30 DoF #8: Self-Explanatory.

Today, I killed a spider.

That is all.

30 Days of Fearlessness #4~ Our Father, Who Art In Florida…

As I’m sure I’ve mentioned in a previous post somewhere, the relationship between my biological father (hereafter referred to as B.F.) and I is very strange and complex. But, since I would run out of Internet space before I could list all the reasons why, I’ll attempt to summarize as best I can.

To start, B.F. and I aren’t close and have never been, likely because we have about as much in common as Donald Trump  and Bernie Sanders. My open-mindedness and liberal mindset drive him absolutely nuts, and there’s a part of me that finds ruffling his ultra-conservative feathers to be deeply satisfying. But, in spite of everything, I am not an uber-feminist with daddy issues.

Ever since I was a kid, this was just the way it was.  Even now, things between us are cordial at best, volatile at worst, and our relationship probably has more holes than the hull of the Titanic did after the iceberg hit it- as a kid, he disowned me many times, and I now refer to him by his first name when I talk about him (I’ve called my stepdad Dad since I was 13). Suffice to say, we’re not the type to keep in touch for the hell of it. In fact, we haven’t talked in more than a year. But, today, I called him up just to chat.

During our 15-minute conversation, we wished each other a happy Easter and he asked me about my life. I simply told him that I’ve been working through some issues but that things are getting better and I’ve applied to college in the fall; we promised to keep in contact more often, though it will be interesting to see whether or not that actually happens.

In these past 4 days, I’ve accomplished more than I ever did in the 4 years that preceded them and, as with the previous 3 challenges, making that call took courage and strength that I didn’t know I had. But perhaps it helps that, this time, I did it for my own peace of mind- I’m no longer the little girl seeking her father’s approval; I’m a woman who’s finally getting her life together and, of that, I am proud.

Do You Even Crit (ique)?

Recently, someone on a lifestyle website I frequent asked for feedback on a poem she’d written. I always get nervous when people ask for constructive or critical feedback because, nine times out of ten, they can’t take it and would rather be fed a line about how “omg ur soooo brilliant”.

My honest opinion was that it was absolutely dreadful~ your stereotypical whiny emo “br0k3n hartz” poem, totally unoriginal and complete with terrible rhyme, that makes me want to punch myself in the face with a 50-pound weight strapped to my hand. And, while I didn’t phrase my critique in those exact terms, I did tell her that it was unoriginal and made some suggestions for what she could do better next time.

Naturally, this was not well-received, and the would-be writer seemed to take offense to my feedback. Granted, putting your work out there is not easy- you’re probably apprehensive or nervous, because it’s the emotional equivalent of being strip-searched by hundreds of people, since you’re revealing a part of yourself previously hidden to the world. But it’s important to remember that people who offer constructive feedback are critiquing the work itself, not you.

I’ve had people tell me that I suck as a writer, and I challenge them by asking why. If they can’t tell me specifically what they didn’t like (for example, “I prefer sunshine and rainbows”) or offer any suggestions for what I can do better next time, I know to take their comments for what they are worth- absolutely nothing.

The thing is, no piece of writing is perfect, and suggesting that the first draft of your magnum opus is less than publishable is not a personal attack. If anything, it’s a hand up, because (at least in my opinion) lying to someone about her abilities is the truest disservice.

Care and Char(acter) Alike.

Today, I found an old external drive with some stuff on it from my old computer. On it, I found an old copy of my first-ever novel; sixth draft, dated 2010 or thereabouts~ it’s changed a lot over the years and, upon rereading it, I can see how much my characters have grown and matured with me over the years.

My FMC (female main character) is basically me in my teens: she’s feisty and mischievous, athletic, with a killer sense of humour and a bit of a mean streak; awkward, and still growing into her changing body. Her dream is to become a professional athlete, and the passion with which she pursues her ultimate goal (pun intended) reminds me of the fire I saw in myself at the same stage of development.

On the other hand, my MMC (male main character) is more like me, in my early 20s. He’s reserved and tends to keep to himself (since people aren’t really his thing), is in a band, and has definitely seen more than his share of shit in the short time he’s been alive. As a result, he’s lost interest in a lot of things that he once cared about, and the only thing keeping him sane is his girlfriend, who puts up with his issues more than she should.

Both of them have been with me for more than 10 years, and they feel more like family members or old friends than lives I created from scratch in the back of 11th-grade accounting class. And, after rereading that old manuscript and sensing the raw passion~ my own youthful enthusiasm for both writing and life~ in it, I feel a little more like myself again.

Perhaps it’s time to revisit their story and share it with the world.

The Sky’s On Fire, and So Am I.

Right now, it’s about 3:40 AM where I am, and I’m still awake. Nothing unusual for me, except that I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored. And yet I’m forcing myself to write this because, if I don’t, then I’ll never get rid of the urge to write… Something; anything.

I remember a time when I used to write three poems per day. I completed a 100,000-word manuscript in just 3 months, kept track of my daily word-counts, researched to no end, and sent at least one month’s rent worth of postage in query letters (this was 2010-2011)… and the list goes on.

I could crank out thousands of words in the time it now takes me to get dressed and find the courage to face the day. I want that passion, to write as passionately as I once did~ if not for me, then for my 17 year-old self, whose dreams were bigger than the sky and unfettered by logic.

I want to remember how it feels to write, and love it with every, single cell of my being. Only then can I truly touch what I’ve dreamed of, since I was a little girl~ I may not be young anymore, but I can still dream, create, and aspire to something greater.

I want my fire back. And maybe I’m imagining it but, these days, I can almost feel its flames.

Back to the Drawing… er, Writing Board.

Between feeling like utter shit and sleeping for about 16 hours a day, I haven’t really been up to much.

I’ve got this overwhelming urge to write, though I also feel lethargic and exhausted~ even reading seems like work, since it takes every ounce of energy I have just to keep my head upright long enough to watch a single episode of 24 (which my man is binge-watching on Netflix), let alone do anything that requires any actual thought.

See, it’s like this: people who have never written anything think that it’s super-easy to just write a novel and publish it. But it doesn’t work that way~ an aspiring writer needs contacts, an established fan-base, agent representation… All things that aren’t easy to come by, especially in areas where getting to conferences, etc. is not always an option.

That said, nothing worth achieving is easy. If there’s more than one way to skin a cat, perhaps there are also more ways to turn my passion for writing into a career.

 

flash (non)fiction #2~ sleep in a jar.

I just started on some new meds today, and all I want to do is sleep.

Of the last 24 hours, I’ve been awake for maybe 4 or 5 total. The rest of the day was spent either sleeping or feeling sick to my stomach. My doctor warned me that this might happen, but it’s still not a pleasant experience; it’s the kind that nothing ever really prepares you for, like looking both ways before you cross the street, then getting hit by a boat.

If I had to choose between this and tripping balls on the sleeping pills again, I’d choose the latter. At least the visuals were cool.

flash (non)fiction #1~ little green pill.

I’ve got sleep on the brain, so I’m clearly exhausted. I also just returned from the doctor’s office, where my M.D. asked me how I was finding the sleeping pill she’d prescribed (and, apparently “I totally tripped balls” was the wrong answer).

I don’t do drugs, and have never experienced hallucinations before, so this was definitely a new and strange (though not altogether dreadful) experience. Here’s how I’d describe it:

–

The air is shiny and sticky, like rainbows clinging to spiderwebs. It comes alive at my touch, a shimmering spiral of colours and lights~ red, green, blue… And I instinctively reach out to touch it. Fear and anxiety don’t exist here, wherever here is.

It’s a frothy, ethereal feeling that wraps itself around my hands just long enough to feel brave, before collapsing inward, a Big Bang of sorts. Somehow, I’m a wizard, swimming through spectral planes of my own imagining and reveling in the chaos.

Of course, my brain knows better and is shouting over the screaming swirls of light, but I choose not to listen. For just this moment, I want to feel invincible, until the sleeping sands lay claim to me once more.

–

(my doctor’s response: “that’s not normal, don’t take those anymore.”)

Until next time, friends!

Grow Up: An Open Letter to Parents

I want to talk for a few minutes about something I witnessed on a city bus last night.

There was this woman sitting just a few aisles away from me, who had a little girl around 2 years old with her (who I assume was her daughter). The bus hadn’t started moving yet, so the child was allowed by her mother to wander around the vehicle unaccompanied. A guy in the back asked her if she would mind not letting her kid have free reign of the bus. And then, all hell broke loose.

She started screaming at him, cursing and swearing and threatening multiple times to “cut off [his] ponytail” and/or “wrap it around his throat”. He ignored her and asked the driver to call his supervisor, which he did; but the woman kept berating him, so he got off the bus and walked. Of course, the little girl was so startled by her mother’s behaviour that she screamed… for the entire 20-minute ride. I cranked my iPod to max volume and STILL couldn’t drown out the noise.

Look, I like children. Even if I don’t want any of my own, I think they’re cute and fun; I always coo over babies, my friend’s daughter calls me Auntie Velociraptor (don’t ask), and I love to spoil my own niece and nephew. But take heed, parents: while I get that, in your eyes, your kid is the greatest thing since the entire Internet and can do no wrong, not everyone loves your kids as much as you do. And they don’t have to.

Maybe it’s true that Bus Guy didn’t like kids; maybe he doesn’t have any, finds them annoying, or truly doesn’t understand what the fuss is about. And he’s entitled to that. But it’s also possible that he was concerned for the safety of the little girl. What if the bus started moving suddenly, or she tripped on his shoe/backpack/whatever and hurt herself? Regardless of the reason, Bus Lady had absolutely no right to say anything. Asking her to control her kid in public is not a crime, but uttering death threats is.

Perhaps the saddest thing of all is that Bus Lady doesn’t realize the consequences of her actions. However indirectly, she taught that little girl that it’s okay to abuse others when she doesn’t get her way. And that’s exactly what’s wrong with this ‘kids these days’: their self-important, entitled attitude came from their parents.

I wonder if Bus Lady will be quite so vocal when Little Girl gets in trouble at school for cursing out a classmate, or mouths off at the wrong person and gets punched in the face. But that’s besides the point. She missed a perfectly-good opportunity to teach her child healthy conflict resolution.

Even if your child is all that and a bag of chips, please don’t let it cloud your judgment when it comes to respecting the rights of others.

Until next time,

Laura “Auntie Velociraptor” VB.

scrap-paper prose #2: penetalia mentis (nc-17)

I’ve been in a bit of a funk these days, for a few reasons:

1) a death in the (work) family.

We weren’t particularly close, but we were friendly with each other at the office; she was young, only a few years older than I am, and the single mother to a 4 year-old girl.

I’m a 28 year-old woman, and I have no idea what I would do without my mom. She’s my best friend, my biggest fan, most loyal reader… the list goes on. And all I can think of is how that little girl is going to grow up without her mother; my heart is broken for her.

2) waxing nostalgic.

Recently, I ran across a box full of stuff from my first (and only) love. I don’t think of myself as a romantic, so seeing the box was like getting hit in the face by my younger, stupider self’s blind faith.

That’s why I love Frozen so much. I like the idea that emotions have an on/off switch, so this ‘conceal-don’t-feel’ schtick suits me just fine. Don’t show weakness, and you’ll never get hurt.

Here is a poem I posted online a few years back, the last time this happened:

the skeletons in my closet
are alive- 

scritch-scratch,
scritch-scratch

…that terrible two-step
grinding into my brain,
a favourite and familiar torment
that i’ll never tire of.

–

your eyes
[your lies]-

cesspools i wallow in,
when drowning in filth is easier
than wondering what went wrong.

it’s like drilling for diamonds
in a minefield-

can’t dig through to paradise,
without blowing shit up

and, suddenly, i’m nineteen
again- lungs swelling in my chest
and my atomic-bomb heart
about to go off
with a loud and bloody bang,

taking

you,
me,
us,

the whole goddamn world
along for the ride.

–

it’s like death,
except that no one gives a fuck
about formalities.

–

You know what they say: the cold never bothered me anyway.