While I was in treatment I was given Recovery Workbook by my one on one therapist. There were many sheets on which to detail the progression of my disease. When I was in active addiction I would try to write, … Continue reading
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.
To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself.
To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.
To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.
To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.
To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.
To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself.
To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.
That she is loved.
That she is free.
That she is important.
I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.
Tonight my favorite movie is on and though I’ve seen it a hundred times, I’m watching it again. I was one of those that watched the movie before I read the book, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. I read it from cover to cover in one sitting, as my little kids played around my feet. While they ate their meals. While I changed their diapers. While I bathed them. And after I put the to bed.
The children grew older, and as they did, we bed shared. For comfort, yes, but also for closeness and for me the possibility that I might get a full nights sleep so I could function at work the next day. Often, the cats and a dog or two would crawl in there with us.
After the little ones settled and fell asleep, and before I’d drift off, I’d grab my dog eared copy of Fried Green Tomatoes and devour a chapter. I knew every word, yet the story continued to resonate within me. Was I born in the South in a previous life? Why did the story of Ruth and Idgie effect me so deeply?
I began to know every word of the story, yet I couldn’t put it down. The book fell apart, yet I continued to read it. I would jump from story to story without missing a beat. I felt the promise of new life when Buddy was born, and the sadness of love lost when Ruth died. I felt anger so intense when there was racism, and when Idgie was accused and tried for murder I cried.
As my children grew older and took to their own bedrooms, I continued to read the book. It was now in pieces and I had to tape most of the pages together. I swear to you some nights when I read the stories, I could feel the heat of the day on my skin, while tendrils of my hair blew in the humid Alabama air. Train whistles blew and sweat poured down my back. I was dressed in white cotton, sitting on my front porch, and drinking sweet tea. When I’d finally fall asleep, I’d dream I was as tough as Towanda, that brilliant woman unafraid to bait her own hook and love the woman that was meant to be hers forever.
The kids are grown now, and the copy of my book is long gone. I think about replacing it, but something always sidetracks me. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t get that time back. Or maybe it’s the fact that I want to write like that, but can’t. Or maybe I can write like that, but I’m afraid to fail. All I know is I’ll watch Fried Green Tomatoes tonight and it will make me feel all the things I used to feel. Maybe I’ll finally start that book. Or maybe, I’ll just know that my soul, it was born in the South, and it will have to be enough.
Penny sat across the room from Steven. The ritual of lit candles was completed and it was time to write. Her fingers rested on the home keys, but no words came. Instead, she eyed her new husband.
He was yelling at the television, which she found endearing. As the years progressed, would she begin to hate it? Would he loathe the way she savored her writing time? Penny sat the laptop down, walked over and cuddled up next to Steven.
‘Love, you taste like peanut butter.’ He kissed her.
‘Yeah? Well, you yell at the television like my father does.’
‘Round about 100 Words/Genre: Romance, of course
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is an honor and a privilege to have Ms. Rochelle critique my work. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.
I welcome kudos and criticism. Seriously, rip it up if you want.
“I’m not funny. What I am is brave.”-Lucille Ball
**Special thanks to Adam at TheChowderHead.com for the sexy-ass banner design. I don’t know how he did it, but he captured my personality perfectly. You can see every aspect of my life and desires in that banner. How he did so without us meeting face to face, I’ll never know. Sure, he’s a funny one, but I’m beginning to see he’s a dude with depth.
So yeah, about giving up the blog thing, I lied. I don’t know if it was indeed a lie. I think I was just, tired. And pretty fucking uninspired.
I found my ‘fire’ as my brother in arms, Rory puts it, at The Bus Stop.
And from a little book by John Green titled, “Looking for Alaska.” As I was reading the inner monologue of the main character Pudge, I realized that though the verbiage was simple, the story was complex. I came to the realization that even I could write a book like this. Hell I’ve written stories like it, why not go for it all??!! But that’s when the fear comes in. That tickle of doubt that slides across your heart. Making it cold, and thrum against your ribs. Then the voices begin. You know the ones. Those that have told you your whole life that you’re not good enough.
You must understand that I’m terribly afraid that once I get started writing a book, I won’t stop. That I will forget to eat, sleep, bathe, or even breathe….. I do tend to get a tad, shall we say, passionate. I have a day job. I gotta work, because I’m taking care of myself now. I’m all I’ve got.
My erotic writing will continue under a pen name. No, I won’t tell you what it is. If you find her and read her work, I don’t want you to know it’s me. I need the freedom to write as I wish. My muse is wild, free, and very sexual. Yet broken. Even more broken than I will ever admit on my Rendezvous page.
Romance belongs here. Stories of inspiration belong here. Flash fiction too. Observational stories about fellow humans belong here. Comedy, sarcasm and the word fuck belong here. With romance, comes depictions of want. I’m good with that, because I’m no one trick pony when it comes to writing. I believe all stories, no matter the genre are about that word-want.
I’m a word whore, and this is what I was born to do. It’s who I am. It’s time for this word whore to make a plan. To quit flying by the seat of her pants. Time for me to write my Looking for Alaska.
A silly and hopeful, and ultimately brave Rendezvous Girl
The writer, pen and paper in hand observes his surroundings and creates worlds that others would never see.
To the left, the brown chairs become mahogany settees. The cane design splitting apart after being left in the summer sun far too long.
To the right, three strangers become old mates sharing a pint. They celebrate in the brutal heat. One of them is getting married, to a woman with burgundy hair and eyes the color of emeralds.
The writer’s bike is black but otherwise nondescript. After removing the lock, he pedals off. Searching for more inspiration, and far greater stories.
100 words/Genre: General Fiction (I think)
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Criticisms and kudos are most welcome. Bring it on my loves, bring it on.
Words escape me these days. I’m tired, but can’t sleep. Not hungry, but never full either. Gotta keep moving. The words will return and with them, my smile. Along with a host of other things….
Well sleepless nights and endless days,
Mini skirts and serving trays,
Waking up from rain delays,
And selling sex for pocket change,
And living off the alcohol,
With no one but a cab to call,
And lost inside a bathroom stall,
This carbon copy life withdrawal,
And I need, Someone to believe in.
And driving cars we can’t afford,
Just a making sure were never bored,
Living off our own accord
Between coffee grinds and corner stores
Limousines and cigerettes,
Chasing dreams with fishing nets
And long weekends with out regrets
Well no one here is taking bets
And I need, Someone to believe in
Yes someone to fill this space, with grace
To look into my eyes and touch my face
To make me feel alive today
Someone to make me strong
Someone to make me belong
Someone to make it all right
Someone to make me feel alive, yeah
And stretching out like rubber bands
To kiss the cheeks and shake the hands
And pool halls and wonderlands.
With strong arms and no legs to stand
And getting by on hand me downs
With your tips, your drinks, your buying rounds
It’s back to my old stomping grounds
Like children in the lost and found
And I need, Someone to believe in
Yeah someone to fill this space, with grace
To look into my eyes and touch my face
To make me feel alive today YEAH
I know this is not a photo of my dear friend Dunc, but I couldn’t find the picture he sent me of him in his underwear. Seriously, the man was wearing underwear and tights. He was not being a deviant though, merely sharing a photo of his writing group, Talliston Writers’ Circle staging some kind of play.
When I first “met” Duncan Swallow I was a tad gun shy when it came to male bloggers. I won’t elaborate, but suffice is to say I was leery of another male writer being nice to me. Dunc was flirtatious but not suggestive. I read his posts, which at first, I thought were long-winded. The more I read, the more I liked him. The more we chatted, the more I cared for him.
Duncan is my friend. He has restored my faith in men. Roger Darling does that too, everyday, but so does my friend from Across the Pond. He made me realize that I’m a good writer and woman. That though I’m pretty, I have more to offer this world than just that.
He started calling me Hotshot. I gotta say I’m digging the nickname. He shares his stories with me before he posts them. Thanks to him, I was able to muster enough courage to submit some stories to Etherbooks.com. Those stories were published. Roger Darling tells me to stop telling you all that I’m published. I won’t. I’m a self-promoting nut ball.
I hope that I get to meet Dunc. Tell him I love him. For everything. For the praise, kudos, criticism, and kick ass nickname. Most of all, I’m thankful for what he gave back to me. Faith, strength and hope. I love you Dunc. You’re one of my favorites.
Maggie came home and found Ian “on the nod”. He looked up at her, but couldn’t focus. The heroin he was on must be good.
“Mags my love,” he murmured.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” she scoffed.
All the happiness she felt before she walked through the door evaporated. Even with the rain, she had been elated. She had picked up groceries to make a sumptuous Easter meal. And a basket of lilies because their aroma reminded her of home. That’s where Maggie should be. With family. Not him. How could she love a man so bent on self destruction?
Genre: Tragic Romance
Special thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the latest Friday Fictioneers prompt. I had to write about my book characters, Maggie and Ian. I hope you like the story. It’s a bit darker than I’m used to writing. I thought it was appropriate for the prompt though. Have a great weekend my dear readers. Please know I take criticism as well as kudos for my stories. I’m no marshmallow. Bring it on.
The quote of the day is by Heather Bright. My friend Jason shared it with me. I have to say, I agree. I know the stories I’ve written have made real and imaginary people immortal. I’ve fallen in love with every subject that I’ve written about. With every character that I’ve created. With every person that has allowed me to tell their story. I swear to you my heart holds more love since I’ve started this journey of discovery.
As the words fly around me and the stories come, I know that I will find more to love about this passion of mine. I hope I end up on a beach, pen and paper in hand. With my Roger Darling, the kids and my grand children running around me. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure our bungalow is big enough to hold plenty of family and friends.
Hugs and kisses and happy Thursday.