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My Thoughts During a Work-day-Wednesday

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cat-1101867_1280We writers think really bizarre thoughts sometimes. Thoughts that jump from one random subject to the next; pondering how life works, what our characters might be thinking, wondering if the hum of the fluorescent lights is actually harmful to your health. (I think it is!)

Maybe it was in Jennifer Lawson’s Furiously Happy that inspired this internal monologue. It might have been. Anyway, here are some of my crazy thoughts from being bored at work today:

A weird article I read: Man Rescued at Sea Was Suspect In Grandfather’s Slaying. Turns out this young man owns a boat named, “The Chicken Pox,” and his mother who was going to inherit millions of dollars from said Grandpa, was mysteriously lost at sea. ***Feel free to use this one for a story idea.

Asked a women on the phone how she was and I get back: “I’m okay, I have a family.”  Is this an expression somewhere I don’t know about? Except, she seemed so sad when she said it to me.

I. Hate. Small. Talk.

Dead silences make me nervous…and sleepy.

Note to Self: Look up weather, it’s going to rain five days straight.

On that thought, seasonal depression might set in early. Remember to research insurances and psychiatrists in the area.

Space cowboys are kind of an awesome thing.

OR, maybe it’s the hum of electronics that you hear in the silence that makes me nervous…no one around but THE MACHINES.

I think I would have added more, but then I got distracted by story-planning and actual work helping customers.

How was your day? Happy Writing!

Do You Use a Novel Writing Software?

/ Ajmorse / 14 Comments

home-office-336377_1920Was having a thought the other night…maybe I should start using a novel-writing software to help organize this story I’ve been working on lately.

Googled some last night and got a few ideas, but I have no idea which one to choose. There are a few online options: Litlift and Novlr. But not sure those would work for me.

I downloaded a free program called ywriter5 last night and it doesn’t take .docx files and that won’t work considering I write in Microsoft word.

Just need something to help organize my thoughts.

Any suggestions? Do you guys use one?

Helping Others When You Can’t Help Yourself

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girl-1064659_1920There’s something that’s been on my mind lately.

As you guys know, Mike and I have moved to a new area, and that means…new job for me. AGAIN.

My last job was great for me: sit in a room and type and don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to. Boring, yes, but not taxing or stressful because I wasn’t forced to be interactive on days where I really didn’t want to.

People might shake their head and be like: what are you talking about? What’s so hard about talking to people?

But when you have social anxiety, there is everything wrong with talking to people. It is very difficult to help people when you can’t help yourself.

I don’t know how much I’ve stressed over and over to people who are close to me, and to others and I hope they will eventually get it.

Working in Customer Service where your job is to help people is sooo difficult when you can’t help yourself.

Inside, you feel like you can’t breathe, you are drowning. Your mind is telling you to do something, but you are also fighting with yourself. I can’t, I’ll do it wrong, I’m hopeless, I’m worthless, look at them staring…they know…they know…

On top of the anxiety, there’s the depression that comes a long with it. You feel like a loser. A simple job and you can’t do it. Everyone else is fine, no one is having troubles. There must be something wrong with me. I’m a nobody, I have no purpose, I feel so worthless…so worthless.

These are only a few of the thoughts that were running through my mind today when I was at my new job where I have to assist customers and I have to put on a smile, and I have to interact with people and pretend that I am okay when I’m not.

I even mentioned to my co-worker: “I’m a little anxious today, it makes me feel like extra slow and stuff.”

Didn’t really get much of a response. But where’s the time really to go into the full length explanation, and who knows really what to say to all that anyway?

I think I’ll be looking into seeing a specialist soon as therapists know the right responses to these feelings…or at least you hope they do, but something else has been bothering me:

Why aren’t more people aware of how debilitating anxiety and depression are in the work place?

I know it has effected me and my career…or lack thereof one.

Why aren’t we talking about it? Why aren’t more people aware how difficult it is to put on a brave face, when inside you feel like you are drowning?

WHY DON’T WE TALK MORE ABOUT THIS?

Anyway, I just wanted to throw that out there. Those of us that struggle with this are heroes when you have to bear this burden in silence, and we really shouldn’t have to be.

It is a real thing, and more people should be understanding out there…work place included.

Ah, I feel better now. Anyway, what are you guys doing tonight? Anything thoughts on this?

New Book to Read: In the Lake of the Woods, by Tim O’brien

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Not much going on this weekend. Parents came and visited our new place, did some errands, and now tacos for dinner. Yum!

Yesterday, got a new book at the used book store down the street: In the Lake of the Woods, by Tim O’Brien. I remember reading this book in school and I loved the writing style. The voice through out the story just flows and you don’t want to put it down. I also loved The Things They Carried, too.

Do you guys have a favorite writer whose writing voice just speaks to you? 

A Lesson in Peach-Eating From J. Alfred Prufrock

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peach-863349_1920I bought peaches the other day. And every time I think of eating one, lately, I can’t help but think of that poem by T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

If you don’t know the poem I am referring to, I found it here on this website. Most of my English teachers throughout the school years had us read the poem.

Mostly because of its evocative language. You can tell the way the narrator feels by the certain words he uses. The poor guy really does paint a sad picture. Anyway, the peach eating.

In the poem, the narrator questions:

“Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.” (T.S. Eliot)

What is up with this peach eating business?

Well…peaches are messy. If you are going to eat one and have the juice drip down your chin and elbow, you better do it with confidence. Especially if you are wearing white trousers.

But all I can think about is how sad the speaker sounds. He describes himself as something scuttling across the floor in some dark, deep, sea. A bottom feeder?

Poor J. Alfred Prufrock. He doesn’t think very well of himself…

And neither have I lately. That’s probably why I keep thinking of this poem.

But enough of that.

I ate a peach tonight for dessert actually, and it was fabulous.

I sometimes think I am the only one who actually liked reading this poem when they made us dissect it in school.

What do you guys think?

Little Free Library – Which Book Would You Share?

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I am currently obsessed with this little free library in my new neighborhood. The idea is to take a book and share a book. I’ve already taken a book – Water For Elephants, by Sara Gruen and left one of my own in its place – Ember in the Ashes, by Sabaa Tahir.

I think it’s so neat and people definitely use it, because every time I walk by there is something new in there.

Lately, I’ve been plagued with the thought that there are so many great books out there in the world and not enough time in the world to read them! Does anyone else have this anxiety?

I guess what I’ve been thinking about the past few days: Which book would you share? And why?

Happy reading everyone! (And writing!)

Writing Prompt # 147: ‘Sorrow croons for love…”

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Looking for a little inspiration tonight. Liking the new location, but still struggling to become comfortable with new surroundings and this is very important for us writer-types. We need to be able to find our writing voice anywhere, and I want to make sure mine is still there alive and kicking.

Got this prompt off creativewritingprompts.com because the book I usually use is packed away somewhere and I haven’t opened all of my office boxes yet…whoops. Not sure if its supposed to be a short story? A poem? Where it goes, nobody knows…

(Oh, and it totally isn’t # 147 on the website, I lost the number when I clicked away from the page. Oh well, it’s somewhere!)

Sorrow croons for love lost

tomorrow is another day

today is an opportunity

The young woman closed the book in her lap with a snap. “What a bunch of hooey,” she muttered.

Love wasn’t an opportunity for her…far from it. She grabbed her black shoulder bag where it was squashed against her legs on the concrete. She stood up and brushed the dirt off her clothes. Like it would matter. Her skin crawled and her head ached. Her dirty-colored blond hair fell in tangled waves around her pale face.

She walked on. The streetlights cast the street in a strange green type of glow. The road looked like it was full of molten lava, all cracked and glowing as cars rumbled over the potholes.

The librarian she’d met while she was rummaging through the library’s trash bins didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Here, honey,” she’d said. “I was going to take this home and shelve it…but you have it. You look like you could use a little love in this life.”

She’d taken it with numb fingers. She’d never been one of those people to remember gloves. And the old woman had looked so clean and smelled of lotion. The kind that her mother used to wear before she’d had thrown herself out of the window after Daddy shot himself.

She wasn’t sure if she had even said, ‘thank you.’

The woman had given her a weak smile and then had shuffled off. Like she knew already that Sarah didn’t have the words to say what she should have.

Sarah found a more comfortable place amongst the moss and the concrete, and the trickles of water underneath the red bridge which cut across the only dirty water-way in her not-so-small town.

She opened the crinkly pages, ran her fingers over words that were clean and very old but brand new to her. She pondered that for a brief moment, how words were never the proper age to anyone. They were always becoming something new, meaning something different to anyone. Somewhat…timeless.

A frog jumped and she with it, and the croak he left with a splash gurgled across the empty spaces, the cool night, the sound of concrete rumbling, cars and artificial light.

“Words are timeless,” she read.

age is but a number

crawls across space

and time, and I with it

“Don’t be just another number,” she continued, eyes glued to the page.

be the delicate words

you are reading so much about.

 

 

Saying Goodbye to My Office

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So, Mike, the other half, and I will be moving to a new location this coming weekend. While, the change is a much-needed one and nerve-wracking and hopefully the start of new adventures and story inspiration, I can’t help but be sad by it all.

img_20160806_143819072_hdr.jpgOur new location is smaller, but in a better location, but I will no longer have an office. At least…for now.

So, this is me packing up my books in boxes, lovingly stroking their covers, feeling sad like I’m packing away old friends. Thinking in my head: I’ll come back for you…this is only for a short while.

Already missing my collection of Knickknacks, my odes to Star Wars, and squeeze stress cow.

img_20160806_143902592_hdr.jpgAlready missing all of the more memories and story planning and writing I could have done here…but.

But.

It took me a long time to feel like I even had the words to say to even justify me having an office. It’s no joke that this gal here has struggled with a terrible writer’s fear after college.

Back then, I had the words to say in my head and my writers voice would just go and go and sometimes went even when I was supposed to be doing other things.

img_20160806_143830415.jpgAfter graduation, it felt like that voice was buried under a thick sludge of self-conscious. I went to the page with fear in my heart and self-doubt. I started a blog, I wrote, I stopped, I wrote again.

And then somewhere along the years of this, I discovered that I was being ridiculous. Oh, the fear is still there, of course. I feel it now wanting to creep it in, but I won’t let it.

I didn’t need an office to validate me as a writer, although having one is certainly a perk. Being a writer is something much more than that; and even though I’m sad I’ll no longer have this place to call home, I feel like, home is where the heart is.

My writing home can be the same way. It’s like a state of being. It’s where I most belong…I just have to make it so.

Happy Writing Everyone!

Flash Fiction: The Proposal

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I write a lot of notes in my phone’s notebook. Grocery lists, dreams, story ideas, names, blog ideas…you get the picture.

Found this in my phone written about a year ago. I guess I was going to submit it somewhere, but had forgotten about.

Going back and reading my dreams, too, are a hoot, but I think that’s worthy of a post all on its own. Anyway, enjoy. 🙂

The Proposal

A man leans against his black SUV in the early morning chill and stares down at his burning hands. His girlfriend left him, or maybe she died; it doesn’t matter now.

He thinks it might matter when he can get back inside and finally warm his hands, but he can’t decide what to do. His thoughts are jumbled, and panic ignites in his chest. He fumbles with the door handle behind him and climbs back in the SUV, rubbing and blowing at his hands.

He eyes the velvety box sitting in the glove box, which has spilled open, papers sliding down to the mat on the passenger side floor. He calls 911 and starts to sob into the receiver.

“Fiance,” he gasps. “Floor. Not breathing.”

He relives the scene etched forever into his vision as he begins to describe what happened. Her collapsed body on the sofa, her arm dancing towards the floor. The other one pinned awkwardly underneath her chest. She could have been passed out from drink, she could have been drooling into the sofa cushions, but she wasn’t.

Yesterday, she had told him yes, but today doesn’t feel like an affirmation.

Later, they will tell him that a complication with her medications was the cause; a misuse of sleeping aids. It haunts him to think that maybe she couldn’t sleep because she wasn’t happy, or that maybe she was too happy and sleep wouldn’t come.

Either way the cold continued, and he could never warm his hands.

Friday Night Writing

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Already had my glass of wine, and in bed before 9:30 on a Friday night…but there’s some silver lining here; going to try to write some!

“Gonna try to write something,” I told Mike, the other half. “Escape from the shit in the world for a while.”

Isn’t that the case most of the time, though?

When the world gets too much, or when it’s just not enough, we disappear into the fictional one for an adventure, a distraction that gets us out of this dysfunctional funk we find ourselves in half the time.

Maybe this is why I also love Children’s Literature. There’s always an adventure, always something to be learned but usually a positive outcome in the end.

And we could all use a happy ending, every once and awhile.

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Happy Writing!