Lovy Got Her Groove Back

I'll state the obvious:  I haven't written in my blog in a loooong time.

It's been long enough to wonder whether or not I should just scrap it all together and start something new or just pick up where I left off.  It wasn't an easy thing, to come back.  Let me explain...

Back in March, I went on a trip to Boston, MA and had the time of my life.  There is a very humorous story of how I came to fall and hurt my knee the night of St. Patrick's Day, but I'll never tell it publicly.  It all turned out fine, but it was an awful trip back to CA.  I also ended up having a small bout with depression.  Being in my room all the time and not being able to do things for myself weighed heavily on me.  In this state, I stopped doing anything creative.  When I finally did come out of the haze, I didn't really know how to start again.  I had to figure out how to manage my time in a way that wasn't stress-inducing.  I got comfortable with the necessary activities and just added one thing at a time back into my schedule.

I don't know why, but writing was so difficult to get back to.  Nothing as frightening as a blank page and all that.  About a month ago, I just said "Eff it," and wrote a short, crappy story.  I'll never share it, but I wrote something and it counts.  The reason I was able to go on, and the reason why I'm able to write on this blog at all again, was because I have a really great critique group that I belong to.  Every time I go to a meeting, I'm always inspired by the energy of the group and the talent that they all possess. Writing a crappy story can be discouraging, but with the right people around me, I was motivated to write more.  It was the push that I needed.

After that one story, I decided I wouldn't write anything new for a while.  Instead, I worked on editing an existing short story.  The second draft was a major improvement.  I shared it with the group the following week.  It was received so well and I got so much feedback to run with.  I went home that night and I was actually excited to get behind my computer and start with the next rewrite.  The feeling hasn't gone away yet.  I've been writing a little bit every day.  Nothing new, but I'm back on a routine.  It feels good to know that my brain didn't entirely turn to mush during the past few months that I've been on a writing hiatus.

Moral of the story:  critique groups are important for a healthy writing life.  I don't think I would be making another post if I didn't start going to meetings again.  Of course, you have to take responsibility for your own vision, but having the support of people that are doing the same thing you are...people that want to see you succeed...there's no replacement for that.

Women That Rock My Socks- Eve Ensler

Today is International Women's Day!  Every day is a good day to celebrate the women that inspire you, of course, but I'd like to take a little time out to talk about some authors that inspire me either as a writer or just for personal reasons.  Since the whole month of March is Women's History Month, I'll be spreading these posts out over the next few weeks.  When someone really makes an impression on me, I have a lot to say.

I should start with the woman that has had the most profound effect on who I am today.


EVE ENSLER

Eve has been somewhat prolific in writing pieces meant to combat the various forms of violence that women encounter in their lives.  She's most known for the play The Vagina Monologues.  Eve interviewed hundreds of women and compiled their experiences into a series of monologues, all based around one central topic- the vagina.  I am actually in the play this year performing the monologue, "Crooked Braid".  The play sparked a revolution for women around the globe.  A support network branched out and eventually the organization V-Day was formed.  This organization is an international struggle to end violence against women.  Perhaps we are dreaming, but I'd rather work towards an idealistic future than collapse in apathy to an oppressive reality.  Working with this organization has been a healing experience for me.  I'm no longer a victim.  I'm a survivor, and it is because of Eve's work that I was able to distinguish the difference and make that leap. 

I actually have a story with Eve that I'd like to tell.  She was touring with her then new book, Vagina Warriors.  I went to a signing/reading of the book at an indie bookstore in Hollywood.  It was a very small space, and everyone did the best they could to crowd in.  It meant so much to me to be in the same room and listen to the woman that had changed my life.  I subscribe to the school of thought that if you really appreciate someone, you tell them.  We're used to being criticized, but how often does someone say something to you in praise?  Exactly.  So when you have a chance to tell someone they're makin your day/year/life, do it.  Anyway, I got up to the front of the line to have my book signed.  I told her how much her work has meant to my life and I just completely broke down crying.  Instead of being weirded out as other people might have been, she stood up, reached across the table, gave me a huge hug and started crying with me. 

Eve Ensler uses the power of words and art to transform the world.  I can't think of anything more inspirational than that.  If you have not already done so, please look around your local colleges and communities and try to find a production of The Vagina Monologues in your area.  All proceeds go to organizations that are local to you that are committed to this cause of eradicating violence against women.  I believe a certain portion of book sales from any of Eve's books also go towards V-Day.  For information on Eve Ensler, The Vagina Monologues, and V-Day or to donate directly to this organization, click this: V-Day.

100 Word Story- Last Meal

School and lots of other things are freaking me out right now.  Thankfully, most of my stressful situations will be coming to an end at least by the end of March.  Work hard, play hard.  It's all a balancing act.  The muse hit me today.  It will make at least one person giddy when they read it.  That's what I'm here for.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cole sat on his bunk staring straight ahead. In front of him, a small wooden table with a single chair was set out. The plate on top was taken away every hour and replaced by a fresh dish. The aroma filled the cell, and Cole watched the steam rise. After three days, he couldn’t stand it any longer. His choice: starvation or poison. Cole knew of worse ways to go. He sat down at the table and savoured each bite. Let the juices run into his wild beard.


“Well, that was lovely,” he said.

Last words before a last breath.

Somebody Has To Cry

I think I've expressed already that I do not like holidays.  Oddly enough, I think Valentine's Day is one of the more tolerable of them.  I say this having just come off from an Anti-Valentine Celebration with my best friend featuring wine and horror movies.  However, I really don't mind it too much.  Let's completely ignore the commercialism, shall we?  I really like that everything is pink and cute and just overall mushy, and that's kind of the way I prefer things.  People complain that they're made aware of their singleness on this day.  I'm quite aware of my singleness EVERY day.  It doesn't bother me that the card with the two cartoon birds kissing with hearts floating into the sky is not for me.  At least it's pleasant to look at.  That's all I can really ask for out of life.

There's a short story by Marilyn Bobes called "Somebody Has To Cry".  It's about a woman who has committed suicide and we learn about her through the memories of the people she leaves behind.  They do a lot of speculating about her sexuality.  She was a lesbian and this somehow concerns everyone, but it's somewhat besides the point when I think about some of the bolder statements that it makes about domesticity and love. 

"But love, she told me, is too uncertain and changeable a sentiment.  We shouldn't give it the central role that only the most essential things deserve...At seventeen, Maritza already thought that the more fulfilled a person felt, the less she needed another person in order to be happy.  Love, she insisted is an arrangement between losers.  That's why it's almost always we women who are most in love.  Because women by nature are the ones who lose...We've been brought up, she told me once, to facilitate the triumph of men; look at you, with all your talent, and all you talk about is them."

Basically, she's saying that devoting so much time and effort and energy to finding love is getting in the way of women achieving their true potential.  I see where this could possibly be true.  There are days when I get a little blue because I don't have a honey to nuzzle, and it can really fuck with my head.  All of a sudden, I forget about all of my accomplishments and suddenly feel like a failure.  That kind of negativity isn't good for the soul and thus requires a different outlook on life.  Bobes suggests one way to change the attitude, but I just don't think that I could ever be that cynical about the whole thing.  Deep down, in my core, I believe in love.  Everyone has to believe in something.  I may be a girl of good sense, but I think love will always be a target for me.  I can think of worse things to get into and I'm no stranger to foolish pursuits anyway.  I'd rather be a fool with a conversation heart than a realist.

In short...Happy Valentine's Day.

Pantser to Plotter

This blog has been invaluable in helping me with my writing process.  Almost every article about becoming a writer gives this one piece of advice:  "Have a regular writing schedule".  It doesn't matter what schedule you put yourself on.  Some crazy people write 1,000 words a day, every day.  While I would love to write 1,000+ words a day, I'm afraid that a full-time job, part-time college, and being a 'round the clock puppy mommy prevents me from that sort of goal.  For me, once a week is good.  I get to take time out from my hectic schedule just to do something creative.  I never get a chance to lose sight of what I want because I'm purposely making time for it.

What this new writing schedule thing has taught me is a little thing called "discipline."   I don't usually have any.  I'm driven and I'm capable of accomplishing tasks, but I just have a little case of "shiny thing" syndrome.  I'm easily distracted, and I would say that's the largest obstacle to overcome if I'm going to get a novel finished by the end of the year. 

My writing strategy at the moment is indicative of someone with concentration issues.  I'm a Pantser.  I sit down at the computer and pull a story out of my ass. I'm as surprised as anyone else if it comes out awesome.  If it takes more than a day to write, it's probably not going to get finished because by then I've followed the shiny thing to my next line of thinking. 

I'm thinking that perhaps it's time for a change.  Why not apply this "discipline" thing to my writing strategy?  Friends...I'm going to become a Plotter.  I already bought a notebook to show myself that I mean business. The goal is to get the entire novel outlined by the end of February.  That seems reasonable to me.  I haven't developed goals beyond this.  I'm not quite sure how this Plotter strategy is going to suit me so...baby steps.

Happy Birthday, Tessa!

A certain Miss Tessa is having a birthday this month and she requires a blogfest.  A blogfest she shall have!  She wants stories about a birthday, or a present, or candles, or....you get the picture.  Head over to Tessa's Blurb to read the other wonderful entries when you get a chance.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On my tenth birthday, my grandmother took me into her room where we could be alone.  She said that she had a special present for me.  She went to the jewelry box on top of her dresser.  I thought for sure she was about to give me one of the rings I admired.  I was disappointed when she produced a key.  It was peculiar and ornate, lovely and novel, but not what I was expecting.

"What does it open?" I asked.

"When the time is right, you will know what it opens.  When that time comes, you may look at what's inside, but if you don't want any problems, you will always keep it locked."

This information puzzled me.  I stood there twirling the key in my fingers intrigued by the mystery and the secretiveness surrounding it.  My grandmother embraced me and held me close.

"Remember today exactly the way it happened," she said before we both went out to finish setting up for my party.

Years later, she passed on.  As my mother and I were going through her belongings, I found a wooden box buried in the back of the closet.  Something in my mind clicked and connected back to that day.  The box with it's complex floral inlay was one of the only things I asked to keep.  In my apartment that night, I found the key in my dresser drawer.  My heart pounded with excitement as I inserted the key into the brass lock.  It protested at first, but a slight jiggle was all that was needed for the key to turn smoothly around in a full circle. 

I took a deep breath before opening the lid.  On top of black velvet folds, I found what appeared to be a wooden dowel.  Upon closer inspection, it was actually a flute of some sort, but it was much too small to play.  I couldn't imagine why my grandmother would keep such a thing hidden.  It didn't even seem useful.  The phone rang, and I left the key by the side of the box to answer it.  My mother wanted to know when I would be by the next day to help again.  I asked her if my grandmother had ever shown her the box or told her anything about it.  My mother knew nothing of it, surprisingly.  It seemed to be a secret between my grandmother and I.

My dreams that night were filled with whispy notes in strange melodies that I didn't recognize.  I woke up to loud crash from the kitchen.  I laid paralyzed in my bed as more crashes rang through the apartment.  Careful not to make any noise, I got up and went to the door.  I slowly twisted the door knob and pulled the door ajar just enough to see what might be making those sounds.  I didn't know how to feel when I realized that it wasn't a human that made those crashing noises.  My patio door was wide open and my apartment was filled with birds of various sizes and species.  They covered every inch of my apartment.  It took all morning to get them out.  I called my mother and told her we'd have to continue going through my grandmother's possessions another day.  When I hung up the phone, the box with the key still beside it caught my eye.  I locked the box and hid they key away again.

Prediction

The supernatural has always been an integral part of my life.  Some of it leaks out into my stories, though I tweak the experiences until they cross the line into fiction.  There are many things that I never talk about which is what makes writing a cathartic activity at times.  Still, there are some things that I think are fun to share because they are just odd enough to make you raise an eyebrow, but ambiguous enough to let you draw your own conclusions.   Let's talk of the future, shall we?  Or I guess, more appropriately, the past.

Barrett, Shamra, and I fell into a mischievous mood one night on the Santa Monica Pier.  We eventually ditched the carnival and arcade for the comparatively deserted boardwalk stretching along the sands.  The conversation bounced around from serious to hypothetical topics.  Just when we thought we might have made a mistake by leaving the pier, we all looked up to see a palm reading establishment.  It was late and everything around the shop was closed, but there were two psychics ready and willing to receive all three of us.  Barrett went to the back of the room for a thorough palm and tarot card reading.  Shamra and I had just enough money to share a palm reading.  The future is kind of pricey, apparently. 

I went first.  The psychic took my hand into hers, palm facing up, and asked what I wanted to know about.  For a silly, eighteen-year-old girl, the answer was easy enough.  Love, of course. 

"Who am I going to fall in love with?" I asked with equal parts skepticism and eagerness.

She told of a meeting that would happen within a month.  A tall, brown-haired, green-eyed man was in my future.  She went over the details of the meeting and said that it would lead to marriage.

"You will be happy for a long time," she said.

"Will we be together forever?"

"You will be happy for a long time."  She said it very firmly, leaving me to sort out the vagueness for myself.

When we left, we all agreed that the experience was fun, but perhaps we shouldn't quite put so much stock into the advice of two psychics on a lonely boardwalk. 

It was all easy enough to dismiss until the strangest thing happened.  I met my tall, green-eyed man in the exact way the psychic said I would.  It was love at first sight and within three months, we were already engaged.  Every second was bliss and it seemed to us and everyone we knew that we may just be one of those couples that actually made it. 

Still, my mind occasionally went back to those final words, "You will be happy for a long time."  A long time could mean so many things, but it was made clear that it was not to be mistaken for "forever".  I let go of these thoughts as quickly as they came up.  I was happy in the moment and that's all that mattered to me.

We were into our fifth year when things started to disintegrate.  It happened suddenly and almost without reason.  Two years later, we sat before a mediator to divide our property.  The words came back to haunt me.  Our long time had come to an end. 

Self-fulfilling prophecy?

A mixture of coincidence with statistics?

Perhaps I really did get a peak into the future, whether I believed it at the time or not.  At the very least, it made for a good story, no?

Icons

Oh hai, 2011!  You snuck up on me!  It's time for some change, yes?  I'm starting with a new look for the blog.  I'll be tweaking it to my liking as I figure out what all this CSS stuff is about.  This is the year that I'm going to make web design my bitch.  Puppy Jesus, help me.  This is also the year that I'm going to finish my novel.  I would really like to see it done by June, but with my hectic schedule, that may not be realistic.  If When I put "The End" on my manuscript by December 31, 2011...I'll be a happy camper. 

If you've perused the Lovy Fun Fact page before, you'd know that I'm ultra feminine.  Aside from wearing my dresses and skirts, I sport red lipstick and a flower in my hair nearly every day.  I'm not sure how I decided dresses were my thing, but I do know that the hair accessories have a little something to do with this picture:

 Amazing, hm?  That there is Billie Holiday.  Aside from some killer style, she had an intoxicating voice.  I'm a rock and roll kind of girl, but there's something about Billie.  I could listen to her every single day for the rest of my life and I'd be okay with that.  There's a song that she sings that is especially haunting.  "Strange Fruit" always imprints a very disturbing image in my mind.  She wasn't the first to sing it, but she made it famous.


Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.


It's a case and point for the assertion that true horror lies in what one human being is capable of doing to another.

Hm?  Do I ever stop being morbid?  Newp!  Please don't let that stop you from having a listen if you've never heard the song before.

The Weregrump

Oh. My. Goodness.  I totally missed a blogfest. *gasp*  I thought I would have more time to myself once the quarter was over, but I thought wrong.  I'm all caught up in the hustle and bustle of Christmas.  Up until last night, I was tangled up in yarn balls, trying to crochet some decent scarves for coworkers before they took off for vacation.  I wouldn't say that I enjoy the holidays, but I'm not going to rain on anyone's Christmas spirit parade either.  So I'll give an unwrapped toy to one of the many toy drives around.  I'll make tamales with my family.  I'll even spend a substantial amount of time on decorations.  I'm just going to be a little grouchy about it. 

Really though...whichever holiday you're celebrating...have a good one of those. 

On Saturday, I was supposed to post a Twisted Christmas Tale.  Here's what I would have posted if I was not toiling away this weekend.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There's still time for you to make it.  We're not going to open presents until midnight.  You can sleep in the spare room so that you're not going back and forth."  Theodor already had his mind made up, but let his sister go on.  He hadn't spent Christmas Eve with the family in years.  In fact, he preferred to keep communication with them limited to the phone all year 'round if he could get away with it.  Every year, he got the same call asking where he was.  Better to give them false hope than no hope.

"I don't know.  Maybe I will.  We'll see."

"The kids really miss their uncle.  It would be a wonderful Christmas present for them if you dropped by."

Doubtful, Theodor thought.  "Maybe.  That's all I'm sayin'.  Have a good holiday if I don't make it out though, alright?"

He picked up the bit of pain in his sister's voice as she wished him the same and said goodbye.  That part always got to him, but it never convinced him to go anywhere.  These days, Theodor hardly went out of the house at all if he could help it.  He thought of moving away from the small town, perhaps somewhere on the outskirts, so that he could still buy his groceries when he needed to.  Somewhere away from the disapproving looks.

He paused to look out of the window.  Night was coming quickly.  He checked the locks on the windows and made sure they were secure.  He made one last sweep of the house to assure himself that all the windows and doors were tightly sealed.  There would be no disturbances tonight.  He sat down on the couch.  The stench of sauerkraut, rotten banana peels, and garlic stung in his nose.  He never could get used to that smell.  He added a spritz of rain scented air freshener to counteract the nauseating odor. 

He looked out of his window, mesmerized by the animatronic Santa on the neighbors lawn.  Further away, the sound of Christmas music carried into the house.   Lights.  Lights everywhere.  Running, flashing, dripping, garish lights.  Theodor hated it all.

Above the house with the waving St. Nick, Theodor didn't notice that the moon had already risen.  He looked down to see tufts of green, wiry hair already sprouting on his forearms.  His whole body started to ache.  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let his head rest against the back of the couch.  Theodor's skin prickled with discomfort as the green tufts of fur spread rapidly until the patches were connected into one thick coat from head to toe.  His belly distended and his limbs atrophied into spindly appendages that ended in elongated claws.  The nose and ears contracted as the rest of the face contorted and shifted.  Theodor's mouth curled up at the ends in a menacing grin.  A sickening cackle echoed over the tune of Winter Wonderland.

Rex Burgers

Sorry about no post last week.  It was both a holiday and a birthday for me and I was extremely busy.  I am now a twenty-seven year old library worker from Los Angeles, California.  Something about that doesn't sit well with me.  It's not the getting old part.  I'm a firm believer in the whole "You're only as old as you feel" cliche.  It's just the awkward number.  I'm perfectly happy to be twenty-eight twice if no one will let me get away with being twenty-six again.  Overall, I'm quite pleased with my twenty-sixth year on the planet.  I've had ups and downs, but I have no regrets about the bad things that have happened and I'm ecstatic about all the good things.  I've had the pleasure of making friends with a wide array of people with different talents, quirks, and interests that makes all of them super special and makes me all the better for knowing them.  A lot of personal growth has occurred which both scares and thrills me.  I must say that my life is never boring these days and that is pretty much all I ask for.  I'm a lucky lucky girl. 

That said, I have a little flash fiction for you.  Enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rexburgers!  Get your Rexburgers!  Buy a rexburger and get in to see the colossus of prehistory- our very own T-Rex- for just ten bones more!"

Ryan stood on top of a crate, calling to passersby at the state fair while Audrey handled the business of operating the grill.  She must have served hundreds of burgers that day and the line just kept growing.  Once the word started to get around that there was a stand where you could get hamburgers made out of real Tyrannosaurus Rex, the curiosity was too overwhelming for most.  People were skeptical about the true origins of the rather expensive burger until the first brave soul paid the extra ten dollars to see what was inside the tent.  He came out after his ten minutes were up in a daze.

"I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," he said to his friends who all immediately purchased their opportunity to catch a glimpse for themselves.

"Where did you get that thing?" they all asked Ryan.

"We have a whole colony of them on our farm.  Dumb luck running into a family of them on a camping trip.  We snagged a couple of babies and took them back home with us and raised them as our own.  Lucky for us, it was a boy and a girl.  They breed like crazy!  Pretty docile animals if you keep them well fed."  Ryan paused.  His eyes grew wide.  "Hey Audrey, have you fed Benji yet?"

Audrey wiped the sweat from her brow.  "That's your thing, Ryan," she said in an irritated tone.

Ryan jumped off of the crate and pushed past the line of people.  He pulled aside the curtain to the tent.

"Sir, you have to get out of there right now.  Please.  Let's go."

The man turned his back to the beast.  "My ten minutes aren't up yet, man," he said.

A second later he was screaming as Benji picked him up and tossed him around.  Most of him went down easily.  Ryan watched in horror as pieces dropped to the floor in unappetizing clumps of flesh and sawdust.