Archive for February, 2013

“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.

“Not really.”

“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?

Creativity is contagious Baby

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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.

You don't find time to write

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She wrote thousands of words.

And unlike most other times, it took very little effort. They flowed as quickly as her willowy fingers could scroll them over the page. She didn’t look them up or second-guess, she simply wrote and wrote and as she did, her heart pounded with euphoric anticipation.

Within minutes the story had taken on a life and turned into something she alone, never could have conjured. The characters were vivid smudges of color on the chalky paper. Each one weird, wild and wonderful. Much to her delight, they twittered, twirled and twinkled in front of her very eyes.

Descriptions were riveting and the plot, engrossing. All awakened at her fingertips and she relinquished control of what was happening.

They took over. Grew more animated, more tangible. She felt a draft as they hurried past, saw the pores of their skin, smelled the booze on their breath. Heard them swallow as they ate the food from their plates.

She reached out, wanting to touch what seemed real, but her hand was slapped away. A feeling hard to describe, covered her like a blanket of ice.  Her skin erupted in fear and her heart, still pounding, skipped a beat, maybe two, in shock.

As she stared in horror, the longhand scroll she’d so relished penning, rose up off the page united, and slowly, deliberately made its way around her thin, long neck.

“This is our story.” the robust rope seethed. “You can’t force us to do anything.”

The linked words were frayed at the edges and as they tightened, the delicate skin on her neck began to burn with the friction.

“Your words are ours now. You are ours now.”

As she lay limp, breathless and seconds from lifeless, her once enraptured heart finally stopped beating as she herself, became a part of the story that was never really hers.

Rope 3

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The cut on her finger hurts like a son of a bitch. One of those tiny slices so fine it’s almost invisible, but oh, it throbs and stings. As she squeezes the skin around it open and closed it moves like a beak. She imagines it’s squawking; a relentless seagull tormenting her.

“I want that fry. I want that fry!” he goads, angrily swooping to and fro against the brooding, clouded sky.

She looks around for the French fry, but finds nothing. The bird screeches louder and louder. She covers her ears and rocks back and forth.

“Go away!” she whispers. “Please go away.”

She swats at the air around her head, catching her frizzy hair between her fingers, pieces of it slithering through her slit skin. Taking a long, kinked strand, she pulls it taut until it snaps. It falls to the floor, once one, now two.

“You see?” she asks, “You see what I did to that piece of hair? You’ll end up just like that hair if you’re not real careful!”

But the gull taunts on.

Squawk! You don’t need that fry! You’re way too fat to eat that goddamn French fry! Squawk, squawk!”

The bird’s incessant cackling simmers into salty grains of laughter that spill down and stick to her slick skin. Swiping away, trying to rid herself of the bitter granules, she slowly realizes that she’s the fry.

Long and droopy, now cold, she falls to the floor. The nasty gull comes real close, and spreads his great, gray wings. They span across her from tip to top. His beak sharp and piercing drives right into her middle and she can feel him lifting her.

As they fly higher and farther away, her other half gets smaller and smaller on the ground below.

Once one, now two.

Seagull with a french fry

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A very nice tribute from a fellow writer…

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Sad and hidden

She wrapped herself in the crooks of looks and nooks of books, cloaked her face with hair misplaced, hid her smile, for a while, in the cover of much denial.

She grew small it seemed. Making her way, suppressing things dreamed. They laughed at things she thought she’d hid. Talked of things she never really did.

Friends were enemies and enemies the same, taunted by voices not knowing her name. Lonely a thing she came to grasp well. A soft blanket she knit out of personal hell.

She didn’t know kind and missed out on close. Pieces of heart limply strung by a ghost.

Until a day one reached out. Offered the help she’d long lived without.  A strong hand extended, a friendship made. A thing never had, a wish that wouldn’t fade.

It’s all it took to live and love and because of this she rose above. The hurt, the pain all overcame. The weak, the cursed, all reversed.

She ate from the orchards of strength and pride, found a new life, chose to decide. To believe she had worth and deserved a new birth. To start things anew, become what is true.

Not one to forget what it is to be small; she’ll be never be far. A net for a fall.

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Write for yourself 2

Lying on a puce polyester couch, worn notebook propped on thigh, a gnawed nub of a pencil in hand. Just Another Day or maybe The Heart of the Matter floating through the air, perhaps the T.V. is sputtering an only occasionally heard word of Bay Watch or Chicago Hope. Wide windows, silvery sun, cobalt canvas, blanc billows, the occasional bird and me. Welcome to the seventeenth floor.

And, it was just me. No Internet, no social media. Hell, I didn’t even have a cordless phone. I was writing for me. Anyone ever reading it not even a morsel on my mind. An easy task, back in the day.

I understand the quote is bigger than this. There are complex layers beneath its simple veil. It’s saying be true to yourself, write from your heart, don’t sell your soul, undress word by word. I won’t vouch for anyone else, but I’d like to think most, if not all, writers aspire to this. Raw and real. Revealed.

But, I did take pause. Fast forward to today. Can you imagine not thinking of the public while you write? I really can’t. Like now…you’re all here with me. Our room is dimmed in tea-stained light, our toes, a touch cold. Shitty Kitty is curled up on our bed and we’re bathed in the white screen-glow of Robin Williams fighting the good fight as Mrs. Doubtfire.

What’s that you say? You didn’t want the Shitty Kitty? Yeah well, me either, but that’s neither here nor there. You’ll have to take it up with our kids. Maybe you’ll have more luck with them than I (obviously) did on the issue.

Now, where were we? Oh yes…

I write a sentence…a word…I stop. I ask you what you think. If you don’t like it, I try again. Eventually, we agree and a piece is born. It’s a harmonious working relationship, rich with compassion, fused with contentment and compromise.

I write for me, I edit for us and I surrender for the kids.

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