Archive for October, 2013

Enjoy the Silence

I’ve hit a wall, so to speak and I don’t think it has anything to do with what I was trying to write about the other day. If I ever get it finished, you’ll see what I mean.

I started out formulating my usual post in my usual style, but then decided to try and get all fancy and metaphorical. Come to think of it, that’s supposed to be another one of my fortes, isn’t it?

It was about some daunting task I’d set out to tackle and had eventually achieved with great (and surprising) success. Boring, right? No wonder I couldn’t finish the post. I’m sure it’s why I haven’t written anything since. My attempts at bedazzling it fell short and I, in turn, fell silent.

The benefit of fancying yourself a writer is the freedom to turn mundane into miraculous. You’re empowered, enslaved and hopefully efficient in your craft but if you happen to be having a day where you’re wondering what the bejeezus happened to your superpowers, just enjoy the silence.

Mother/Daughter Muddy Mugs

Ava Facial

Alana Facial 2

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I rarely sleep through the night. I wake up every few hours and despite my mother living just two blocks away, she’s hardly willing to run over and lull me back to sleep. (She’ll say she is.)

This insomnia of sorts has been weaving its way in gently and gingerly over the past long while. So stealthily in fact, that when a friend asked me if I ever have trouble sleeping, my answer was this; “Oh definitely not! I sleep like a…Oh wait – yes actually, come to think of it, I do have trouble sleeping nowadays.”

Why I wake is hard to say. Too hot? Too cold? A pea under the mattress? Thirsty? Perhaps I’m an unknowing fan of unyielding yawns and lead-laden lids? Or maybe it’s simply the obvious – that cover-stealing, log-sawing, sheet-thrashing fellow sleeping next to me. Nah, that couldn’t be it. A merciful muddlement to those exacerbating eccentrics was gratefully gifted upon me years ago.

Enter, stage left. We’ve face-lifted a dining room, overhauled a bathroom, and are currently primping a parlor. (Okay, I don’t often use the word parlor, but I’ve already said room twice, so to divert the dreary, in this instance it shall be a parlor.)

And all that is very exciting indeed. I love change. I am forever painting a room, swapping the drapes or rearranging furniture on a continuous quest for fresh and foreign.

But lately…

Change means more than glossy paint and a snazzy new rug. Change is bringing growth and ungrasping, independence and fear, wings and unwrapping, freedom and tears.

And, it’s freaky.

Anders New Driver

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Did it really happen? And, was it only yesterday? It already seems such a distant memory. But yes, it happened and, although it does seem many moons ago, it was, somehow, only the day before today.

The mission: to transport five children, one of them being my daughter, to a trail for a school fieldtrip. Our destination: a route approximately 34 kilometers, or 21 miles, away from my house. Their plan: to hike from 10 ‘til 2. My goal: to throw them from the moving vehicle.

Oh, I kid, I kid.

Of course I stopped the car first. I even made sure they were supervised before I sped off. You see? Solid parenting, folks. You saw it here.

Yes, I could’ve hiked. Yes, I could’ve helped, but I also could’ve snuck off to write away the hours in a cozy bistro with a caffeinated cappuccino. I’m sure you understand my inner war…that would be the one I’m simulating. In reality, there was no battle.

Writing outside of the house is a very different experience for me than writing at home. Take all the of the still available distractions such as, ahem, the Internet, and add to that the opportunity to people watch, one of my favorite addictions pastimes, and I still find myself more focused, not to mention less guilty. I don’t feel like I should be paying bills, vacuuming, doing laundry or participating in any of the usual time-suckers.

Minus the spell I spent being awesomely responsible, I had a decadent three hours to write a short story that I consider fairly contest worthy. And alright, I admit to a pinch of peeping.

I couldn’t help myself. It was amazing to see these people file in one after another, cramming the at first empty bistro in that sleepy village of 3400, not to mention how many of them had a touch more than a glass of wine with their soup de jour.

No judgment. Just jealousy.

Where do you like to write?

Beatniks Bistro

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I know what you’re thinking. This blog is nebulous no more. It’s hastily becoming crystal clear that Hazy is hog-tied by the harrows of her habitat. She seems to be engulfed in the epic endeavors that go along with, well, existing.

You’re only half right. Yes, it’s true. I have found comfort in crafting cunning (at least I think so) tales of ballsy baristas, bereaved bowsers and bursting brains, but I’ve also been writing. Not dysentery dribble, but writing, making things up out of thin air, fabricating fairy tales, staging stories…working my Wonder Woman.

And, I have proof. The other day, after reading through a bunch my past blogs and realizing that most things I write are…for lack of a softer adjective…shite, I received an email telling me that I’ve made it through the first round of judging in another writing contest.

Sometimes I do believe in that higher power. The one that looks out to the turbulent waters, sees you’re drowning and tosses you a floatie in the form of a new follower, a generous comment or sometimes, a glimmer of those very specific affirmations we writers inadvertently crave ~ conspicuous creds.

While I’d love to share the black and white of it all, certain contests forbid submission of works that have been published in any way, including via personal blogs. Makes a blogger feel important, doesn’t it?

So, in the meantime, let’s talk about how much cream cheese I found when cleaning out my far-too-long forgotten fridge.

Cream Cheese

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