Power Outage

I'm going to start writing and posting more super-short stories specially for the blog. I need as much practice as I can get so I figure using writing prompts is a good way to get things started :) I have a whole list of good ones that I'm going to use over the next little while but if anyone has any suggestions I'd be happy to hear them.

So here I go with my first attempt. The idea is to write a story that takes place during a power outage. That's it. Let me know what you think.

                       Power Outage

     “Nope, nothing,” Gill said, flicking the switch. “I guess the power’s out.”

     “Shit. That’s just what I need,” said Melody, smoothing back her fly away hairs. She loosened the tight, standard-issue, tie from her neck and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. “I just wanted to come home and relax, maybe have a bath, but no.”

     “Honey, go sit down. It’s probably just a fuse.”

     “No, I’m sorry. You’ve probably had a bad day too,” she said, forcing a wide smile that was wasted on darkness.

     “Alright, just wait here. I’ll go grab some flashlights.” Gill disappeared behind the white wall of the livingroom, leaving Melody alone.

     She threw herself on the couch, reclining and savouring the moment off her feet. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and forced positive thoughts through her mind, a tactic she’d heard often but never really mastered.  Her mother told her again and again that she should meditate. It would help her, she said but it never felt like anything other than sitting in her bed, trying not to think. Not thinking seemed preferable in moments like these but never very useful. She sighed, “What’s the point?” she said to the empty room. Melody closed her eyes again and tried to focus on her breath.

     In the middle of falling asleep, she jerked awake, feeling shaken. She sat up on the couch and looked around. Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness of the room to see general shapes but still not enough.

     “Gill?” She continued to call out to him as she walked across the room. There wasn’t even the hint of an answer.  She left the livingroom and stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the black basement. “Gill-” she whispered.

     Without the quiet hum of the heater, the house was too quiet. She rested a hand against the wall; it was like ice. Cold seemed to invade the house from the walls, slowly seeping in.  How long had she been sleeping? Had she slept?

     She knew she should go downstairs, Gill probably just couldn’t hear her. The basement always made her feel on edge though, even in the best of moments.  She couldn’t see down into the depths of the basement more than a few metres but she knew she couldn't go. She felt as if she was being pulled down into it, drawn there by some unseen force. Melody tried to turn away, wanting to be anywhere else but there but she couldn't move. Invisible arms drew her to plunge down the stairs, unseen hands urged her to plummet into the darkness. Disembodied voices whispered warnings in her mind while high-pitched hisses circled her head.

     “Gill,” she barely forced out.

     From the darkness came a soft chuckle; a familiar but dark laugh. 

     It couldn’t be him, she told herself, I would know. 

     The voices swarming her ears grew more urgent.  Out of the depths of the darkness emerged a hand; bloated and pale, reaching for her, wearing a wedding ring matching hers.

     “Melody...”, a soft, sickingly-sweet voice sang. It was seductive and nauseating.

 She fought to cover her ears, certain that if she heard that voice again, she would be lost. She managed little more than bending her arms at strange angles.

“We’ve been looking for you a long time, Melody,” called another voice as another hand pierced the black wall in front of her. This hand was smaller, with long, dark painted nailed. It beckoned to her. “We won’t let you go now.”

A pained gasp escaped her lips. She knew it was true. She knew her whole life had led her here. After they took Nicky from her and Gill, she knew it was only a matter of time before they came for her.  No one in her family escaped them.

“If I come,” she struggled to speak, “will you leave Denise alone?”

Her question was met with silence. Maybe they didn’t lower themselves to converse with their prey.

“Denise wants to be found,” the voices hissed.

“Bullshit,” Melody spat.

“Just like you. We’ll find her in your blood.”

Her mouth dropped open. The poisonous fog in her mind began to clear. “That’s it then, isn’t it?” she said.

The hands paused suddenly and disappeared back into the darkness. She didn’t have enough hope left to think they would leave her now. Not when they were so close.  

     “It is...you can’t find her without me. You need me to get to her,” she cried, finding, if not hope, at least a reason to keep fighting. “Go fuck yourselves,” she screamed down the stairs.

A cold, wheezing wind blew past her face, pushing her backwards onto the floor. Something pulled her along the floor, picking up speed as she flew down the endless hall. She slammed against the far wall, cheap dry wall falling around her head. She coughed through the dust while her whole body shook with adrenaline.

     The house was quiet again. The darkness blinked away as the lights came back on. Relief washed over her momentarily but receded when she remembered Gill.

     “Honey?” she called, knowing she wouldn’t get an answer. She crawled towards the stairs, fighting back tears. “Baby...”

     The bottom of the stairs came into view along with a twisted pair of legs. She choked back a gasp and continued, closing her eyes. Opening them only when she felt the edge of the first step, she saw the bruised and bloodied form of her husband, his head and extremities bent in wrong ways. She stopped fighting the sobs choking her.

     “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby,” she whispered through her tears. “I should have...told you.”  

     Her crying tapered, leaving her hiccupping and clinging to the rail. When she had gathered her wits enough to move again, she lowered herself down the stairs, step by step. Melody crept past her husband’s corpse and around to the cubbyhole under the stairs where she dug out the shovel. She threw it to the top of the stairs and turned around to the body at her feet. His ankles were cold and hard as she picked them up and dragged him up the stairs, whispering how sorry she was.   

     

How Vain Are Writers?

     What is it in us writers that make us do it? That’s easy. I write because I like to write; it’s a hobby. I genuinely want to know what will happen to the characters I create. But why do we share what we write? Why bother putting it out there? Is it just vanity or is there something else there?

     I think that no matter what, writers are vain. How else can you explain the idea that whatever it is you write should be read by millions of people? The idea that what you have to say is valuable enough that people should pay to hear it is vain.

     But is it vanity alone? I think that there is also a little bit of insecurity in the mix as well. At least for me. At this stage I’m still incredibly unsure of my ability. There are the rare days when I feel really good and I think “Yea, I’m doin it!” and others when I feel like shit and think “What am I even doing?”. Most of the time though, I’m oscillating between the two extremes. So yes, part of what I want is to be reassured of how freaking awesome I am.Pathetic, I know.

     That being said, I don’t just do it for the kudos. While those are great, in the end, I share because I really do like my stories and I think that they are worth reading…although I haven´t quite reached the million mark yet.

     So what is it? Vanity? Self delusion? Neediness? Does it really matter?    

The Arts in School

     Does anyone else think that schools are grossly unfair for the creative individual? Schools focus mostly on three forms of intelligence; logical, linguistic and bodily, which are, undoubtedly important. But what about other intelligences? What about music, or art or writing?

     I remember in school my classmates would always complain about having to write one poem or short story a year... A YEAR!

 “It’s not fair, some people just can’t write a poem,” they would say. And while the assumption that some people just can’t write is very true, the part about it being unfair is not. Some people just can’t write a good essay either. Why is it so bad to give credit to the creative kid?

     What about music? I don’t know about you, but in my music class, we would stand around a piano, singing old folk songs from ancient duotangs. It was brutal. I won’t even get started about art.

     Things get better once you get to highschool, you have more options and better resources but by then people aren’t interested. Why should they be? They’ve seen for years that the arts aren’t important or valued and so they don’t care.  

Bedside Manner

     “Oh, Ronny, I’m so sorry,” cried Jackie, throwing her arms around Ron’s neck. “If there is anything I can do.” She had just arrived with a basket full of muffins and a tin-box of cookies.

     “Thanks, Jacklyn. It means a lot that your here,” Ron replied, giving her a weak pat on the back.

     “How could I not be? Me and Rebecca were so close.”

     “I know...I” His head fell into his hands. She wondered if he was going to start crying. “I just can’t help...”

     “Oh no, Ronny, don’t do that!” He looked up at her, confused. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened, no one could have seen it coming. I’m her best friend and I didn’t realize...oh Ronny! We have to support each other, help each other through this. She would have wanted that.”

     He nodded and replaced his head in his hands. He hadn’t left his wife’s side for days except to use the toilet and grab a cigarette. He held out hope that she was still in there, waiting. He talked her as long as possible without crying.

     Jackie moved around the side of the bed and sat down on the edge, between Rebecca and Ron. She took Rebecca’s hand in hers and stroked it gently.

     “I just can’t stand to see her like this.” She threw herself across Rebecca’s torso, shaking through her sobs. Ron went to her and pulled her up again by her shoulders.

     “We have to try and keep it together. Like you said, she wouldn’t want-“. He stopped when she put her head against his chest and pulled him close. He reached a hand up, about to stroke her head but stopped himself.

     “I...I’m gonna go for a smoke. You stay here, I like for her to have company. You can talk to her. I don’t know if she can hear...but I like to try.”

     “Of course, go ahead. Take a muffin,” she called as he walked out the door. She turned back to Rebecca and took her hand again.

     “Oh, Rebecca, how could you?” she said as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

     ‘You had so much going for you: the perfect husband, a beautiful home, great job. You had a life that any woman would want. Who wouldn’t be a little jealous? But it wasn’t enough, was it?” The tears had stopped.  

     ‘How could you think that killing yourself would fix anything?”

     ‘I guess you didn’t stop to think what you were doing, who was going to get hurt. You always were selfish.’ Her lips curled into a sneer as she spoke. Her grip on Rebecca’s hand was tightening like a vice.

     “Don’t you think of anyone but yourself?” She tossed Rebecca’s hand aside like a sticky candy wrapper.

     “And what will poor, lonely Ronny do without you?’ She leaned over Rebecca.

‘I suppose,” she whispered into her ear, “I’ll just have to be there for him in any way I can. In whatever...capacity. After all, what are friends for?’

She sat up again, eyes shining. A smile spread slowly across her face. “I got my hair done today. At Micheal’s. Isn’t that where you used to go?” She flipped her hair. “I’ve gone blonde, it looks great! I wish I could say the same for yours, sweetie. Your roots are starting to show.” She giggled to herself. “I think Ronny likes it. Mine I mean. He did always prefer blondes.”

     ‘This could be our second chance. In time, we can look at this, unfortunate matter, as a blessing in disguise. The dark cloud to our silver lining. Wouldn’t that be great? You wouldn’t have to feel guilty anymore for what you did.’

     ‘You can be in peace,’

     ‘Oh, I wonder what this plug does?”

Wasp's Nest

     “God, that´s big.” Davey said, so much in awe that he actually spoke plainly the words he was thinking.

     “What’d I tell you about using the Lord’s name in vain, boy?” Jack said. “Anyway, it’s not that big.” 

     The wasp’s nest hung from the tall, rusted clothes line that sat, forgotten behind the old shed. The two men stood in the crowding darkness, a can gripped tightly in each gloved hand. The tranquility surrounding the hive belied the thriving life within it.     

     “I haven’t seen a bigger one.”

     “Yea well, I guess there’s a lot you don´t see with your nose crammed in them books.”

     “Those books.”

     “We´ll have to move quickly or we´ll lose the little light we got left.” They started towards the nest.

     Davey stopped and turned, “Maybe we should go at it from opposite sides. So they don’t all exit the other side and attack us.”

     “Nah” Jack replied, throwing his toothpick to the ground. “Go over there a bit, we can have a go at it from an angle.”

     “Isn’t that essentially what I said?”

     “Quit stalling, ga head.” Davey mumbled an angry retort that he hoped was loud enough. They inched their way toward the nest, listening, as the active hum grew louder. Jack threw up a hand telling Davey to stop. He chastised himself for responding so quickly.

     “One…” Jack mouthed, making little sound. “two… three…GO” They lunged forward, cans aimed at the nest, fingers pressing hard upon the valve, dusting the nest with poisoned mist. The sound of fury rose over that of the cans as wasps emerged from their home under siege. Most fell from the air only centimetres from the nest wall. The spraying became more erratic as wasps started coming from wider angles. The men’s arms flailed back and forth in a dance without rhythm. Jack felt a soft tickle on the back of his neck and a quick, stinging pain. Davey was stung on his forearm twice before shouting the retreat.

     “Jack, we can´t- we gotta go!” He turned and ran for the house. Jack also gave up the fight and followed a few steps behind. He reached the house first, threw open the screen door and pushed Davey inside. A wasp had followed them into the house. It buzzed around Jack’s head. He narrowly missed another stinging when Davey swatted it away and sprayed it. They panted heavily, trying to catch their breath. Jack because he was a life-long smoker and Dave because he rarely found time apart from studying to exercise. Jack straightened himself and sprayed the wasps, poised to attack, on the screen.

     “Did they get ya?” Jack asked, holding a hand over his neck.

     “Yea, coupla times”. Davey reached his arms out showing his war wounds proudly.

     “Told ya ta wear a sweater.” He responded, grabbing sting cream from the cabinet. “Here use this.”

     “I knew we should have gone at opposite sides. I told you.”

     “And we woulda sprayed eachother as much as the wasps. This stuff ain´t exactly oganic”

     “Organic, it’s organic.”

     “It ain’t good for you anway.”

     “I don’t like this stuff, where´s the other one. The one mom used to buy.”

     “I think there’s some in Kelly’s old room.” Jack said, looking away from him. He opened the fridge and grabbed a beer while Davey left the room.

     A few minutes later, Davey stormed back through the kitchen door. Jack sat with a beer in his hand and another, sitting across the table. He walked past the unopened beer.

     “Jack, what’s going on in Kelly’s room?”

     “We painted it.”

     “And the bed… and her desk?”

     “There’s a family in town that don’t have much. Thought their little girl could get more use out of it. Why don’t you sit down, Davey?”

     “Christ, how many times do I have to tell you. Don’t call me Davey.”

     “David then.  We´re turning it into an office. Somewhere I can keep my files and where your mom can…relax.”

     “And when Kelly comes home?”

     Jack looked up at him. “She ain’t coming back David. She don’t wanna be here.”

     “So you´re just gonna erase her? Like she was never here.”

     “It ain’t healthy, having all her stuff sitting there like she just left for a pack o' smokes. You just came home yesterday, you dunno what it was like. Your mom spendin all her time in there, talking about her constantly. You know she used to sleep in there some nights? ”

     David hadn’t known. But he was damned if he was going to let Jack see that. 

     “You think I made her have a goddam nervous breakdown?”

     “You think I wanted her to leave?” Jack shouted, finally losing his temper and stood so they were face to face.

     “Didn’t you? Admit it. She was never good enough, was she? Neither of us were.”

     “It’s not my fault she left.”

With that David lost what little control he had and swung his fist at Jack. It landed on his jaw with a dull thud. Jack sent a right hook into David’s cheek bone followed by a swift punch to his stomach. David doubled over and fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Jack dropped his hands, disappointed. He should know better by now.

     “Come on. You´re ok.” He said, kneeling down. David sat up, coughing and Jack helped him into his chair. From the freezer, he grabbed a small bag of peas that he tossed to David. “Put that on your face.”

     “Yea, I know.” He spat as Jack sat down.

     “Probably shouldn’t tell your mom ‘bout this.”

     “Yea, ok. How’s she doing?”

     “She’s gone out to buy hamburger. Making meatloaf for dinner. Your favourite. That’s more than she done for awhile.”

     “Good, I- That´s good.” Leaning back in his chair, he pressed the frozen peas to his face.

      “That wasn’t true you know; what you said.”

     “Ok,” he responded, tossing the bag of peas on to the table. He cracked open the beer and took a drink. “That’s good. Where’d you get it?”

     “Dougie, he finally started his brewery.”

     “Right. Jamie said he’d take me down there, show me around sometime.”

     “Oh yea? Didn’t wanna go with me last year. Said it was stupid.”

     “I don’t remember that.”

     “Yea well...don’t  matter. We oughtta go out and check on that nest.”

      The ground was littered with squirming bodies. The nest looked abandoned. There was no visible or audible activity around it. They stood beside eachother, considering the nest.

     “Let’s spray the shit out of it again and be done with it.”

     “Sounds good to me, son.” 

¿¿Biggest Surprise So Far??

I would have to say that, since starting to write seriously, my biggest surprise has come in the form of the content I write. I used to write a lot of literary, general fiction stuff but not so much this time around. I never would have guessed it but I love writing horror. 

I've been a super chicken-shit ever since I can remember. Seriously, I was like 10 when I stopped sleeping with the light on and waking my sister in the middle of the night by dropping textbooks on her from the top bunk.  

I blame my over active imagination. I remember, once, being absolutely convinced that the floor was going to swallow me whole because I had just watched an episode of "The Outer Limits" in which a house eats people. I swore I could even feel the floor moving, priming itself for it's next meal (and first since technically we hadn't lost anyone yet to our hungry house).

Later, when I eventually learned that hearing a scary story does not in turn, make you the next victim, I started reading horror books. And I loved them!! Maybe because I knew I could just put them in the freezer if they ever got too scary. My favourites are "The Shining" and "The Haunting of Hill House", incase you're ever in the mood for a good fright. 

I still wasn't down with movies though. Even now, I don't think I've ever watched a scary movie by myself. I never watched them, period, until a few years ago when I moved in with my husband (then boyfriend, as it goes nowadays). Feeling braver curled up next to him, I found that I actually enjoyed terrifying flicks. Unfortunately, I think my husband hates them now. I know he doesn't relish me screaming in his ear (I wish I was exaggerating), kicking him in the head (I no longer rest my feet on the back of the couch) or flinging hot soup at him. 

Even though I liked scary movies, I didn't expect to write horror. It had just never crossed my mind. But as I came up with different story ideas or concepts, my mind would always go to the same place: Wouldn't it be cool if there was a ghost? Soooo simple...sigh

It was surprisingly easy once I got started though. Maybe it's because I spent so many years being terrified of things that go bump in the night (or really anything that made any kind of sound in the night), but I think I have a real knack for giving goosebumps. 

If nothing else, I know I can scare the shit out of myself on a daily-basis. 

Do I know how to screw the figurative pooch or what?

Oh-my-crap! Oh, just....fucksticks!!!

Ok, breathing, calming...why don't I start at the beginning, hmm?

I spent all day working up the nerve to submit a story of mine to a magazine I'd spent days considering...oh and it took me months to get to the point where I could even entertain the idea of submitting.

I then took a good 2 hours to write a short but sweet cover letter (after referencing countless other websites and forums on proper etiquette) and reread it about a dozen times to make sure spelling and punctuation were up to snuff.

Then, I sent it.

And do you wanna know what I realized mere seconds after hitting the send button?? I DIDN'T ATTACH THE FUDGING STORY- THAT'S WHAT I DID!!!! GAHHHH

Ok, breathing...calming....

So then, I had the pleasure of re-drafting my glorious cover letter to include a very pathetic and shameful apology and resent it. Which begs the question, what are the chances of them assuming I'm an idiot and discarding my story altogether?

Did a tumbleweed just roll through my livingroom?

I need a cookie

Let Go of the Reins

What inspires your stories? What inspires your poems, your pictures, your life?

For me, the thing that inspires me most in my writing is my characters. Once I start writing them, I want to know what's going to happen, where the story is going to go. Every once in awhile I'll be doing something, watching a movie or taking a walk, and I'll get a good idea for a story. I ruminate on what I'd like to see happen, or what should happen based on this and that but when I actually sit down to write it, it just doesn't pan out the same. It doesn't have the same flow that my other stories do. It's more controlled, restrained.

My favourite stories (to write at least) all started with something simple, like a little girl walking through a field, or a group of friends sitting around a table, and just grew from there. I remember my highschool english teacher saying that a story has a life of it's own, you never know where it will take you.

I'm learning that when you try to rein in a story, it rebels. Oh sure, you can eventually break it and make it your pretty pony but it will be the worse for it.

A Gypsy

     I saw her standing a block ahead. The old woman offered sprigs of rosemary to anyone who passed close enough to her. She turned this way and that, appealing to the people passing by. Her dark hair was plaited into a loose braid and she wore long, black layers of loose fabric. Like always. I knew from experience that polite refusal was met with more aggressive tactics.  You had to be firm with gypsies.

     A year earlier, I would have felt bad for her; standing in the street, being ignored and avoided. I didn’t know then what she was doing. If anyone was naive enough to take one, she would demand payment. They wouldn’t be able to give it back and they wouldn’t be able to just walk away. At least that’s what I was told.

     I veered to the left as I got closer to her. not wanting to deal with it. She saw me, I was walking alone. She steered herself towards me. I turned the other way, unconcerned with social graces. She pivoted and once again primed herself to intercept me.

     “Coge; para ti guapa, por...” Her hand reached out to me, sprig clasped underneath her thumb. I turned my shoulder to her and continued. I arrived to the grocery store and walked in.

    

     Not long after, I was walking back, grocery bags pulling my shoulders and digging into my hands. I hated the weekly drudge along the twisted sidewalk. I surveyed the road as I approached the crosswalk. A car sped down the road towards the same intersection. It was a brown scrap-heap that clanked and coughed black smoke as it broke hard. The driver was a young man with dishevelled hair and a worn appearance. The passenger was the old gypsy woman I had seen earlier. She sat clasping a large bag of grocery in her lap. The man turned back in his seat and the car jerked backwards and turned into an empty parking space. I looked at the ground as I crossed the road.

     “Grandma, you know Carolina hates cauliflower. You’ll never get her to eat it.” He said, mumbling so much it was difficult for me to translate.

     “She will eventually. The child needs to eat good food. You let her eat like a bird and only garbage. She’ll like the way I cook it.”

     “Have it your way.” I snuck a quick look out of the corner of my eye. He smiled as he unburdened her arms of their bags.

     They turned and went their own way and on we drudged.

Why I Write

What makes us want to write? What makes us become writers? Everyone has a different reason or story; some more dramatic than others. Mine isn’t dramatic but it was meaningful, at least for me.

The first thing that ever inspired me to write was my Grade 11 English teacher.  She told us to write a poem and we had to use a bunch of random words somewhere.  When she handed them back to us, she smiled at me and said “Neat.”

                That was all it took. Honest to god, one word of encouragement. Unfortunately, I hadn’t gotten a lot of it in the past, something that was as much my fault as any teacher’s; I was a crap student.

                At the end of the year, we had to do a creative writing portfolio and when I got it back she had left a note saying “You have a gifted hand. Keep writing.” I still have it.

                So that was my original motivation, getting praise. Isn’t that always the way? Luckily, the same teacher had set up a Creative Writing class at my school that I took and enjoyed immensely. After highschool, I wrote off and on but never with any strict regularity.

Then, a year ago, I got a new book for my birthday.  It was called “Shadow of the Wind” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon and it was just gorgeous. Every page was like a small chocolate truffle. It’s the only book that made me feel jealous of other people who were just starting it. You can only read a story for the first time once.  A book like that gives you a new appreciation and respect for the craft. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to write.

Lastly, and I shouldn’t call this inspiration because it’s not but rather encouragement.  It was called “Guilty Pleasures” by Laurell K Hamilton. I’m generally not one for vampire romance novels but these books were so popular I thought, there must be something to it, right? And no, there isn’t. It was, by far, the worst thing I’ve ever read. If these books are well-liked it’s because people are, essentially, horny bastards.  I thought, if I can’t write something better than this drivel, I don’t deserve to succeed.

So, here I am, having a go at this business of story-telling.  

Adventures in Baking

As I´ve already said, I like to bake. Like, a lot.  This natural love of baked goods intensified 10-fold when I moved to Sweden for a year in university. For those of you who don’t know, those Swedes also enjoy foods of the baked variety and I went ape-shit for it all.

     Anyway, while there I got in the habit of baking cakes for people’s birthday parties. I would get a yummy looking recipe from the internet and set about collecting all the necessities. There were often times, a few ingredients that I couldn’t get my hands on for one reason or another but I had always made due. Things started off small; substituting vanilla powder for vanilla extract for example; nothing, right? Then things got more complicated; yogurt instead of sour cream, this Swedish vanilla sauce instead of pudding…you get the idea.  Sometimes it got a little sketchy but it always worked out so I started to get a little over-confident. And then came Mat’s birthday.

     It was my friend Mathieu’s birthday and I promised him a special cake (no, not ‘special’-special). I should state now that he was an avid handball player (a piece of information that will prove useful later).I decided on a banana, nut cake with coconut cream cheese icing. It was an ambitious choice even for me but I was blinded by hubris.

 I went out and got all the stuff I would need and set to it. I mixed and beat until the batter was perfect. Or seemingly perfect, it’s so hard to tell with liquid cake…it all looks the same. I admit, in hindsight, that I had gotten a little bit creative with it. But it didn’t look ‘creative’ so, I put it to bake in the oven and went about cleaning.

     Fast forward about 30 minutes when I peek in to glimpse my masterpiece. Except it wasn’t looking too masterpiecy. It was still flat (except for a little hill in the centre). I might have thought it was raw if not for the fact that it was hard and dense.  I don’t know what exactly had gone wrong but it had. In a big way!

I took it out and poked it…often. It was solid enough that I could turn it out, upside down onto the counter. I poked it a few more times, which accomplished little other than rocking it.  It was obvious that the bottom was still fairly raw so like any good-baker, I put it back into the pan, upside down, and baked it longer.  

It took another hour to cook it through so I had just enough time before the party to let it cool and ice it. By this time I was feeling super shitty with my incredibly dense, rubbery cake and I was starting to worry about all the people that were going to be witnesses to my extreme failure. So I went to talk to Mat.

I knocked on his door and told him what I had tried to do and that I was ashamed of my pathetic little excuse for a cake and couldn’t we just eat it tomorrow when it’s just us and our friends, instead. He said not to worry, that it was the thought that counted more than anything and he was sure everyone was going to love the cake. I think the bastard just wanted his damn birthday cake.

     So fast forward again; we are downstairs, party is in full swing, and I go around telling everyone that I’m going to pop upstairs, grab the cake and they all have to be ready to sing Happy Birthday. Pop upstairs I do, and whilst I am lovingly placing the candles on the cake, another friend of ours pokes his head into the kitchen to inform me (with glee I might add) that Mat’s best friend Johan had gone to a bakery and bought him a handball cake. That’s right, he bought him a beautiful, professionally made cake in the shape of a handball.  Even more deflated; I finished placing the candles. I was walking gingerly down stairs when I heard the sound of singing; ‘Happy Birthday’ singing. That’s weird, I thought, they’re a little early. I rush down the steps so that I would make it down before the end of the song. When I reached the landing, I saw, to my horror, Johan making his way across the room to Mat, handball cake outstretched in front. Fucksticks!

     The song ended, Johan presented the stupid cake and everyone was clapping. Then, slowly, everyone at the party turns to look at me; the girl at the back holding the sad-looking cake and the crowd parts like the fucking Red Sea. Before me is a gauntlet of people leading straight to Mat. Everyone is looking at me like they don’t quite know what to do. I can honestly say it was the most awkward moment of my life.

And so what does one do in a situation like this? Scurry away, throw a shit-fit, blush meekly?

“Happy birthday…” I began. As quiet as I was, the sound echoed through the room as no one else spoke or even moved. “…to you...”.  

To my great relief, everyone started laughing and singing along with me (phew) and I moved through the gauntlet and presented Mat with my cake (not sparing Johan a few glares along the way). In the end, the cake was actually not bad. At least that’s what they told me, I was too busy stuffing my face with a slice-o-handball to bother with my crap-cake. 

Still kickin.....

So I´m not dead and I haven’t given up on writing or writing a blog for that matter. I’ve actually been pretty focused on writing. I get it, I need practice. But I have to say I’m starting at a good place; I’m not a bad writer and I have good, original ideas for stories. Is this ego or honesty? I think it’s honesty, as I’m not particularly egotistical. Then again, if I were, would I know it?

I found a great website (and some not so great websites) that have been really helpful so far. I’m going to forego talking about the bad ones, since they were free and I didn’t actually lose anything by joining. So here is the best little website I have found so far:

Critique Circle

     Once I started writing I realized that I needed advice and suggestions as to how to improve. I’m currently living in Spain so joining a local critique group would be difficult if not impossible.  After a quick google-search of critiquing websites, I found “Critique Circle”.

     So the dealio with this site is that you register and critique stories from your fellow writers. For each critique you give, you get a certain number of points, depending on the length of the story and then length of the critique you give. You then use those points to “buy” a slot in the following week’s story queues. Once your story is added to the queue, it is available for critiquing. The critiques are first reviewed by the administrators so that mean or excessively harsh critiques aren’t sent through. Honest, even brutally honest, critiques are fine but never to the point of abusive.

     This website is exactly what I was looking for. The general feel of it (so far at least) is that it’s very supportive and encouraging while honest and helpful. For the most part, the people who are actively critiquing and submitting stories take writing fairly seriously as opposed to a hobby. It’s great to get an unbiased, objective opinion about my work. In other words,  not from my husband or sister.

     The only downside to critiquing (in general, not just the website) is that it can at times be discouraging. Times like that, you really have to focus. Or meditate. Or medicate.

     There are also the people that don’t really want to get criticism. I suppose they join just to hear how good their story is. After a few critiques, from yourself or others, you learn how to weed-out the advice you’re given. If have to have a really good sense of your own writing to come out of a critique unscathed, I think. I’m not quite there yet but I´m working on it.

     Do you have any other sweet finds in regards to writer’s websites? Feel free to share in the comments! 

The Break-up break-down

“Joseph, hi.”

“Tabitha, hey, how´s it going?”

“I´m...fine. Fine.”

“I was just perusing the menu. I think I´m going to have the fish. Then again, the special today is lasagna.”

“Didn´t you hate the fish the last time we were here?”

“Hm?”

“The fish...you said last time that it was too greasy. Remember?”

“So you think I should get the lasagna?”

“No. I just think....”

“Maybe there´s a different cook today. The fish can´t always be that bad.”

“Get whatever you want Joseph.”

“Hmmmmm. How’s work babe?”

“It´s okay.”

“What are you going to have? The panini´s here are great.”

“I don´t know I haven´t even looked yet?”

“This one has eggplant, red pepper and mushrooms.”

“I hate eggplant Joseph.”

“Yea, I know.  I meant for me.”

“Right, well, I´m actually not all that hungry.”

“I think i´m going to....oh just a sec, my phone´s vibrating.   Hello? ... Haha Micheal, how´s it going? ....No, 

no don´t worry. ... How about tonight?... Oh can you wait one sec, the waitress is here... yea hi, sorry about 

that, I´ll have the lasagna and the soup to start, and can you bring me a coke?  thanks ...  go ahead Tabby...sorry Micheal, I´m back ...

“Yea, can I just have the Cobb salad, without the meat please, and an iced tea? Thanks.”

“... I don´t know, I hated the last movie he was in... No, that was Harrison Ford... yea i can drop her off on the way home... alrighty, see you then.  It was Mike. That guy...geez.  So what did you order?”

“A hamburger.”

“Great, so you´re eating meat again?”

“Seems so.”

“Finally, anyway what were we talking about?”

“Um, we weren´t really.”

“Oh just a sec, I think I got a text.”

“Oh, of course... I´d hate for you to miss that.”

“Just...a...second....won´t...take.....Ok I´m done.”

“Look Joseph, we need to talk.”

“Yea sure, what´s on your mind?”

“I know I´ve been a little bit distant lately but I..”

“Well maybe a little but I just sort of assumed you were working on some personal stuff.”

“Oh? What made you assume that?”

“I mean...well, you know how you are.”

“Uh huh. Well I wasn´t, not really anyway.”

“Oh right, right. Your mom, have you heard back from her?”

“Huh?  Oh yea, that. Yea it´s fine. Apparently it was more Jim´s problem. He has a thing about...his tools.”

“Maybe cause he is one, right?”

“What? Jim isn´t a tool. I mean, he´s not perfect but-”

“Yea, yea. I was just joking. Of course, it was just a joke.”

“Anyway, like I was saying,”

“Oh here comes the waitress, god, I´m hungry. Thanks and can I get that coke please? Salad again Tab? You 

got to change it up a bit every now and then.”

“Joseph, please just listen for a minute. This isn´t easy for me. I...”

“What isn´t easy, baby? If you need help with something, just tell me and I´m there. You know that.”

“No, it´s not like that. Just...”

“Ok I know what this is about. I knew you would bring it up again eventually.”

“What?”

“Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?”

“Yea, remember? You mentioned going on vacation together and I thought maybe it was too soon.”

“Ugh, 6 months ago?”

“I don´t know. Anyway I think I´m ready for that now. We should go.”

“No, Joseph. I don´t want to go to Hawaii with you. I´ve been thinking...”

“Mexico?”

“Ugh! Shut up! Ok, I´m sorry but I don’t want to go to Mexico with you. I don´t want to go anywhere with you. I don´t even want to be anywhere with you anymore. I´ve been trying to talk to you for weeks now and you never listen to me!  I think I might actually hate you.”

One is pink, the other blue

Last night, while I merrily went about getting ready for bed, I tried to take off my eye make-up with nail polish remover. Seriously. I'm fine by the way. Luckily, as soon as I wiped my eyelid I realized the smell could only be nail polish remover and washed it off (of course after I had exhausted my list of known expletives).You might be wondering "How does that even happen?" The answer, sadly, is that both products are in squeezy bottles. That's it. The bottles are completely different sizes, shapes and colours, which you would think would be enough to distinguish between the two. Apparently not. I don't know how I've made it this fair in life without seriously injuring myself.

This is not something completely foreign to me, unfortunately. Ok, so I've never almost blinded myself, that´s new, but I do stupid shit all the time. For instance, no matter the number of times I hit my head on the wall behind my bed, I never, never, think twice before throwing myself on the bed. I´ve heard some people say that either stupidity or insanity is defined by doing the same action over and over again and expecting different results. I don't believe that. I know I'm neither stupid nor insane so what is it? Is it because I´m a clutz? Is it an inherent disregard for my personal safety? Or is it just laziness?

Why pies should be treated with caution:

               

     The women in my family are big into baking. In fact, that's the activity that stands out most in my mind when I think of either my mom or my grandma. So if ever there is a potluck or function that we have to attend, our go-to thing is baked goods. 

     And so a few years back, my incredibly sweet, patient, saint of a sister had to go to a work party at her boss's house. She genuinely liked her boss and all the people she worked with and really wanted to impress them with her mad-baking skills (cause who doesn´t love the girl that bakes?). She got the recipe for a sour cream apple pie from our other sister and gave herself a good 4 hours to make it, thinking this would give it enough time to bake and then cool. She really had no idea what she was in for.                                                             

     She mixed all the ingredients, put them in the pie crust and popped it in the oven for the set amount of time. Said time rolls around, she takes it out and is surprised by how soupy it is. Now, a pie being a little bit liquidy right out of the oven isn´t unheard of but this was a little too much. Regardless, she assumed it was okay and set it aside to cool while she cleaned up. A little while later she checked on it again and saw that it wasn´t solidifying…at all.
     Being the unfailing optimist that she is, she bucked up and had another go at it, this time using less liquid. She made the other pie and left it to bake while she got ready. When the timer went off she took the pie out of the oven and to her horror saw that the result was the exact same: sour cream soup with apple chunks on a bed of soggy pie crust. This is about the time that I arrived (I was catching a ride with her to my parents house which is one the way). I saw that she was super stressed so I tried, uncharacteristically, to be a good sister.

“Something smells good.” I said being overly cheerful.

“I made pie” she said, standing over the sink.

“Well it looks..” I started, walking over to it, “…is it suppose to look like that?” That was the wrong question.

“NO! I couldn´t understand the stupid fucking recipe.” she snapped at me. Like I said, she is super sweet and patient and all things good…until she isn´t. In those moments you just have brace yourself and ride it out.

“Well I´m sure you tried your best.” Being supportive and encouraging isn´t really my strong suit but that doesn´t mean I don´t try.

“I spent the whole fucking morning making these goddam pies,” she said, slamming various drawers, “and I don´t have time to make another one. Okay?” She also gets very combative and challenging when she´s frustrated so you just have to let her do what she wants until she wears herself out.

“Ok, ok”

“You´ll have to carry it in your lap.” Errr? What did she say?  The fact that she was still planning on bringing the liquid-pie-mush is a testament to her state of mind at the time. It honestly never dawned on her to not bring the pie to the party.She really really wanted this thing to happen.

           I moved the tray slightly and the entire contents sloshed to one side, almost spilling over the edge. Not only was it liquid, it was also incredibly hot. The flaws in her plan were glaringly obvious but I was also kind of afraid of her at this point so I half-heartedly agreed. Walking down to her car was a juggling act, each step was slow and steady as to not upset the balance of the piping-hot pie.  Miraculously ,we got to the car without spilling much and she helped me get in. I thought hopefully that maybe it would be ok since it was on my lap. Oh, the lies we tell ourselves.

She started the car and switched from park into reverse and the car moved ever so slightly. The pie, being considerably unstable, sloshed forward and I had to lift the tray off my lap to rebalance before it spilled out. I was becoming as delusional as my sister in thinking that if I could save it once, why couldn´t I protect it for a 30 minute drive? I also saw that tears were streaming down her face at the sight of this monstrosity and the reality of the situation so I didn´t want to make things worse by voicing my fears. She backed out of the parking spot, the pie sloshing back and forth as I tried to steady it. I found it´s sloshing and the fact that she was actually intending to serve this to humans utterly hilarious but I knew it wasn´t the time. I tried to stifle my laughter in fear but it wasn´t working. I looked out the window and shook while balancing the pie. She sniffed and told me to shut up. I felt horrible for laughing but that´s never enough to actually stop you from laughing is it?

 The car was out of the space and lurched forward sending the pie and it´s contents back towards me. I tried counterbalancing it by tipping it forward and then overcompensated by tilting the tray back again. With each attempt the pie only gained momentum until finally it was too much and the tray, the pie and all it´s burny contents spilled over on top of me.

“OH GOD!” I screamed as the sour cream soup soaked through my clothes and burned my skin. “IT'S SO HOT!” Even being in excruciating pain, I still thought the situation was pretty damn funny. At least I finally felt justified in laughing. “Fuck you, this is funny!” I yelled at her. If 2^nd degree burns don't merit a giggle I don't know what does. She looked furious at first and she fought it for maybe 2 seconds but then we were both laughing uncontrollably.

It took us another 30 minutes to get myself and the car cleaned up. In the end, she conceded and decided to by a pie at the supermarket. She hasn´t tried to make a pie since.

Bus Dialogue: From There

“I´m from there.”

“Uh...where?”

“Gavesford. I grew up there.”

“Oh, well…that´s nice.”

“I read that when I was a kid. Everyone from the town has. It´s like a requirement.”

“Well it´s pretty interesting.”

“Do you like it? Most of it isn´t true. But the truth´s not that interesting huh?”

“Guess not.”

“They never really asked him what happened you know from his point of view. All this was suppose to be a interview but it´s not. It never was. A lot of that they just inferred, or whatever. Assumed.”

“Uh huh.”

“There was another book before that came out. No one wanted it though. Wasn´t a popular thing back then. No one liked to think about it then. Now, course people love it. Romantic or something innit? Don´t know how really, when you think about it. Besides that version was less about him and more about the family.”

“Hmm.”

“Most people didn´t really care about what happened to his family. Not after.”

“k.”

“My sister actually met him coming out of the old coffee shop. We didn´t even know he still lived there. She only recognized him cause they talked bout it the day before in her class. He said that-“

“Pardon, but I really want to finish this.”

“Oh, …sorry. I´ll shut up…sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Bus Dialogue: Excuse me?

I know that one of my weaknesses lies in writing dialogue. Cheezy or unbelievable dialogue can destroy an otherwise decent story. On the otherhand, if it's done right, the dialogue can tell a story in itself. So this is something that I really want to work on. I decided to write a series of dialogues, without any descriptions whatsoever, taking place on a bus. Here is the first one I wrote; please, tell me what you think.

“Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”

“Sorry?”

“The time. Do you know the time?”

“No I´m sorry, I don´t have a watch.”

“Oh. Shouldn´t it say on your Ipod?”

“It doesn´t work.”

“Oh yea, right. Weren´t you just listening to it?”

“No not really. I just put the headphones in to make it look like I´m listening to music.”

“Is that so people won´t bother you on the bus?”

“You´re not bothering me if that´s what you mean.”

“Well I´d just heard that sometimes people do that. Or pretend they´re talking on phones.”

“I heard that too, about the phones. Risky if you ask me. Eventually you have to hang up and then you are free and wide-open again. And you run the risk of the phone ringing.”

“Unless of course your phone doesn´t actually work.”

“Yea in that case, yea.”

“So then what is it?”

“What's what?”

“Why do you pretend to listen to music?”

“Right, right. I was always seeing people I vaguely knew around and this awkward, forced conversation would always ensue until eventually we´d just give up and sit in no-less-uncomfortable-silence.”

“So you just don´t want people you know bothering you?”

“No. If they really want to have that, I have nothing against it. I´m not too good for awkward moments. But I don't think they do. This way people have a..a...”

“An excuse?”

“An excuse.”

“So you're trying to spare them?”

“Not like a charity. But well, most people take the out.”

“Don´t you worry that it makes you a little, I don´t know, antisocial.”

“No. Not me anyway.”

Beginning at 10

I´ve entertained the idea of writing since I was a teenager but always distantly. I said things like "I want to get to the point where I can consider myself a writer". I mean, who says that, right? Vague and always at arms length, that´s me in a nutshell. I´ve never been one to talk about what I want out of life or to think big because then I might be in danger of disappointing myself. If I never really want anything then I can never be disappointed, right? You can't give up on something you've never tried. There´s an eye-opening thought for ya.

2 days ago was the first time I had ever said the words "I want to be a writer" out loud. To be honest I had never even said it in my head so telling my husband was a big step for me. Starting a blog was his suggestion. I liked the idea but I have to admit it was daunting. I tried a couple of times but never got passed the welcome page before getting scared and closing it (....I spook easy, okay?). I mean, I want my work to be read and I'm not afraid of a little criticism but the internet can be so harsh. There's no filter there. I was worried that I would get discouraged before I even began. Obviously I got over that, I figure that if I can handle what the internet has to dish out, I can handle anything.... Please be gentle.

Next item on the docket was to come up with a name. I was thinking to name it "0 to Writer" but I´m not actually starting at 0. Writing has been a hobby of mine since highschool thanks to an amazing english teacher I had so I thought "10 to Writer" would be better. It also sounds better than "0 to Writer"...catchier I think. Don´t say it too many times though, it´s one of those things that loses all meaning quickly.

So now I´m committed. I have a shiny new blog and shiny new desire to not feel like a failure. Hurrah?