Return from Spring Break

Why can't grown-ups have nice, full, week-long Spring Breaks? Wait, our kids don't even get that anymore -- they divide up Spring Break into two half-weeks, which, IMO, is stupid and defeats the point of Spring Break. Anyway, none of us get real vacations anymore and that blows.

Time off is crucial. We all need it. Even adults need time here and there to just get away from the workplace and all its stresses, and just relax. We need to rest and recuperate, or else all our work crashes down on our heads and that's how people go on shooting rampages. Well, that and some serious mental health issues, but you know what I'm saying. In order to really appreciate one's job, sometimes one just has to get the fuck out of that place for a little while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or at least makes you want to hurt people less. ;)

So, what did I do on my Spring Break? Nothing. I slept in late, watched guilty pleasure TV (anyone else here have a strange fascination with TLC's Toddlers & Tiaras? Anyone? Just me? You snobs), and read a semi-trashy historical romance novel, as I am wont to do with my vacation times. Last year, it was Phillippa Gregory's wickedly saucy Wideacre trilogy, which was so crammed full of incest and tragic love that it was like reading a V.C. Andrews novel set in feudal England. Needless to say, it was awesome. This year, I'm halfway through Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor, and it's like Gone With the Wind set in the Restoration Era, except Scarlett has way more sex and there's abortions and gay subtext amidst the detailed descriptions of all of the fabulous gowns and decor. I'm unabashedly loving it, even if Lord Carlton is no Rhett Butler (oh, Clark Gable, I don't care what fellow Charlestonians say about your accent -- you were still my first crush, and you are still my Rhett).

And I did get some writing done, which is good, because there are suddenly a few more followers on this blog than there were the last time I checked it. Hello, new followers! I'm quite honored that y'all want to watch this blog, and am exceedingly flattered by the comments left on the last piece of short fiction I published. Feedback is so critical to writers, and every piece is beloved and appreciated.

Other than that, not much else to report. Back to work, irritated with Bret Michaels for choosing fake-eyebrows Taya as his latest Rock of Love (though admittedly, I've never forgiven him for eliminating Farrah and Ashley), and ready to get back to business: working, blogging, and writing.

In short: hello, world. Nice to see you again. :)

FICTION: Potluck Girl

In response to Daily Writing Practice's prompt-of-the-day: potluck. Just a little drabble, but I like it, and I hope you do, too. 

Comments/feedback/criticism are always welcome. :)

Potluck Girl

She's a potluck girl, a stew of odds-and-ends deposited by the men she loved but never loved her in return. She watches Monday Night Football and still roots for the Steelers, just for Mike, who she hasn't seen in six years. Her iPod is a mishmash of genres: Richard's bluegrass, Danny's indie bands, Alex's gangster rap. She still wears kitten heels for Bobby, who always hated that she was taller than him and eventually left her for her more petite best friend.

"Get over them," her friends tell her. "Find yourself. You need to be you."

They make it sound so easy, but it's not, because they're all still inside her, churning and bubbling, their memories hot to the touch. It's too late to get rid of them; they've all melted together and are stuck to her bones.

And maybe her friends are wrong. Maybe these men make her who she is. She's Tommy's chambray work shirts, Beau's chai tea, Andrew's skinny jeans. What if all these men have made her who she is? What if that's the way it's supposed to be?

But deep down in the black, hot kettle of her heart, she knows better. She knows. Nobody should ever be just an amalgam of other people's leftovers, because when you take those chunks away, all that's left is a thin, weak broth that tastes of nothing, nothing at all -- and that thought terrifies her to the core.

So she keeps them all inside her: Jack's cheesy science fiction novels, Eric's appetite for Korean cuisine, Bart's dark fetish for handcuffs and stilettos. She lets the pot keep boiling because she can't ever forget them, even if they've already forgotten her -- and she's wise enough to know they have.

After all, who could possibly remember someone who can't even remember her own self?

Working & Writing

So, I've been working on a short story inspired by WritingPrompt on Twitter (great source of prompts, btw) for the last couple of days, and it's kind of taken on a life of its own -- I'm up to 2500+ words, and I'm still not quite finished with it. 

This is a good thing. I've suffered from writer's block for, God, over a year already. It's not for lack of ideas: there are about six different stories swimming around in my head right now, some short stories, some novel-length ideas (including one "magnificent octopus" that I've been in love with for about two years). It's getting them onto paper that's the difficult part, mostly because I've lost a lot of confidence in my own writing.

I used to write a lot. Like, a lot. But somewhere along the line, personal shit flared up and I lost myself for a while. I'm trying to find myself again, and these little prompts fluttering through the Internet have really helped. I've got ideas, my imagination is churning, and I'm enjoying writing again. Last night, I sat down for three hours straight and just wrote, and it felt like heaven.

Unfortunately, finding the time to write? That's a little harder. Work has become more intense recently and my job responsibilities have been ramped up (which really means I shouldn't be taking the time to update my blog right now, but what the hell, it's my lunch break), and my living situation isn't exactly conducive to "ideal writing conditions." (Hey, you try living with two boys and three dogs and see how many words you can crank out in a day. It ain't easy.)

Still, I'm going to keep at it, because that's what writers do -- we can't help but write. It's just in us. Besides, one of the greatest pleasures of being a writer is watching where a story goes. I want to see how this little tale ends. And when I'm finished with it, yes, I will post it -- that's half the reason I created this blog, after all. :)

Until then, it's another cup of coffee, another phone call to answer, another letter to send, and in the downtime, a few hundred words entered into MS Word. Such is the life -- but it's a good life.

Except when the dogs eat my shoes. Seriously, Boris -- STOP EATING MY SHOES. I know you're cute and all, but so are my hot pink ballet flats. *sigh*