It's Tuesday. You know what to do. And don't forget to check out what other people contributed at Women of Mystery!
My two lines:
How long would it take me to be die of starvation or thirst? How long would I have to wander in this desert?
Outlander By Diana Gabaldon.
This is the second time I'm reading this series. The romance is completely engrossing but not half as engrossing as all the very precise Scottish History. And you know how I love men in kilts!
The two semicircles passed each other at increasing speeds, sometimes forming a complete circle, sometimes a double line. And in the center, the leader stood stock-still, giving again and again that mournful, high-pitched call, in a language long since dead.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A little late
My 3 word wednesday is finally up for last week... sorry it was a little late.
A Vague disclaimer is no one's friend:
These 3 word wednesday's are first drafts. I didn't even do spell check. I've banned myself from editing for at least a year. That is all.
It was a feeble attempt at humor.
His soft chuckle faded into silence when he noticed my smile didn’t quite reach my eyes.
I could see the burn in his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
This date had been a horrible idea. I told Melissa that it was a horrible idea. I didn’t even know why I bothered, except that I had been close to a year since anyone has asked me out.
Adam nervously adjusted his tie and leaned toward me.
His arms fell across the tablet and he scooted his chair closer.
Miss manners would be so proud.
“So, Melissa tells me that you work for a construction company. That’s interesting.”
“Uh, huh.”
Adams eyes fell to the table. I didn’t think his cheeks could get any more red, but here they were blossoming into an embarrassing shade of magenta all over again.
I stared at my drink, untouched in its glass. The ice settled, the tink, tink of it loud in the silence.
The waiter brought our food.
Italian. How original.
He straightened but didn’t touch his food, as if he were waiting for me to begin.
I twirled my fork around the plate, hoping it was obvious that I wasn’t interested. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable under the force of his stare.
“Look, lets just get this out of the way,” he said. “I have no idea if I’ll call you tomorrow. I don’t have any expectations of leaving here and taking you back to my place-I don’t think this is going to be the first day of the rest of my life.”
And maybe I’m way off base here, but I can see that its been a long time since you’ve worn anything but seats or left you house for anything but I don’t know, work and grocery shopping.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me-“
“I wasn’t finished..” He grabbed his beer and reclined back into his seat. He held the bottle with two fingers, his hands hanging limply over his thigh.
All of my righteous indignation was eclipsed by the shock Id felt at having someone talk to me.
I opened my mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come.
“Wouldn’t it be wise of you to give this half a chance, to be open to the possibilities that I might call you tomorrow. I might take you home tonight-that you might enjoy, and that this might be the first day of the rest of your life?”
Wouldn’t it be nice enjoy a fee meal, a glass of wine, and the company of a relatively nice guy? Even if we never see each other again, instead of guaranteeing that before long you’ll be a bitter old woman who can only tolerate the company of her cats?”
Even I couldn’t predict a future that grim for myself.
It took me a moment to recover from the backlash. My throat closed up and I could feel tears springing up in my eyes. But then I relaxed. My arms, like an iron vise across my chest released their hold, fell to my side. I scooted my chair closer to the table.
I raised my fork to my mouth and the taste of garlic and butter, tomatoes and peppers exploded in my mouth. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d tasted food this good. (I couldn’t remember a time when I’d tasted anything but TV dinners and hot pockets.)
Adam took a bite of his food, and relaxed against the back of his seat, a casual laziness that didn’t quite go with his suit. “Atta girl,” he said, and smiled.
A Vague disclaimer is no one's friend:
These 3 word wednesday's are first drafts. I didn't even do spell check. I've banned myself from editing for at least a year. That is all.
It was a feeble attempt at humor.
His soft chuckle faded into silence when he noticed my smile didn’t quite reach my eyes.
I could see the burn in his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
This date had been a horrible idea. I told Melissa that it was a horrible idea. I didn’t even know why I bothered, except that I had been close to a year since anyone has asked me out.
Adam nervously adjusted his tie and leaned toward me.
His arms fell across the tablet and he scooted his chair closer.
Miss manners would be so proud.
“So, Melissa tells me that you work for a construction company. That’s interesting.”
“Uh, huh.”
Adams eyes fell to the table. I didn’t think his cheeks could get any more red, but here they were blossoming into an embarrassing shade of magenta all over again.
I stared at my drink, untouched in its glass. The ice settled, the tink, tink of it loud in the silence.
The waiter brought our food.
Italian. How original.
He straightened but didn’t touch his food, as if he were waiting for me to begin.
I twirled my fork around the plate, hoping it was obvious that I wasn’t interested. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable under the force of his stare.
“Look, lets just get this out of the way,” he said. “I have no idea if I’ll call you tomorrow. I don’t have any expectations of leaving here and taking you back to my place-I don’t think this is going to be the first day of the rest of my life.”
And maybe I’m way off base here, but I can see that its been a long time since you’ve worn anything but seats or left you house for anything but I don’t know, work and grocery shopping.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me-“
“I wasn’t finished..” He grabbed his beer and reclined back into his seat. He held the bottle with two fingers, his hands hanging limply over his thigh.
All of my righteous indignation was eclipsed by the shock Id felt at having someone talk to me.
I opened my mouth to say something but the words wouldn’t come.
“Wouldn’t it be wise of you to give this half a chance, to be open to the possibilities that I might call you tomorrow. I might take you home tonight-that you might enjoy, and that this might be the first day of the rest of your life?”
Wouldn’t it be nice enjoy a fee meal, a glass of wine, and the company of a relatively nice guy? Even if we never see each other again, instead of guaranteeing that before long you’ll be a bitter old woman who can only tolerate the company of her cats?”
Even I couldn’t predict a future that grim for myself.
It took me a moment to recover from the backlash. My throat closed up and I could feel tears springing up in my eyes. But then I relaxed. My arms, like an iron vise across my chest released their hold, fell to my side. I scooted my chair closer to the table.
I raised my fork to my mouth and the taste of garlic and butter, tomatoes and peppers exploded in my mouth. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d tasted food this good. (I couldn’t remember a time when I’d tasted anything but TV dinners and hot pockets.)
Adam took a bite of his food, and relaxed against the back of his seat, a casual laziness that didn’t quite go with his suit. “Atta girl,” he said, and smiled.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Two Line Tuesday
Two lines from the novel (novella) I'm reading now, The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner, by Stephanie Meyer.
He was the hottest boy I'd ever seen, tall and blonde and perfect, every feature. I knew his eyes must be just as beautiful behind the dark sunglasses that he never took off.
And my two lines:
But, much like the subtle shifting from day into night, my exhilaration soon turned to exhaustion. I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and my foot on the pedal getting lighter.
Check other two lines at the women of mystery blog.
He was the hottest boy I'd ever seen, tall and blonde and perfect, every feature. I knew his eyes must be just as beautiful behind the dark sunglasses that he never took off.
And my two lines:
But, much like the subtle shifting from day into night, my exhilaration soon turned to exhaustion. I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and my foot on the pedal getting lighter.
Check other two lines at the women of mystery blog.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
3 Word Wednesday
This is my first attempt at 3 Word Wednesday, and I love it. Let me know what ya'll think.
Abuse
Cramp
Hatred
The hatred I felt often manifested itself in a physical way.
Whenever he walked into the room, my stomach would cramp up. It wasn't something I could ignore, either. Though the thought of him witnessing the effect he had on me literally made me want to committ murder. I usually spent most of my morning imagining where I'd do it, and how I could take his life in the most imaginative way possible.
And I had a lot of imagination.
I would be making his coffee in the morning and he'd sneak in, late as usual, with that shit eating grin that made everyone think he'd spent the night doing God knows what, with God knows who.
I could see it on the faces of everyone in the office.
I grabbed my stomach as he passed me by, not even bothering to acknowledge that I existed. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musky smell of his cologne, wanting him, and at the same time wishing him a slow and painful death.
My stomach twisted again.
I adjusted my glasses, brushed the wispy hair that never quiet stayed in my braid out of my face.
I walked slowly, careful to not slosh his coffee.
Of course right when I turned the corner into his office, my foot caught on a wrinkle in the carpet. I felt the mug slip from my hands, the hot brown liquid flying through the air onto his ridiculously expensive rug.
I felt the flames rising up my neck to burn my cheeks and my ears. I braced myself for the inevitable abuse I'd no doubt be receiving.
For what felt like hours, all I heard was silence. I couldn't move, refusing to look at him.
His fingers digging into the soft flesh of my upper arm brought me out of my paralysis.
He jerked me to the door, throwing me off balance.
As if I needed his help!
I tripped again as he dragged me out the door and into the secretaries office.
He gave another jerk on my arm, forcing me into the spotlight.
Amused eyes watched us from each of the 10 cubicles. Some were trying not to laugh. Some of them didn't bother trying to hide it.
The horrible realization hit me that he was saving the punishment for an audience.
I heard the volume of his voice, but the words were lost to me. My eyes focused on the rug below my feet, my head lowered like a beaten dog. But all I could think of was the night before and the way he'd softly traced a line from behind my knee and up my thigh. I remembered how his touch lingered on my skin, long after he'd stopped touching me.
It had been so long since a man had looked at me, much less touched me, that I let myself be lost in the warmth of his hand on my thigh, so close, and yet not close enough.
He'd treated me like I was fragile. Like I'd break if he wasn't too careful. Or maybe like he was afraid to scare me off.
He didn't know I wanted him to try to break me. I wanted him to know just how unbreakable I was.
But then, he'd never asked me what I wanted. Had he?
His grip loosened and then he pushed me away from him. He couldn't walk away without inflicting that last bit of dignity, could he? Thank God the wall was there to catch me. I don't think I could endure being thrown to the ground.
I pushed my glassed back up my nose, brushed the wispy hair that never seemed to stay in my braid out of my face and straightened my skirt.
I cleared my throat and grabbed some towels from the janitor closet. And then I did my best to clean the mess I'd made of the rug.
Abuse
Cramp
Hatred
The hatred I felt often manifested itself in a physical way.
Whenever he walked into the room, my stomach would cramp up. It wasn't something I could ignore, either. Though the thought of him witnessing the effect he had on me literally made me want to committ murder. I usually spent most of my morning imagining where I'd do it, and how I could take his life in the most imaginative way possible.
And I had a lot of imagination.
I would be making his coffee in the morning and he'd sneak in, late as usual, with that shit eating grin that made everyone think he'd spent the night doing God knows what, with God knows who.
I could see it on the faces of everyone in the office.
I grabbed my stomach as he passed me by, not even bothering to acknowledge that I existed. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musky smell of his cologne, wanting him, and at the same time wishing him a slow and painful death.
My stomach twisted again.
I adjusted my glasses, brushed the wispy hair that never quiet stayed in my braid out of my face.
I walked slowly, careful to not slosh his coffee.
Of course right when I turned the corner into his office, my foot caught on a wrinkle in the carpet. I felt the mug slip from my hands, the hot brown liquid flying through the air onto his ridiculously expensive rug.
I felt the flames rising up my neck to burn my cheeks and my ears. I braced myself for the inevitable abuse I'd no doubt be receiving.
For what felt like hours, all I heard was silence. I couldn't move, refusing to look at him.
His fingers digging into the soft flesh of my upper arm brought me out of my paralysis.
He jerked me to the door, throwing me off balance.
As if I needed his help!
I tripped again as he dragged me out the door and into the secretaries office.
He gave another jerk on my arm, forcing me into the spotlight.
Amused eyes watched us from each of the 10 cubicles. Some were trying not to laugh. Some of them didn't bother trying to hide it.
The horrible realization hit me that he was saving the punishment for an audience.
I heard the volume of his voice, but the words were lost to me. My eyes focused on the rug below my feet, my head lowered like a beaten dog. But all I could think of was the night before and the way he'd softly traced a line from behind my knee and up my thigh. I remembered how his touch lingered on my skin, long after he'd stopped touching me.
It had been so long since a man had looked at me, much less touched me, that I let myself be lost in the warmth of his hand on my thigh, so close, and yet not close enough.
He'd treated me like I was fragile. Like I'd break if he wasn't too careful. Or maybe like he was afraid to scare me off.
He didn't know I wanted him to try to break me. I wanted him to know just how unbreakable I was.
But then, he'd never asked me what I wanted. Had he?
His grip loosened and then he pushed me away from him. He couldn't walk away without inflicting that last bit of dignity, could he? Thank God the wall was there to catch me. I don't think I could endure being thrown to the ground.
I pushed my glassed back up my nose, brushed the wispy hair that never seemed to stay in my braid out of my face and straightened my skirt.
I cleared my throat and grabbed some towels from the janitor closet. And then I did my best to clean the mess I'd made of the rug.
Uninspired
The other day I wrote 2500 words. That may not seem like alot to more successful writers, but to someone whose been doing more doodling than writing over the last year, its a victory, albeit a small one.
I made the decision to write that night. I don't know why. The room was quiet or something was bothering me. I couldn't sleep.
I sat down to write.
I opened facebook.
Pandora Radio. Took longer than necessary trying to find what I wanted to listen to.
I opened my notebook (cuz I like the feel of writing on paper.)
I grabbed my pen.
I tapped the end of the pen to the music.
I stared at the blank page.
I stared at the blank page.
And I stared at the blank page.
I finally wrote a sentence.
I scratched it out.
I wrote a sentence, I scratched it out.
But then something happened. 45 minutes later, I wrote a word. That word led to another word, and another. Then I had a sentence, a paragraph, and then a chapter.
Writing is kinda like working out. You can do it when you feel like it. And you can feel proud of yourself for it.
But on the days you don't feel good about it, the days you're not in the zone- those are often the days you have breakthroughs.
Maybe you run an extra mile than you did last week. Maybe you add a 1,000 words to your word count.
I wish I could tell you that the chapter I wrote was the greatest thing I've ever written.
But I won't. I can't.
I haven't read it.
I want the words on the page. That's all.
Because I'm a writer. And writer's write.
And in the end isn't the meaning of success, whether you're running a marathon, or writing a novel, simply not giving up?
I made the decision to write that night. I don't know why. The room was quiet or something was bothering me. I couldn't sleep.
I sat down to write.
I opened facebook.
Pandora Radio. Took longer than necessary trying to find what I wanted to listen to.
I opened my notebook (cuz I like the feel of writing on paper.)
I grabbed my pen.
I tapped the end of the pen to the music.
I stared at the blank page.
I stared at the blank page.
And I stared at the blank page.
I finally wrote a sentence.
I scratched it out.
I wrote a sentence, I scratched it out.
But then something happened. 45 minutes later, I wrote a word. That word led to another word, and another. Then I had a sentence, a paragraph, and then a chapter.
Writing is kinda like working out. You can do it when you feel like it. And you can feel proud of yourself for it.
But on the days you don't feel good about it, the days you're not in the zone- those are often the days you have breakthroughs.
Maybe you run an extra mile than you did last week. Maybe you add a 1,000 words to your word count.
I wish I could tell you that the chapter I wrote was the greatest thing I've ever written.
But I won't. I can't.
I haven't read it.
I want the words on the page. That's all.
Because I'm a writer. And writer's write.
And in the end isn't the meaning of success, whether you're running a marathon, or writing a novel, simply not giving up?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Two Line Tuesday
You know the drill. Two lines I've read this week. Two lines I've written.
I admit it. I'm reading The Twilight Saga. Again.
From Eclipse:
The sun was so deeply buried behind the clouds that there was no way to tell if it had set or not. After the long flight - chasing the sun westward so that it seemed unmoving in the sky it was especially disorienting-time seemed oddly variable.
And two lines from my work in progress:
Much like the subtle shifting from day into night, my exhilaration soon turned to exhaustion. It was difficult to keep my eyes open.
And don't forget to head over to the women of mystery blog for more Two Line Tuesday!
I admit it. I'm reading The Twilight Saga. Again.
From Eclipse:
The sun was so deeply buried behind the clouds that there was no way to tell if it had set or not. After the long flight - chasing the sun westward so that it seemed unmoving in the sky it was especially disorienting-time seemed oddly variable.
And two lines from my work in progress:
Much like the subtle shifting from day into night, my exhilaration soon turned to exhaustion. It was difficult to keep my eyes open.
And don't forget to head over to the women of mystery blog for more Two Line Tuesday!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
It Takes a Village
I'm back to work from being put on bedrest during my last month of pregnancy, recovering from childbirth, and then undergoing a (not so major) surgery.
Half of me is glad to be back, but the other half still thinks I'm never going to get back on track or find a routine that I can easily slip back into.
It makes me extremely thankful that I don't have to do it alone.
Its not just my husband, who lets me sleep in on Saturday or who wakes up for the 3am feeding.
Its not just my mom, God bless her, who when I'm in tears from hormones or exhaustion, or a combination of both, takes her grandkids so I can get a single night of rest.
It's not just my cousin, who even if we weren't related by blood, would probably lay down her life for me.
Its the other people, too. The ones who throw you showers, or drop off diapers, who crowd into the hospital room even though you're throwing up, and there's already so many people in the room that they're spilling over into the hallway.
Since we moved around a lot as a kid, I think I missed out on that sense of community that people are talking about when they say "It takes a village." But this weekend, celebrating the birthday of a friend, I couldn't help but remember the "good old times."
I went to college at WTAMU and the people that I met there are some of the same people who are helping me raise my own sons, today.
I remember the guy who was so painfully shy he hugged the wall at most parties, and the girl who had a painful crush on him.
I remember the boy who was afraid to hug me, afraid to get too close to anyone it seemed.
And of course I remember the twins,so full of life and chivalry! Pulling out our chairs and standing up when we came to the table.
That girl with the painful crush won her man and now they have a beautiful life together and a beautiful daughter to show for it.
That boy, though he has no children of his own, has no problem playing the favorite uncle, not only for his own nieces, but for all of our kids.
And the twins have grown into wonderful husbands and fathers who can still make being "childlike" an art form.
We've lost some friends along the way, but picked up a few down the road. Hell, some that had been missing even rejoined the fold! It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes it takes a village to shape ourselves as well.
What would college have been like for me without you, Nathan and Sarah, Shawn, Tim, and James? What would life be like now, without you, Donnie and Kissaundra? Crystal and Rusty? Vanessa and Clay?
James and I sometimes talk about opportunities to move to a bigger city, where we could make more money, have better jobs, live in a more exciting city.
In the end we always stay. We stay because you are our village, and life wouldn't be the same without you...
Half of me is glad to be back, but the other half still thinks I'm never going to get back on track or find a routine that I can easily slip back into.
It makes me extremely thankful that I don't have to do it alone.
Its not just my husband, who lets me sleep in on Saturday or who wakes up for the 3am feeding.
Its not just my mom, God bless her, who when I'm in tears from hormones or exhaustion, or a combination of both, takes her grandkids so I can get a single night of rest.
It's not just my cousin, who even if we weren't related by blood, would probably lay down her life for me.
Its the other people, too. The ones who throw you showers, or drop off diapers, who crowd into the hospital room even though you're throwing up, and there's already so many people in the room that they're spilling over into the hallway.
Since we moved around a lot as a kid, I think I missed out on that sense of community that people are talking about when they say "It takes a village." But this weekend, celebrating the birthday of a friend, I couldn't help but remember the "good old times."
I went to college at WTAMU and the people that I met there are some of the same people who are helping me raise my own sons, today.
I remember the guy who was so painfully shy he hugged the wall at most parties, and the girl who had a painful crush on him.
I remember the boy who was afraid to hug me, afraid to get too close to anyone it seemed.
And of course I remember the twins,so full of life and chivalry! Pulling out our chairs and standing up when we came to the table.
That girl with the painful crush won her man and now they have a beautiful life together and a beautiful daughter to show for it.
That boy, though he has no children of his own, has no problem playing the favorite uncle, not only for his own nieces, but for all of our kids.
And the twins have grown into wonderful husbands and fathers who can still make being "childlike" an art form.
We've lost some friends along the way, but picked up a few down the road. Hell, some that had been missing even rejoined the fold! It takes a village to raise a child, but sometimes it takes a village to shape ourselves as well.
What would college have been like for me without you, Nathan and Sarah, Shawn, Tim, and James? What would life be like now, without you, Donnie and Kissaundra? Crystal and Rusty? Vanessa and Clay?
James and I sometimes talk about opportunities to move to a bigger city, where we could make more money, have better jobs, live in a more exciting city.
In the end we always stay. We stay because you are our village, and life wouldn't be the same without you...
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