Writers Island: The Stranger

I didn’t expect to run into him as I cautiously pushed my shopping cart into the main aisle of traffic at the local Wal-Mart. I expected a distracted mother, oblivious to all but her noisy children and the path to the pharmacy. I expected an elderly man, slowly crossing my young and anxious path without even noticing the delay he caused me. But not him.

He wasn’t young, maybe middle-aged. The dark skin of his face was just beginning to fold into soft wrinkles and lines while bits of white flecked his hair here and there. He shrank humbly into his wheelchair as our paths crossed. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m always in the way.”

Perhaps it was the softening effects of gift-buying and Christmas lights, or perhaps it was just my over-sensitivity to many of the truths of the world, but sympathy, tenderness, and a pity that I tried to resist seeped into my heart, and it seized with ache. I tried to find the right words; I felt an overpowering need to reassure him that, surely, this could never be the case. But I couldn't find the words. All I could manage was a n uncertain “Oh…” and we separated, I pushing my cart, he turning the wheels of his chair with experienced arms.

Thursday Thirteen: 5th Edition

Wowwie I've been gone a while. But I'm back and feeling better than ever. Last night was rainy and windy and spooky; the perfect mood for a suspenseful movie. So a friend came over and we watched Dial M for Murder; we both like it a lot. Though it's sun-shiney today, October is notorious around here for being rainy and dismal. So today's

covers 13 movies for a stormy, October night.

1. Beetlejuice (Michael Keaton never ceases to amaze me)
2. Hocus Pocus (I've been watching this movie since I was kid; it's not "good" but I still love it)
3. Seven (everything about this movie is dark and creepy)
4. Ghostbusters (such a perfect blend of creepy and comedy)
5. Death Becomes Her (I've seen this movie so many times, but it seems like no one else has--bad taste or hidden gem?)
6. Edward Scissorhands (this one always breaks my heart a little)
7. Sleepy Hollow (I mean, how amazing is Johnny Depp?)
8. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (I get upset if I don't get to watch this when it's on TV--I think the original Charlie Brown movies are, hands down, some of the best)
9. Young Frankenstein (I've only seen this once, but Gene Wilder is fantastic)
10. Donnie Darko (it's just so haunting and terrific)
11. Casper (I used to have the biggest crush on Devon Sawa--the kid that plays Casper at the end)
12. Rear Window (really, any Hitchcock--but I thought The Birds was stupid)
13. Requiem for a Dream (this movie makes me really, really, uncomfortable, but it's absolutely brilliant)

What do you watch on stormy nights or to get in the Halloween mood?

Thursday Thirteen: 4th Edition

I'll be packing up the last few items lingering around my parents' house today to prepare for the big move tomorrow. I'm so so so excited to have a kitchen to myself again, and I can't wait to really dive into the gems of autumn (pears, cranberries, pumpkin). In on honor of that, today's

celebrates 13 fabulous fall recipes:

1) Pumpkin Soup with Smoked Paprika (courtesy of Simply Recipes)
2) Apple Cranberry Stuffed Pork Roast (courtesy of Simply Recipes)
3) Thai-spiced Pumpkin Soup (courtesy of 101 Cookbooks
4) Honey Wine Cranberry Tart (courtesy of Betty Crocker)
5) Apple and Butternut Squash Soup (courtesy of Orangette)
6) Sweet Potato Pot Pie (courtesy of 101 Cookbooks)
7) Blackberry Pear Cobbler (courtesy of Epicurious)
8) Sweet and Salty Cinnamon Almonds (courtesy of Apartment Therapy)
9) Pumpkin Biscotti (courtesy of Simply Recipes)
10) Warm Butternut and Chickpea Salad with Tahini (courtesy of Orangette)
11) Pear Crisps with Vanilla Brown Butter (courtesy of Epicurious)
12) Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Muffins (courtesy of Angry Chicken)
13) Autumn Stew (courtesy of Rachael Ray)

I'll be offline for a bit, but I have big plans for when I come back. Highlights include a LOT more posting, NaNoWriMo commentary, reviews of some writing tools I've picked up, and maybe even a new design. Cheerio and Happy Thursday!

Thursday Thirteen: 3rd Edition

1.5 weeks from now I'll be settling into a cozy little two bedroom place on Ann Street. I'm pretty excited about it, but a bit disappointed at the budget I have to work with for decorating/furnishing. I'll be hitting up some garage sales with my sister this weekend and, beyond that, I hope to work on these projects to spruce the place up a bit:

1. You can always count on design*sponge for interior inspiration. I go for the simple stuff, like using paper for noncommittal wall-art.
2. I think it's common to have t-shirts that you just can't let go of, even when you know you'll never wear them again. Thank goodness for Country Home and t-shirt art.
3. I think dust ruffles/bed skirts are silly. But box springs are pretty ugly. Leave it to Martha to think of a more economical and sensible alternative.
4. I often hit my head on hard objects that surround my bed. A padded headboard = problem solved.
5. Until I learn to sew, BH&G has me covered with no-sew window treatments.
6. I hate sitting without my feet elevated. Really. Good thing drawers aren't too hard to find.
7. If I can't find any drawers, maybe I'll happen upon an abandoned crate.
8. I've recently learned the value of an entryway. My apartment hasn't one. So I'll make my own.
9. I'd say it's pretty likely that I won't be able to afford much extra seating. But I love having friends over. Thankfully, the floor won't be too uncomfortable.
10. There are 2 things I require from a desk: space and space. Done and done.
11. No painting = no personality? No more.
12. I just got a new set of yummy brown cookware. Why would I want to hide them?
13. When I can't find hidden homes for the ugly but necessary bits and pieces that make life possible, I'll just cover them up.

Better get started!

Writers Island: The Journey

It's October 1st (well...it technically is October 2nd, 1 am, but...pooh pooh on that).
And here in the writing world, I think most of us are aware of what that means: the beginning of sign-ups for NaNoWriMo (or at least it's supposed to be--I was just at the official site and registration hadn't been activated yet). This will be my first NaNoWriMo. And I'm trying my best to think of it as an exciting journey.

I've always been a bit timid when it comes to venturing into the unknown. I Google restaurants before I eat at them so I know what to expect (this includes menu choices as well as payment options and where the bathrooms are located). I Mapquest every new destination to get a feel for the area and a detailed itinerary of how to get there. I like rules and guidelines, routine and structure. [Note: This is not to say that I'm a stickler for all these things, or that I freak out at nambdy-pambdiness. These are my preferences; 'tis all.] So, naturally, NaNoWriMo makes me a little bit anxious.

It's not that writing is new for me. I've been writing since I could hold a pencil. Though the quality of those early writings is embarrassingly questionable, a healthy dose of practice, reading, and some writing courses have helped me polish up my work quite a bit (though I'm still working on how to accomplish that perfect glossy sheen). But fiction. Oh dear. I'm not sure it was made for me.

I realize that I don't have to write fiction for NaNoWriMo. But I want to. Consider it the rebel in me. (There's one in all of us, you know. Mine insists on attempting feats I know I cannot excel at and wearing flip flops until November. What's yours do?) And that leaves me facing quite the rocky journey.

The first steps will undoubtedly land me in a quagmire of options. I being to feel like I'm sinking just thinking about genre. Just as I think I've landed on the sturdy ground of a futuristic dystopia, my foot slips into a mess of a buildungsroman.

But let's say I trudge my way through the swampy set-up of fiction writing. I know after that I'll struggle with the rugged peaks of developing a plot and characters, not to mention the hunt to find a location and time to house them. I've never been much of a mountain climber. And, yes, I can find almost anything, but it does help to have even a patchy set of directions.

*sigh*

So this journey will certainly be a challenging one. I'm certain I'll trip over a lot of underbrush and overgrowth. I imagine I'll get lost and have to backtrack more than once. And there will be times when I'll want to plop down in the middle of the NaNoWriMo jungle and cry, wanting to be rescued by a some ghost-writing hero. But if you'll take my hand, maybe we can trudge through this together. I've packed a character chart and a plot planner to help us find our way. And after all, I do have an excellent sense of direction.

Thursday Thirteen: 2nd Edition

Thirteen Reasons Why Fall is Fantastic

1) all things pumpkin (food, decorations, bevies...yummmm)
2) season premieres on TV
3) needing a fire to keep warm outside
4) cranberries (probably my favorite fruit)
5) Halloween (dressing up and decorating--2 of my absolute favorites)
6) pears (vastly under-appreciated i think)
7) sweater and jeans weather
8) festivals (ok, i seldom go to them, but i like the idea of them and i'm glad they're around)
9) being able to burrow under blankets at night
10) crisp air and cool breezes
11) the rustle of dried leaves
12) fire-tipped tree tops
13) burnt orange, rust red, burnt sienna, copper, gold

Writers Island: The Key

After a few phone calls, an interview, and a lot of paper work, I (finally) have a job. Now I can get my head back on straight and return to my writing. Ahhh...

_____________________________________________________________________

There's a key sitting in the middle console of my car. It's lost amid a collection of old gum wrappers, a cheap but pretty brooch, and the sticky remnants of the soda I spilled two weeks ago. But I know it's there.

In truth, I shouldn't even have the key. It should have been returned to a careless landlord several years ago. But nobody ever asked me for it after we moved out of the house; so I kept it.
I've thought about throwing it away several times. As I clean out my car I toss receipts, bottle caps, and dried up pens into a trash bag. I always come across the key sooner or later. I turn it over and over in my hand, run my finger along its ridges and curves. I tell myself that it's silly to hold on to something that has no purpose. But I can never quite manage to let go of that little gold key.

It's not a unique in any way. Just your average key; it could belong to one of a million front doors. Behind the door it does belong to is a quaint little house in sleepy Kirksville. There are three bedrooms. We slept in the middle one, flanked by our friends on either side. I remember the kitchen was quite large. Large enough to fit an oversized recliner that just wouldn't fit anywhere else. But what I liked best was the living room.

No, there was nothing spectacular about that room. A couple couches, a TV, a computer. But we were an unlikely mash of friends, and we created a psuedo-family in that living room. We shared pizza and laughter there. We watched endless hours of Sex and the City. We talked about our hopes, our fears, and our shortcomings. We created a home away from home for each other.

I guess that's why I keep that key. Because that was my first summer in Kirksville, and part of me thinks that if I throw away that key, I might forget. I might forget about making dinner together, cuddling on the Fourth of July, learning to live paycheck to paycheck, a sofa on the front porch, birthday celebrations, and all the lessons I took away from a couple months spent in a crowded house.

So I'll clean up the soda, and I'll toss out the gum wrappers and maybe even the brooch. But I think I'll keep the key just a bit longer.

Writers Island: The Gift

It's funny how simple things can reveal so much about someone. The way someone answers a phone, holds your hand, the drink he orders, the socks he wears. One of the biggest tells I've found is the gift he gives.

I do not wear a watch. I have skinny wrists, and it can be difficult to find accessories that aren't too loose. And watches have always bothered me; the way they pinch your little arm hairs every now and then and how they're always reminding you that the hours of your life are slipping away and someone's keeping track. No thank you.

I also seldom wear bracelets. I like my cheap costume-y ones: the fake pearls in shades of pale green, the little brown beaded ones with larger turquoise baubles, the cheap amalgamation of clear, creamy white, and silver beads. All containing some type of elastic, I like the way they stay in place but not too snugly, and they make good toys when my hands get fidgety. I could never wear bangles (all that sliding up and down and the pretentious clink clink every time you move your arm). I don't even get the phrase "tennis bracelet," and I certainly don't want it on my wrist, regardless of its karat amount.

I should have figured it out when his first gift to me was a watch. And I should have dropped everything and ran when his second gift was a sparkling bracelet. But instead, I stupidly wore these items that I loathed until I ended the relationship several months later.

It wasn't until my current love presented me with roses and daisies for our one year anniversary that I actually got it. Really, it was just the daisies. They're my favorite.

a minute of motivation is worth a pound of cure

It was a pretty simple plan. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. And so on, until I reached the thirty minute mark. It sounds incredibly simple, but when because I hadn't really done much running in almost 5 months, it ended up to be a bit of struggle in those last minutes.

It was the very last minute that really got me. My watch flicked to 11:56, and I dragged my feet into a quicker pace. Timing had cursed me and landed me on an uphill slope for this last push. I plodded along, slower and slower with each footfall but still at a decent jog. I glanced at my watch. 11:57.

I told myself one minute wouldn't matter. My lungs were agreeing wholeheartedly. My legs were applauding the idea. And I almost gave in.

But it occurred to me that if I couldn't push past this one measly minute, then maybe I would never be able to stand for anything. If I couldn't force my legs to keep pumping for a mere 60 seconds, it seemed all too likely that I would never get published, that I would never sell anything I created, that I would never get the job that made me happy, that I would probably soon find myself on another 5 month hiatus from running. It was just a minute. But I knew that my ability to conquer that stupid little fragment of time would speak volumes to me. My feet churned on.

I looked down at my watch again. 11:58.

Sunday Scribblings: Collector Personality

My mom would never admit it, but she collects junk mail. This is the only explanation I can find for the mounds of paper heaped in various places throughout her home.
In the living room, there's a basket of newspapers covering the events of three different counties. Most of them have never been read.
On the kitchen table, there's a stack of retail magazines near my mother's chair. There's a Current, a Betty's Attic, a One Hanes Place, a Mary Maxim, a J.C. Penney catalogue (the Christmas edition). On the kitchen counter, there's three credit card applications, eight charity requests, fourteen sale advertisements, and at least two dozen more retail magazines (Lands End, Herschners, The Popcorn Factory, the Sears Book, The Lighter Side, Chadwicks, and on and on...).
Back in my parents' bedroom, the top of the dresser is buried beneath more of the same.

I can't understand the purpose of this excessive display of junk mail. And every day it grows. I worry about the other knick knacks and trinkets displayed throughout the house. I'm afraid before too long they'll be lost amongst the flurry of paper. The pictures of grandma and my baby niece, the statues of angels and little kids playing, the candles of green, gold, and blue, my mother's claimed collection of wrought iron tricycle figurines--how can they ever survive in a sea of ink and cheap paper?

But I've got a greater concern...the welfare of my parents. Because one day, this collection of junk mail is sure to band together and rebel. They won't be satisfied with owning the table, the counter, the dresser. They'll overflow onto the floor, pushing their way throughout the entire house, flooding the living room, wedging open cracked doors to find their way through the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the closets. My parents will come home from work to a party of paper goods. Mary Maxim will be hanging from the ceiling fan, scattering her bits across the floor. The Sears Book will be duking it out with the J.C. Penney Catalog while Lands End is working a concession stand, selling glue and staples. Mastercard and Visa applications will be hacking into the computer, racking up the charges on themselves under my Dad's innocent name. And as my unsuspecting parents open the door to this chaos, they'll be attacked by a flock of fluorescent pink and green fliers, and...

what's that?

yeah, Mom, I'd love to make a trip to the recycling center.

phew...

Thursday Thirteen: 1st Edition

I've had a long, long love affair with song lyrics. I'm always amazed when a songwriter manages to nail down some vague emotion through the simplest of words matched up with the perfect melody. So for today's

I present:
Thirteen Lines of Lyrical Loveliness

1) "ransom notes keep falling out your mouth / midsweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs / speak no, feeling no, i don't believe you / you don't care a bit" - Hide & Seek, Imogen Heap

2) "and i act like i have faith and like that faith never ends / but i really just have friends" - My Friends, Dar Williams

3) "and so it is, just like you said it would be / life goes easy on me / most of the time" - The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice

4) "so we bottled and shelved / all our regrets / let them ferment and came back to our senses" - Mistakes We Knew We Were Making, Straylight Run

5) "watch you spin around in your highest heels / you are the best one of the best ones / we all look like we feel" - Stolen, Dashboard Confessional

6) really, the entire song "A Comet Appears" by The Shins is lyrically amazing, but in particular: "one hand on this wiley comet / take a drink just to give me some weight / some uber man i would make / i'm barely a vapor" and "we can blow on our thumbs and posture / but the lonely are such delicate things"

7) "the stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun / when you read my mind" - Read My Mind, The Killers

8) "a trace of me / it floats in my periphery / and ever time i turn to see / it goes" - Prison Food, Ben Folds

9) "and it's not a cry you can hear at night / it's not somebody who's seen the light / it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah" - Hallelujah, Various Artists (but my favorite is Rufus Wainwright)

10) "i've fallen so far / for the people you are / i just need your star for a day" - Fly, Nick Drake

11) "i went because you said you'd be there / a box of candy, smoke in your hair / explain it to me again and again / like i care / ba ba ba ba ba" - Bruised, The Bens

12) "tears and fears and feeling proud / to say i love you right out loud" - Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell

13) "butterflies are passive aggressive / and put their problems on the shelf / but they're beautiful" - In Other Words, Ben Kweller

and wasn't that an excellent way for me to waste 1.5 hours?

Writers Island: My Imaginary Life

As a recent college grad, I've been doing a lot of imagining about life. Living in my parents' house, unemployed, with a car that seems to be about five steps away from the point of no return, it's been pretty easy to imagine an ideal life for myself...

I would wake up in the morning to the smell of fresh coffee--because I've always wanted but never had a coffee pot with a timed start function.
I would give my love a quick squeeze, a kiss on the nose, and then tumble out of bed and into the shower--because ideally getting out of bed wouldn't feel like such a chore, and maybe I wouldn't hate morning showers so much.
I would bop along to work in my Mini Cooper--because I'm sure that's what you do in a Mini--bop. I would step into my little cafe, where some lovely fresh-faced and charming girl has already opened up after baking away for a few hours in the morning--because who wants to get up that early?
I would slip into a pretty apron, one like so many that hang along the walls, ones that I've stitched up myself, ones that you love to buy along with a sundry of other bits like hand-bound journals and charming totes.
I would get to work on the daily biscotti, stopping every few minutes to chat with my favorite regulars, and to make any newcomers feel welcome.
Around 4:30, I would bid adieu to my cozy cafe, left in the capable hands of a trustworthy doll who locks up and cleans each evening. I would head home, just in time to work on a healthy and tasty meal with my love.
We would finish up with a heart-healthy glass of wine, and I would trip off to my study with a mug of coffee, ready to pound out a few thousand words of perfectly crafted prose--because in this imaginary life, editing and revision are hardly necessary--perfection comes naturally.
And upon finishing up my day, I'd curl up into bed, next to my love. He'd wrap his strong arms around me; I'd rest my cheek against the warm sturdiness of his chest. And our sleep would be sound and solid, uninterrupted by dreams of a life more perfect.

"I get that sinking feeling..."

It occurred to me that the wrapping up of our relationship might have gone too easily. After declarations of love and an awkward attempt at moving beyond friendship, it seemed like it should have been more difficult and heart-wrenching to deem our efforts failed. We scraped the remnants of us off our plates and agreed to start again. I should have known that feelings and desires would cling like a stubborn gravy, time having fused them to his heart.

She's nice.

It is not meant as malicious or even disapproving commentary. But as soon as the words leave my mouth I know they will not do, and I get that sinking feeling. His eyes plead with me. Please make me feel like she can replace you they seem to say. I struggle between my conflicting duties as his friend and former love. I could say she's great and perfect for him, but the intensity of our friendship makes my already pale lies virtually transparent.

I would never speak for him, but I think he's suffering silently.

These are the words I should have known I would hear. I turn my plate over and over again in my hands, searching for lingering bits of hope to match his. But I can find none.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I have a lot of fears.

It was easier when I thought I knew what I wanted to do "when I grew up." It seemed so simple and perfect to move to New York and pursue a career in editing. I had my plans boxed up in this neat little package with perfect edges and a secure latch.

But then it all blew to hell.

Those crisp edges started disintegrating; the latch kept flopping open and my neat little future leaked onto the floor in a muddled mess of confusion.

A friend of mine once said he was impressed with how pulled together I was. He'd be so disappointed if he could see the way I'm falling apart now.

The biggest challenge, I think, is figuring out what I'm most afraid of.
Is it being away from everyone and everything that I know and love?
Is it having a job that bores me and that I only tolerate in hopes of rising in the ranks over the years to finally arrive at interesting job 5 years from now?
Is it a cubicle? A 9-5? White walls and file folders? Business casual? Casual Friday? The word "office"?
Is it that I'll make the wrong decision? About the job? About my location? About my relationships?
Is it that I'll be a disappointment?
Is it failure?
Is it...success?

Here's the secret, dearest diary. Here's the scandalous tidbit that would get me laughed at and mocked.

I just want to be happy.

And nothing else really matters.