Last night, I was thinking about making Friday a special post day. In which you guys would look forward to something recurring – either a continuing story, or a movie review, or a book review, or…something. I’m a big foodie, maybe I’ll post a picture of my lunch or something. (You think I jest? Just wait. 😉 )
So, what would you like to see every Friday?
Here’s some ideas…feel free to chime in with your own of course:
A recurring story, each Friday we will see a new chapter, or new piece of that story. (I’m thinking short story length when it is done, not novel length. Maybe 20 pages or so.)
A poem.
Book review.
Movie review.
TV Show review
Pictures…of something pretty?
Writing prompts/ story inspiration
Food; either something new I’ve tried, or some of my favorites
 A list of anything; probably in article format. Like 10 favorite places in the world, etc…
**Did you know: Charles Dickens Great Expectations was published first in serial form in Dickens’s weekly periodical All Year Round, from December 1860 to August 1861. (Wikipedia).
Well what do you guys think? Here’s your chance to weigh in!
I do like the idea of a continuing story…but let me know what you want to see, though, and I hope everyone has a great weekend!
This week is a week of inspiration for me…and another inspiration is dreams. I get a lot of inspiration from dreams, as they are basically stories that the brain invents all by itself while you are sleeping.
This morning I woke up at 4am with the knowledge that I had the best dream EVER, and despite me writing down as much as I could, it still seemed like a whole lot of nothing. I could barely remember anything.
All I do remember is that I was at a friend’s house staying the night, I made out with one of my girlfriends, (we have been watching a lot of Orange is the New Black lately), we sang a song, there was food and candles lit, I went somewhere with my boyfriend. I was working out on an exercise machine, doing pull ups. Then the dream switches to me being on a slide with my friends, we were poling on a raft through a river of dead bodies, then there was this waterfall drop, I was too scared to go so I jumped off the raft to the side.
Just as I’m about to go down the shoot, some arms and legs emerge from a grate and a man appears with a gun and a bunch of soggy money clutched in his hand, he tries to shoot me and the dream changes again…I remember a story within a story, a love story I eventually tell to someone and my amazing heroics. (Apparently I could control water.) I remember a large grassy hill and a yellow mansion on the hill. I remember writing names on a mirror in pink paint or lipstick; someone scoffing and saying they definitely weren’t the best couple ever. I remember I dreamed up a night’s worth of actions in two hours.
Although I couldn’t remember everything, what IS clear is the emotions. I felt hopeful, triumphant, amazing and invincible. Like justice was really served or true love really triumphed in the end. I felt strong and confident and young. My heart was warm, and fuzzy, I was the happiest and the most excited about life that I have been in a while.
If I had a dream about my ex-boyfriend, I wouldn’t be warm and fuzzy. No, emotions like regret and longing sometimes resurface. But it is funny how sometimes a story has the ability to influence your emotions, changes the way you feel.
That’s what I want to do someday: I want to make someone feel happy because a character is happy, I want a reader to rejoice in their triumphs. I want to write something that changes a person’s perceptive about certain things. Words are powerful. I want to shape them, make them my own and be one of the triumphant ones.
Anyway, that’s enough from me…What are your goals and inspirations? Ever have a story that was inspired about a crazy dream of yours? I’d like to hear it!
It is raining here in upstate New York, coming down like it means some business. We’ve had a flash flood warning, have been threatened with 3 or 4 inches of some good rain, but I’m not afraid.
Julianne Hough as Sherrie in Rock of Ages. I thought the whole Tom Cruise rock star thing was a little freaky at first. But you can barely recognize that its him in the movie.
Instead, I’m in that writer-like dream mode. The rain reminds me of sad stories, lost loves, that sad aching feeling of something once remembered, something cherished.
Just finished watching Rock of Ages while doing some much-needed dishes, and near the end of the movie is the song, “Every Rose Has its Thorn.” I don’t know why, but it inspires me…So I’ll use that as my inspiration for my next 15 minute journal session.
My 15 Minute Jouraling posts are something that I started as a warm-up for myself, so as to keep myself writing and the creative thoughts flowing. It’s something we used to do in my creative writing classes with a prompt given from the teacher. Anything can inspire me and I thought I’d give it a share.
I’ve done some other entries too, if you are curious, you can view them here, and here.
Also, it helps if I have that song playing in the background…I’m a sucker for covers and I really like the version on the Rock of Ages.
Here’s where I’ll put 15 minutes on the clock and do that thing that I do, GO!
>>>>She stared out the window at the rain, watched it come down in sheets and sheets of water that fell so hard it looked almost white. Her mother told her not to do it. Told her not to move away and live with a boy she’d just met.
The town they had moved to was in the middle of no-where. Except for the nuclear power plant a mile away, there was nothing there – except for a few dusty stores and cows that bellowed in the fields nearby. Her mother told her once that she hated the sound, that bellow. It was empty, mournful, made her think of her father that had up and left them. Angel said that the cows bellowing gave her stomach ache. It sounded like they were going to be sick and she’d rather steer clear of them.
Except there wasn’t anywhere to go in the empty town. She liked the look of the green grass and the trees that waved in the wind in the summertime, but come winter all she felt was loneliness. It was the kind that bites. That seeped into the cracks of their trailer and left a chill in her heart, an edgy-ness. Everywhere she went in that small town she could feel them watching.
And Angel knew that she wasn’t meant to stay.
It didn’t matter that she had no money. She wasn’t going to ask her mother for any either. She’d pack her bag and leave and feel the sun on her face once more. It was time she did something for herself rather than others.
She didn’t know how much that her boyfriend would put up a fight.
She’d told Andrew on a Tuesday that things weren’t right. He’d crush the beer can he’d held in his hands. Yes, he was the typical red-neck…complete with wife beater and ratty faded blue jeans. She’d like the grease on his hands at first. She liked the way he swaggered.
Now, she felt afraid.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said as he lit his cigarette. She’d told him not to smoke in the house.
Angel fumbled with the dishes that she was drying and nearly dropped it on the floor. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, nothing,” he said, and laughed and got up and kissed her bare shoulder, traced his hand along the edge of her tank top. “You won’t go anywhere without me.”
“May…maybe I’m meant to be,” she stuttered, and followed him into the next room, her hands still soapy. “You once told me I could do anything.”
He sat in front of the TV. “Yeah, that what I said?”
“Well, I’m going to do it,” she said with one hand on her hip. “I’m going. And you won’t hold me back.”
He laughed a laugh that had no emotion. She wondered if when he said that he loved her, if he really meant it. “Do what you want, Angel,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
If it didn’t matter, why was she so afraid?
By the next week, she had her bags all packed. She’d filled her car full of gas.
ANNND…that’s all the time I have. I used online stopwatch and the alarm just rang, scared me, lol. If I were to end this story, it’d probably go something like this:
She left him standing in the driveway, mouth wide open, his eyes finally open and lonely. The coldness had dropped from his face, and his shoulders drooped in that ratty wife-beater. It reminded her why she had loved him. He was so tall, and broad-shouldered, his eyes dark and beautiful. When she’d first met him, she thought he was so strong and steady. That he’d protect her, make the monsters of the world go away.
She imagined someone tough and blond-haired would marry him. She’d probably be a girl who grew up in camo and went hunting with her brothers on a regular basis. She wouldn’t be beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either. She’d swear like a sailor and be stubborn. She wouldn’t take Andrews crap, and eventually he’d turn to alcohol anyway.
Angel felt her stomach twist as she turned onto the highway. Felt the tires run on the open road and breathed a sigh of relief. Yet, she felt a jolt in her heart as she felt the pressure on her abdomen and she pulled over to the side of the road and threw up in the ditch.
Bile clogged her throat and bits of her breakfast went back down as she swallowed. And she ached all over, felt a kind of dread that defeats tiredness, it brings on its own kind of weary. Tears ran down her cheeks and she snuffed loudly as she tore around in her backseat for a tissue. Her fourways blinked and clicked obnoxiously as a semi bellowed past.
It was too late. She wasn’t in this alone anymore. She’d never be alone again.
Whoa. That took a different turn, geez. I didn’t really do any editing, except to fix spelling errors and I think I’m going to keep to that. I might use this as inspiration for something else someday.
Anywho, thanks for reading and now perhaps I can run to the store now that its not raining buckets and get eggs so I can make cupcakes!
I stopped at a KFC on my way home from work and there was a long line. I figured hey, I’m hungry I’ll wait a few extra minutes. It took a while for some customers to receive their food; as the workers were scurrying around the kitchen, they inform some customers of the wait, as they had to make some new batches of sides.
As you can imagine, one customer put up a fit. “This isn’t fast-food,” he says loud enough so the whole dining room can hear him. “We’ve been waiting for several minutes and you don’t have any food. You have to make everything, this is ridiculous. This is the last time I’m coming here!”
The manager was called out to console him, and while the man complains, I can just feel the atmosphere in the room drop: it’s so heavy, full of implications, irritation and impatience.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. I am irritated because I am hungry and tired, but I know better than to take it out on the poor teenagers making minimum wage. I fantasize taking a big stick and whopping it on the back of the man’s head. I think about confronting him and being like, “Let it go. What is your problem?” But I don’t.
The rude man who is being difficult is asked by the manager, “how can I make this better? What can I do for you? You are our guest, we want to make you happy.”
I’m thinking: What about the rest of us who has to listen to HIM? Who’s going to console us?
Somewhere in this predicament of bad customer service, I think that somethings gone terribly wrong. It makes me think:
How there are two sides to freedom of speech
How social mores sometimes hinder society
And how we need more heroes to stand up to the A-holes of the world
Just something to think about. It was a long wait, lol.
Food for thought…as it were. 😉 Happy Thursday everyone!
I need to do some writing, so what am I doing? I’m sitting here doing everything but that. I’ve painted my fingernails, I’ve gotten on Facebook – I’ve even read a few other blogs here on WordPress, including some of my own posts. Then why aren’t I writing? What am I afraid of? I thought I’ve gotten past all this.
Me, being silly!
I guess the fear was this: What’s the point of writing if its going to turn out terrible? Well, that’s not the point is it? The point is WRITING.
All things writing. Write, write, write, write, write!! Gahhhh….Now why am I sitting here staring and fearing the blank page?
In all things in life you can’t let fear let you get behind, and that includes writing.
I’m even sitting here with my new headphones on (a nice birthday present from yesterday, woo hoo!) trying to drown out the world, and FOCUS.
Hmm…okay, let me visit my book shelf and see if I can scrounge up some writing prompts. That might help.
It’s basically like a writing devotional. It offers you daily writer prompts, as well as lessons for each month on writing and how to improve the craft. I have a tendency to over think some of the writing prompts – actually now I’m starting to realize that I work best sometimes with a challenge. It’s okay to take the prompts where you need them to go.
It is fun sometimes to see how creative you can get. Instead of just one word or one sentence to get the creative juices flowing, lets try about five of them.
Here are the prompts for five days in June from June 6th – June 10th:
June 6:Â While the world sleeps
June 7:Â I have a confession to make
June 8: “There is a place somewhere called Paris”
June 9: Across the railroad tracks
June 10:Â The place where wild pines grow
15 MINUTES ON THE CLOCK….GO!
“There is a place somewhere called Paris,” she told me with a flick of her blond hair as she started reapplying her lipstick. She squinted at herself in the tiny blue compact mirror and then smacked her lips loudly. “They say that everyone walks around naked, I’d like to go there sometime.”
I eyed her smooth body, the tan legs and free arms, the way her hips curved over her jean shorts. “I bet you would.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she snorted as she put her make-up away. “It exists somewhere out west they say, across some railroad tracks at some nudist colony. You know, the place they say where the wild pines grow.”
I couldn’t imagine her anywhere surrounded by naked people, much less trees as a walk through the park seemed too much for her most of the times. She hated the squirrels that scurried down the trees, she hated the babies that cried on the playground, sometimes I think she even hated me.
I was her boyfriend, too. The one she was supposed to love – supposedly.
“I have a confession to make,” I breathed into her ear as I wrapped my arms around her thin frame and crushed those curves against me. “You’re beautiful.” I kissed her neck. “You’re sexy.” My hands trailed down her hips. “You’re lovely.”
She laughed a cruel, sarcastic laugh, and pushed me away. “Please,” she said with her hand on my chest. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“I didn’t want to be here anyway,” I muttered. She’d taken me for a drive, and then had parked on the side of the road across from the local park. I could see pine trees and several screaming kids running towards picnic tables as she’d put the car in park. The air tasted fresh on my tongue, was cool and fresh in my nose.
Then she’d uttered those dreaded words as she turned towards me. “We need to talk.”
We walked hand and hand for about two minutes and then she pulled away from me. I could see the coldness in her posture, the way her body seemed to be trying to avoid me. She adverted her eyes, pretended like she was crying. But I knew she wasn’t.
“You live in your own world,” she continued then. “Like, everyone else could die, and the world could continue sleeping and you would be the one outside of it, like in slow motion or something. Living your life oblivious to those around you.”
God, she was so stupid sometimes. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. The world doesn’t evolve around you Isiah Crane.”
“It doesn’t revolve around you either,” I said.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” she cried, as she turned back towards me. “That sarcasm! You’re so God-damned sure of yourself!”
I thought about that. I mean, why wouldn’t I be? I was smart, strong…and intelligent. I was pretty sure I was good looking. I shrugged. “Yeah, I got nothing.”
She started to cry then, loud, horrible tears. “I don’t understand why you’re so mean to me.” I didn’t really understand anything either. How she seemed to use everything but the truth to get what she wanted. She played games. She probably thought: maybe today, I’ll grab his balls and tug just a little bit more. I winced as I thought about it.
I didn’t want anyone tugging anywhere. “So this is it, huh?”
She brought her hands away from her face. Her mascara had left black tracks down her cheeks. “Aren’t you even just a little bit sad?”
I looked out at the fresh air surrounding us, the trees and green grass and water gurgling in a fountain nearby. Everything seemed brand new all of a sudden. I laughed once. “Should I be?”
I’ve been working on a story/writing for the better part of 2 hours, mostly because I am bored and mostly because I am procrastinating doing laundry – but the reason I decided to post was this: I just realized something.
There is a big difference between writing a story, and immersing yourself in that story. Sometimes you write on the page, but you never become involved. There’s a difference between staying in the present world that you are writing, and emerging into that world, where the sights, scents and conversation is what is around you – not the hum of the fan next to your computer screen, or the traffic outside, or the typing of your hands wandering across your keyboard.
Immerse yourself into that world fellow writers. Become one with the scents, the sounds, the people. It is jarring to come back from such a world sometimes, but if this is what needs to be done, then, hey, I’m all for it.
Now, what was I doing again?
Ah, being a writer really is a lonely thing sometimes. Only we see the world that we are writing and it is sometimes hard to explain to others why they can’t interrupt that thought process.
I compare it to waking up a sleep-walker. Don’t wake up the sleep-walker! It’s all disorienting and confusing. That’s why I always tell my boyfriend: don’t interrupt me when I’m in the middle of writing, its like waking me up from a deep sleep, yanking me away from a world prematurely. (And believe me he’s done it a couple of times, grumble, grumble).
Let the writer wake up in her own time. Ah, but anyway I digress.
Become one with the story…don’t be afraid to dive in! That’s all.
Happy Writing! And to those that are experiencing warmer weather (finally): Big Smiles! Summer is finally here!
This review is based purely on what I have seen on the TV Shows, also…
Spoilers ahead!
Photo source: HBO
Review of episode 6: The Laws of God and Men –
No Starks in this episode. Arya, Sansa, Bran or Jon Snow’s stories were nowhere to be found.
However, we do get to see a great deal of Theon Greyjoy…or what’s left of him. Theon’s sister, Yara, arrives with her ship of men only to discover that the brother she thought she was rescuing is no longer there. Ramsay Snow has completely broken him.
Meanwhile, Daenerys is learning what it means to rule and how time-consuming it is. She meets with subjects in Meereen and deals with the problems in turn. One in particular: her dragons ate someone’s goats. Whoops. She also confronts a man, whose father she crucified. The son now claims that his father was against slavery, and asks permission to bury him according to his customs. Daenerys concedes to the burial, but seems shaken by the confrontation. Perhaps ruling is not what it is cracked up to be?
And on another front, Lord Stannis is denied a loan by the Iron Bank, that is until Davos pleads his case to the committee that he is the real and rightful King.
Varys is confronted by Prince Oberyn in the throne room, and the Prince guesses correctly where Varys is from. It’s the first time I have ever really seen the spider on edge. Varys claims that he was never interested in men or women and says that without desire he is able to focus on more important things. He then looks meaningfully at the Iron Throne after saying this.
Lord Tyrion’s trial begins and we quickly see that the trial is a farce, as does Jaime. Jaime makes an arrangement with his father, Tywin, to pardon Tyrion and let him take the black, as long as Tyrion pleads guilty and has no more outbursts. In return, Jaime will take his place as heir at Casterly Rock.
Tyrion, of course, does not remain silent, as Shae is called to testify against him. She says that Tyrion killed Joffrey with poison to help his new wife, Sansa, get revenge against her slain relatives. I’m just going to come out and say it: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The episode ends with Tyrion demanding a trial by combat.
My thoughts:
I’ve always liked Shae and could not believe that she would go to such measures to get back at Tyrion. Was she blackmailed? It doesn’t seem like it.
I hate what’s being done to Greyjoy, it’s just awful to watch.
Anything with Daenerys is fun – it’s always great to watch a woman kick ass, and she does it a lot. Compared to Daenerys, it makes me wonder why Stannis wastes his time? He’s never going to win. Stannis’ storyline just seems like a big waste to me.
Also, Prince Oberyn is supposed to be the enemy, but I am finding myself liking his character more and more.
Nothing much else to say about this week’s episode, only that I can’t wait for the next one. I’m a great fan of the Stark sisters, so looking forward to seeing them next Sunday!
What did you think of last night’s episode? Thoughts below if you got ’em!
I was having some formatting troubles with my post last night, so in case you missed it, you can view it here.
I asked my boyfriend what he thought about it and he was like, yup, sounds like you really hate your job.
And don’t get me wrong, I don’t like it there…and am currently in the process of finding something new, but mostly I wanted to express my frustration at the lack of options for college graduates like myself and other people my age.
I was told to dream big growing up, and yet…reality doesn’t seem to make a lot of dreams possible nowadays!
Anywho, I’m not giving up though, and if I’m meant to write for a living, well, I’m just going to make that happen!
Best wishes to everyone and hope you enjoy your weekend! And keep on writing!
Part 2: Confessions was supposed to be about facing my Writer’s Fear, but this rant is very much-needed so hold onto your hats people. If you missed Part 1: Confessions, Struggling with Writers Fear you can read it here.
It’s no joke, the majority of middle class Americans are probably in the same boat – working day in and day out, struggling to make rent and hating the 8 to 5 job that pays the bills but keeps them locked to the grindstone. No freedom to do what you want, when you want and where you want.
It’s work all day for little pay. It’s time clocks, and meetings and little vacation days. It’s cramming in a few texts during 15 minute breaks. It’s knowing that the boss-man is always watching, waiting with that memo that doesn’t make sense.
It’s managers that get promoted when they don’t know a daaamnthing. It’s – not who you know, it’s who you blow.
It’s “The Office.”
It’s…politics.
Several weeks ago, I moved to a new town, packed my bags, said goodbye to the folks and grabbed an easy 8 to 5 job that is now slowly eating my brains out. (Note to self, remember to apply for new jobs a bit sooner next time.)
At any rate, its amazing how dysfunctional some companies are. Where people get treated like numbers and the company gets away with it. How ridiculous the rules of attendance are, of break times, of self-importance. When did it get to be like that?
When did I become of a peon in the great big world of the machine? I don’t remember signing up for that.
I am a child of the 90’s. I was told to follow your heart, follow your dreams, go to school for what you what. Well…if this is where a Liberal Arts degree in English Literature gets you, I feel gypped.
Today I got told by a girl barley in her twenties that I didn’t know anything. And that jolted me to a stop. I’m sorry? You don’t know anything about me, much less what I know and don’t know. At any rate, it pissed me off. I’m a twenty-five year old college graduate, who works hard for nothing, and The Writer in me is ready to stand up and pay attention. I don’t deserve to be anyone’s bitch, much less the company that I work for.
I’ve decided it’s time to be honest, and its time to be honest with myself. I want to write for a living. I want to find the freedom in my job, and in myself to work hard and do what I love to do day in and day out. With no fear.
Maybe the ridiculous of this company is pushing me in the right direction – I am soo very close to just quitting my job and starting to write for a living.
If I were honest with my self, I would admit that I am wasting my time being responsible for once. Sometimes you have to be a little reckless to follow your dreams. I mean, who ever said that getting what you want was easy?
I have to remember that it’s not my job that defines me, it’s who I am and what I chose to do with my time here on earth that makes me who I am.
And it is my time to be honest with myself.
I thought that I would make April a month of Confession Posts. Mostly Writing related, but this rant caught up with me tonight and needed to be let out. I know that there a lot of college graduates out there and people my age who feel the same. And we need to be heard and to support each other.
Look forward to Part 3 Confessions: How to Beat Writer’s Fear in a few weeks!
Any thoughts? Ideas? Rants of your own that need to be heard? Comment below! Writing is freedom! Let’s take advantage of it!
Moved to a new place in the last few months, and the building we are living in doesn’t have laundry on site, so every week or so I must make that dreaded trip to the laundromat. I hate doing laundry, and I hate laundromats, but the last time I brought my journal along and it gave me this somewhat amusing (if a bit depressing) journal entry:
3/5/14
I hate the sound of a laundromat. The way everyone’s laundry bumps up and down and goes every which-way, it makes me feel like there’s a hovercraft nearby, the rinsing and the swooshing, the quick, jagged vibrating of a laundry load full of jeans. The heavy slosh of an empty washer only half-full, only half used.
The dryer doors that fly open in mid-spin on a whim, flinging out their contents…be free undies…be free towels…be free…
Then there is the final rinse, the final spin, the heavy drone of a washer that bids you to keep waiting, groans and shudders, waiting….waiting…wait. One final spin, a heavy moan and then it shudders. It’s done.
How disturbing that washing clothes sounds like sex on paper, but it’s not like that at all.
Doing laundry is not sexy. It is the un-sexed, the final hangnail, the equivalent of having a migraine with a piercing light shining down on you.
It is like finding a stain on your favorite t-shirt, drumming your steering wheel in long lines of traffic, a fly buzzing in your ear, diarrhea, a sink full of dirty dishes, an open wound, the stink and the squelch of feet stuck in cold mud.
It is that raw, open feeling of words not said, of empty spaces, of regrets that come flying back in crowds of laughing, boisterous people. It’s like realizing you’ve forgotten something very important, and that dread of forgotten assignments…a pop-quiz, a failed class, the feeling of social paranoia. It is that trapped, dizzying realization that no one is coming to rescue you – life really comes with disappointments, heart ache and hurts.
And no one is going to rescue you from the overwhelming joyless feeling of living sometimes. Sometimes, all you can do is feel lost in the hullabaloo of it. Sometimes all you can do is look around hopelessly at the blank, wide-eyed, too-beautiful people and hope that they won’t notice that you might smell like prey to their eyes, that you might be that one person that might make this second of their lives a little more entertaining.
But ah, I digress – laundry. That menial chore that reminds you that there are other hopeless people in the world around you. You may think that you smell like roses most of the time, but in the end of it…eventually, all your clothes smell like shit. And that’s enough to bring dread to anyone.
Yeah, I really hate laundry. One day, when I’m rich and famous, I’ll hire someone to do it for me. But for now, it keeps me with the realization, and reminds me that no one is perfect – myself included.
So, what would you like to see every Friday?
