I feel like this would be something Audrey Hepburn would say, and since I admire her immensely…Let’s go with it. And try to smile, friends.
I posted the other day about wanting a soundtrack to play in my life like Agent Gemma Simmons from Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. in episode 2×03. Watch above and see what you think. I just think it’s perfect and I love the song so much.
And I hope to have a book review posted as well later in the day.
Happy Tuesday, dearies. (that is courtesy of Rumpelstiltskin from Once Upon a Time)
Despite the month of August being a smoke filled month (say hello to California wildfires and forest mismanagement) and the constant fill of farming and watering and working more than I care to think about, I was able to accomplish some pretty nice things this month and I thought I would share them. So drum-roll…… Well, you can add that in if you want. I’m doing it in my head….
Okay, so maybe those are small accomplishments, but small doesn’t mean inferior or not important. It’s the little things in life that count, right? I have to take little things and enjoy or savor them. The running is huge. The short story is huge. So, I’ll go with it.
Anyone else have some accomplishments that made them want to dance around?
Due to a really horribly nasty obnoxious virus, Kate’s Bookshelf….I.E. Me, is taking a hiatus until said editor, writer, publisher, agent, and all around owner of this blog, is well again. When you have a virus so bad that you are losing your voice and animals start to run from you when you cough, you know it’s bad. Weekly posts and Word of the Day posts are on hold until I can at least feel like I’m not going to cough hard enough to blow my laptop off my lap.
I will try and get a book review up this week so that I finally have it up… It’s taken me a while to write the darn thing.
So for all you readers out there, stay away from this so called Spring Fever. It just might get you.
The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine addled, crippled by procrastination, and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul crushing inadequacy. And that’s on a good day. ~Robert DeNiro via the 86th Academy Awards teleprompter
Now, the really question is, how many good days are there for a writer? I caught this marvelous quote right way the other night while watching the Oscars, and I’m not the only other person who latched onto this statement. Type it into Bing and you will get several blog post pop up with this same quote used as the topic of Monday’s posts. It is a truly powerful statement in regards to writers.
In fact this statement is so true that you know only a writer wrote it for Robert DeNiro to say. My mother stared at me and at the television, her jaw dropping because it is so true in regards to me. I have actually been mulling over a post regarding the real issue of being a writer is because of our own fears. So this is apropos. What keeps us from writing are those moments of procrastination, panic, and self-loathing. We drink coffee or tea like fiends , and often we don’t have good days.
Unless you are talking to another writer, you definitely feel complete and utter isolation. Desolation. Non-writers do not understand what is going through our heads and there is no point in trying to explain. Non-writers stare at you, a blank expression on their face, and that’s when you know you are neurotic because obviously it only makes sense to us.
We fail to send in our manuscripts and query letters because we are ‘crippled by procrastination’ and dealing with ‘soul crushing inadequacy.’ “I’ll never be able to write like ____________[FILL IN THE BLANK].
Then there we are at two in the morning pounding out this idea that CANNOT wait till daylight, our eyes heavy and dark. WE wake to circles under the eyes from lack of sleep, staggering to the coffee pot before we are even lucid, only to look over what we had written in the dark and think to ourselves, ‘Utter crap!’
Rewriting over and over, tweaking even after it’s ‘done’ and ready to be sent off to editors, agents, or publishers. It will never be perfect. Twenty years in print and we will still want to change something that everyone else is perfectly fine with. We are never satisfied.
Even this post will be tweaked before the “publish” button is clicked, and three days from now I will want to change something. (I wrote this yesterday in ink; I’m typing it now; and I’ve already changed a couple things)
The mind of a writer is a terrifying thing. What is going on in there leads to nightmares and moments when you space out trying to solve some plot twist. Random scraps of notes that are all gibberish to the ordinary person, but are pure gold to the author, frequent our lives and flat surfaces. We fill our notebooks with random odd sayings and pieces of conversation that we just might use someday, in some book that has yet to be written. We hoard our dictionaries and thesauruses. We keep books for varies pieces we like that we might include in a passage here or there.
And those are the good days.
Bad days are more frequent, in my opinion, and lead to giving up saying you’ll never write again. Days you want to rip up every typed page or shut down your blog because, hey, you’ll never write again. Depression where you are in such a funk that every living thing avoids you. The bad days feel like the depths of despair and there is no light at the end of the tunnels.
Oh, but we are writers, and it’s a wondrous thing.
Maybe he had a better reason for leaving. Maybe it was the summer sun that first started the wanderlust. Whatever the reason, on day Janis watched him walk out of their front gate, not knowing when she would next see him.
He left no plans, no way to contact him; He only said he’d be back in the fall. Whatever that meant.
“Silly man,” she muttered, smoothing down her apron. She wasn’t surprised he was leaving. Every couple of years he’d get this look in his eye and by the next day he’d have his knapsack packed. He’d go off finding adventure, though he never told Janis what he ended up doing on his treks. He could be gone a week or months. Once he was gone only two days, but another he was gone almost a year.
She didn’t know if he had another woman, she hated him if he did, but she doubted him fooling around. There were plenty of women around here who would have gladly taken him into their beds. No, the look in his eyes was not the lust for human flesh, but of fresh air, mountain peaks, and sandy beaches. Sometimes she would find bits and pieces of nature hiding down at the bottom o f his knapsack when he’d return. A small shell, a green rock, and once she found an old arrowhead.
For Janis the reprieve of married life was always a chance for a renewal of herself. She slept in, not needing to make his breakfast. She enjoyed her poached eggs on toast without complaint. She tried new hairstyles and bought a new outfit or two. She would hire a couple of local girls and they would tear apart the house, cleaning it from top to bottom, then Janis would rearrange the furniture or paint a room. She’d have a gardener come in and give the whole yard a nice clean up, getting all the spots He never got to when he was at home. She’d splurge on a new rose bush or something exotic and fancy that would last only the summer season.
She’d invite her friends over for luncheons and teas. They’d gab about kids and husbands, though Janis never mentioned Him other than to say he was on sabbatical. They all knew what that meant. The ladies would discuss flower arrangement and wallpaper options. Painting versus staining re-purposed furniture. Then Janis would show off her new redone room and all the ladies would ooh and ah, commenting on how they wished their husbands would let them redo a room whenever they wanted to.
The friends would leave and Janis would clean up the house to a spotless state, fix a small meal and eat dinner watching one of her favorite movies. Something he wouldn’t like and try to talk over. She’s go to bed whenever she wanted, sometimes late, sometimes early. And every night till he came home, Janis would cry herself to sleep.
Who would have thought a short story or flash fiction piece could come out of a Harbrace College Handbook? The first line and title of this piece was a line of correction under commas in my Harbrace. I was reading it the other day and this line caught my attention and I knew I had to write something. Not exactly sure if I have the commas in the correct spots (I’m a comma girl and I use way more than I ever should), but I’m happy with how this turned out. I have a fifties or sixties esque thought pattern in my head for Janis. Like she does her hair in the flip styles and wears big patterned dresses with bold flowers. Well, whatever she looks like, this was fun to write out the other day in a matter of moments on a piece of lined paper. Sometimes inspiration strikes from the funniest of places. And this story did not even come close to what I had in my mind, but hey, sometimes the character takes you places you never knew were hiding.
Currently I’m not making bread. I should be.
Currently I’m not folding clothes. I should be.
Currently I’m not sending books to people who’ve requested them on Bookmooch. I should be.
Currently I’m not posting a review for a book I read three weeks ago. I should be.
Currently I’m not sorting books that have gotten out of hand. I should be.
Currently I’m not writing blog posts even though it’s been almost a month since my last one. I should be.
Currently I’m not decluttering areas that need it. I should be.
Right now I’m thinking about an email I want to send to a friend, the Once Upon a Time fan fiction I’m currently interested in, the book I’m writing, the music I want to listen to, the boxes of books I want to go through, and the blog posts I should write before the holidays get going.
I’m so behind of what I want to do versus what I should be doing versus what I need to be doing.
Currently I am not….. And I should be…..
‘The door jingled as Tim stepped into the Post Office.
I ignored him. He ignored me
It was all very civil.’
So, does that constitute as flash fiction? I was thinking about it today as I went about my business. This actually happened. Tim is this guy who stood me up about two weeks ago, then proceeded to make excuses with the F-bomb being dropped every other word in his excuses. Some sort of directed at me. (yeah, nice guy isn’t he?) Thank goodness he did stand me up.
But I thought that little bit of lines could be flash fiction.
Dear Reader, you tell me.
I imagined you here today
Arriving on your black steed
Shining chrome and a high wax gloss
And here I am all dirty and unglamourous
But you didn’t care as you called to me
And my world fell away in a moment
As everything faded to just you
You and your smile
It was heaven and hell
For one minute you were here
The next back far away
Your real life much more real than the dream was
But I can still see you
Still I feel your arms around me
Your mouth on my ear
Whispering how you have missed me
Even though we have never been
A brief taste of heaven
The bitter remains
I’ve been reading Poemcrazy and Foolsgold by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge and somehow her inspirations have helped me open up a bit more in the poetry department. This was written for someone who means a great deal more to me than I probably ever say. Hopefully he understands.
So there I was in town last week, or was it on Tuesday…. Anyways, I had left my camera home, which is normal, as I’m forever forgetting to take it along with me, even though half the time I wish I had. I was people watching, which is always fun, especially if you are not seriously people watching. Kind of that vague sort of, you notice them, but don’t focus solely on them.
Well, a couple of situations came across that I wish I would have had my camera to capture the moment.
First off was a teacher, or teacher’s aide with a gaggle of girls. The girls were all around five to six, with their backpacks, and bows in hair, and such. I’d say about ten to fifteen little girls. The thing that stuck out was all the pink. If it wasn’t pink shoes, it was bows in hair, or pink shirts, shorts, necklaces, and about three or four pink backpacks of the same style and design. Every girl had some sort of pink on. Even the girls that were wearing blue or black or purple, had some pink on them. It was so cute. And they were laughing and giggling like all little girls do. Asking each other how old they were, and just generally having a happy-go-lucky attitude.
The second situation was two older men sitting on the concrete planter box out in front of the post office. One was in his 60’s, the other in his 80’s. They were having a friendly conversation and it was just so idyllic. It reminded me of the song “Old Friends” by Simon and Garfunkle. “Old friends, old friends, sat on a park bench like bookends….”. I wished I could have taken a picture. I will use the image somewhere to write either some flash fiction or to put in a book. Not sure what. Same with the little girls.
The last example was about three weeks ago, when I saw a husband and wife walking hand in hand, home from the grocery store, the husband holding the wicker basket full, and both of them chatting with each other. The wife giggling and laughing at something her husband had said. It was one of those moments you see in a commercial where it’s this adorable couple.
I think couples at any age are adorable in certain settings. And older couple in their 80’s taking a quiet stroll through the park is so cute. I saw it once on a Debeers add. Or a young couple that is happily spending time with each other. It fascinates me.
So, there I was, wishing for my camera. You would think I would remember it from time to time….
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