly haired dog and then up at the little curly haired boy.
“I need to grab something real quick and he can’t run super fast, so if you could just hold him for me…”
“No problem,” I agreed, not sure what choice I had as the little guy ran off without really waiting for an answer.
The dog climbed up onto my lap, his belly like a hot water bottle and his sandy fur a warm coat. He stretched upwards and licked my face with a soft, velvety tongue. I felt myself loosen a little, a pulled elastic slipping back into its natural state after being stretched to the max.
The very next person to come out handed me a five-dollar bill. “Say no to drugs.” he laughed, half serious, the next; a cup of steaming coffee and a couple of toonies. “Cute pup’” she said. “Buy him a treat,” she added, smiling.
By the time the boy returned, I’d had a sandwich, a conversation and the shake of a hand.
“Hey thanks for watching Jack,’ he said. “It would’ve taken me way longer with him.”
He handed me a somewhat grizzly sleeping bag and a greyish pillow. “Here, they’re yours.” He told me.
“What? No,” I said, shocked. “Where did you get these?”
“I gotta go,” he said, grabbing the dog. “I can come back tomorrow though,” he offered. “People are way more generous when Jack’s around.”
He took off so quickly that I barely had time to notice his dirty fingernails and his hoodie full of holes, Jack effortlessly keeping up alongside him.
And as if they knew it was time, the long, phony nails I’d glued on at the beginning of this trip began to pop off one by one, a rogue nail as I fumbled to silence the alarm at 4am, an escapee as I plodded sleepily through security and a rebel while I groped for change to pay for my yogurt and granola. And that’s okay, they were right. It was time.
Don’t get me wrong, make no mistake, let me be clear…insert more cliché segues here…the Sesame Street stoops, dismissed don’t walks, harried honkers and booming billboards…I’ll miss it all, fo sho. That’s for my kids. (note sarcasm) It was amazing to be a small part for a small while of a big city where dreamers do, believers become and impossible means possibility.
But as I sat on the plane looking down at my fingers and the few nails left, I thought of how they’d made me feel brave, self-assured. I’d worn them to take on New York and had begun picking them off to head home.
It made sense, really; New York had been bigger than me and I’d needed the nails. The thing about home, is I write better without them.
Wherever we are, anything is always possible. Location is irrelevant. And, so are the nails.
I sort of sent my last post out to fend for itself, forgetting to tag and categorize it. If you’d like to read it, it’s crying in the corner here.
Despite the fact that it’s 2 degrees, cool is not the weather it’s the style here in NYC. That’s right folks, Hazy is in the Big Apple; a place where they have shops with names like Mint Julep, Belly Dance and Shoegasm. Ladies, be honest, you’re hot for all three. Men…well, maybe just the last two.
A city where nothing cramps creativity…unless you happen to be wearing super long, phony, glue on nails like me. Please excuse any typos, but they do look super fab…the nails, not the typos.
I can’t put my finger on it, but this city is validating; makes you feel like you will attain whatever it is your little heart may be yearning for. Different is distinguished, quirky is quaint and weird is wild which subsequently makes for a vivacious vibe.
We should all experience that. We should all feel invincible. We all need a little New York…or maybe just some really good pasta every so often. That’s totally doable, isn’t it? Failing that, a Shoegasm would be a close second.
Posted in Creative Writing, Fashion, Inspiration, Life, Music, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged Bras, Christina Aguilera, Growth, Lessons, Smarties on March 11, 2013 | 8 Comments »
I may embarrass myself here, but I’ll go out on a limb and assume I am not the only person in the world who didn’t know squat everything the moment I was set free to roam this earth.
I didn’t know there might not always be enough, that things aren’t always as they seem, that there isn’t a constant pillow, doors won’t always be open, love might mean pain and that you shouldn’t wear a white bra under a white shirt. C’mon, ‘fess up…there was a time when you didn’t know that either.
But, as we grow older, we learn.
We discover what it is to be vulnerable, to fight and dig, to be damaged and repaired, to feel lost and found, to eat and be hungry. Things aren’t perfect and life isn’t a plate of endless French fries.
And, we’re learning that it’s okay.
Trials and tribulations are normal. Mistakes and misfits are par for the course. The Smarties aren’t all gonna be pink and we’re not always going to be in the front row .
Slip-ups, snafus and side streets are how we mature and thank goodness for that, or we might be in the picture alongside Christina. Tragic.
But man, that girl can blow.
“You have another blog?” he’s stunned. “Why do I not know about this? I’m your biggest fan.”
“No,” I respond without hesitation, “definitely not. That would be my mother.”
“Well, I’m still a pretty big…”
“She doesn’t know either, if that makes you feel any better,” I shrug.
“Anyway yes, I have another one,” I admit with a wave of my hand. “Just for fiction. It’s called The Wrought Writer. I thought I should separate my actual writing from my, well, babble. If you were paying attention there were clues…”
“Brilliant!” he exclaims, ignoring my innuendo. “You’re a genius!”
“Why?” Now I’m the stunned one.
“Focus, of course!” Every successful venture needs focus!” He pumps his fist into the air.
“So, you don’t like my anything goes hazily themed blog?” My head tips towards my shoes.
“I do, I do! But, you should start another!”
Shouldn’t I be the excited one?
“I’m already drowning,” I confess. “I don’t think I need to add more water.”
“Definitely, another one. One with the other stuff…you know, the, babble?”
“But, that’s already on Hazy. Isn’t that kind of redundant?”
“But you somehow think putting your fiction on a separate blog is not?”
“Well, I guess it’s the same idea, but…”
“Self promotion is never redundant. Do people like your fiction more than your, um, babble posts?”
“It’s probably pretty even-steven, if I had to guess.”
“That settles it then,” he says confidently. “Go big or go home.”
And so, coinciding with my eightieth post, a few swift pushes and a shot of oxygen, at the ripe old age of forty-two, my new blog is crowning. (I knew I’d get a metaphor in there somewhere)
You’d think after branding three kids I’d know better than to open this can of worms but here goes…notions for names anyone?
I’m trying to write today. Sound familiar to anyone? But…I’m having what I feel are typical writer ‘complications’. I am behind. On…pretty much everything in my life at the moment. Oooh, we say that, I know, but I’m for real.
My animals have no food. The people in my house have no real food. Those two sentences should probably be in reverse. No one has laundered clothes. Thank God the animals don’t wear any. Shame it’s not the other way ‘round.
My kids all need appointments of some sort. Some can’t see through their hair, some just plain can’t see and others will soon be gumming their food (food…they should be so lucky) if I don’t pick up the phone and commit to a sesh with that crazy tooth guy.
I know my list…much like Celine’s heart…will go on…and on, but I for one will try not to. I dislike negativity, I have a low tolerance for complaining and don’t even get me started on excuses.
But, but…but, I’m so very, well, distracted.
You know what I mean. At least I hope I’m not alone. I’ve left everything so long that there seems to be no rhyme or reason on where to begin. Everything is now a priority.
And yet, here I sit…shrouded by clothes of days gone by, threats of starving, shaggy, blind and toothless children not to mention animals that have resorted to fetching the keys and dropping credit cards at my feet, writing.
Tell me I”m not a bad person.