Been Awhile

I haven't really had anything to talk about lately. Work is still the same except I'm moving to a new unit in June, so that'll be exciting. It's one the busier units so hopefully I'll have more tasks and won't go crazy with the slow pace. I really hate that.

I've begun writing children's stories. They aren't being published yet or anything but I have two stories written so far for varying reading levels. They're about our awesome dog, Eddie, and her fun happy dog times. I just need to find an illustrator but I've read that if your story isn't already illustrated and a publisher likes, then they'll work with you to find someone. Since most major publishers don't accept unsolicited manuscripts or ideas, I have to find an agent first. So... I guess that's my next step. Otherwise it comes down to finding an illustrator and the funds to self-publish with the hopes that it gets someones attention.

Writing for a living always seems like such a fantastic concept, and then you start researching publishing and the like, and it starts to seem like a terrible, rejection-laden concept. We'll see how the cookie crumbles, I suppose.

I've also inexplicably decided to let people read my stuff, with the intention of getting feedback. That's right. I'm asking people to please read my work that I put my heart and soul into, and then to tell me what they think. Because I am a masochist.

I gave someone a hard copy of an incomplete short I've been working on for some months now. The moment I realized it was out of my possession, I started to freak out. It doesn't matter how good you think your work is. The second you let someone read it, even if they aren't reading it while you're there, you start to doubt everything you've written.

It's a super fun awful time.

When I was 11 I wrote this poem (have I told you this story before?). I really liked it, I thought it was neat. I had never written a poem before, not in earnest and of my own accord. It wasn't for school or anything. I just thought these words and I wrote them down, and when I was finished I realized my intention the entire time was to create something beautiful and moving. It got left out on the coffee at home one day and my dad read it. He asked who wrote it and I said that I had. He said it was phenomenal. He used that word. Phenomenal.

Nobody had ever referred to anything I had ever done so positively before.

That same year I wrote a letter to a teacher who had retired from the school I was at. I told her about the poem. I told her, at 12, that I thought I found my calling. I was going to be a writer. I was going to write things that made people use words like 'phenomenal.' And they would be talking about me. She never responded to the letter.

A few months later I had successfully written another poem. I was proud of it. I let my dad read it. He was unimpressed. I reminded him that he thought the last one was so great. He was still unimpressed.

A few years later I had written a very short story. I was always writing. This story in particular I felt no real connection to, so when a friend asked if he could use it for an English assignment that he didn't really want to do, I had no problems saying yes. He got an A on the assignment. Nobody knew I had written it.

I was still letting some people read my work around this time. Just two very close friends. I thought about letting others read it, but then I remembered my conversation with dad, remembered the last time someone liked my work but didn't know I had written it. I wondered if they had, if they still would've liked it. I wondered if my dad was impressed with the poem because it was impressive, or if he was impressed with the poem because he didn't think his daughter was capable of something impressive. I didn't know if there was a difference. I still don't.

I wouldn't get any real feedback from my friends. They would say my stories were good, but they were never specific about what was good. It started to feel futile. I wasn't asking if I was any good. I was asking how I could be better. Having a grasp of the English language and a vague understanding of human nature doesn't make you the next great American novelist. (Does it?) I always needed (and still do) to be challenged. Hearing, 'this is really good' isn't a challenge. It's nice, it's reassuring. But it doesn't help me be better.

Eventually, I stopped letting people read. I kept hoping someone would ask and I would feel, I would know, this is the person who will help me. This is the person who will make me really look at my work, they will help me become confident in it and myself. This is the person that will challenge me.

That person never asked.

So I asked myself.

I sat down to write one day, with no intention of actually writing (as one does) and I immediately started a story and I didn't stop writing until I had finished it. I re-read it. And I re-read it. And I re-read it so many times. I liked it. More than that, I knew other people would like it. I set it aside and I went back to my older stories. The ones I set aside because I would always get to a point where I was forcing the story and it never felt natural. I took a long hard look at my work and I decided that I liked it. Most of it. I decided that other people would like it to. And then I decided that I could do better. So I've been doing better.

I don't need people to tell me my work is phenomenal. It's nice, it's reassuring. Of course it is. I need to tell myself my work is phenomenal. I'll never believe it when someone else says it anyway. I have to get there on my own.

I don't know what this all means right now. It's mixed up in my head still. It's mixed up in this post. I don't even know if it makes sense. I know I'm confident in my work for the first time since I was 11. I know I'll never write something and let someone else take credit for it again. I won't abandon my work like that. I pour so much of myself into my words, to just hand it over to someone and let them put their name on it sounds absolutely nuts to me at 25. I know I'm tired of seeking other's approval.

I'm a good writer. Sometimes, I'm awful. Sometimes, I'm phenomenal.

I said it.

Untitled Post

While putting off emailing a supervisor a set of goals and objectives to reach said goals, I started browsing the internet and got distracted by THE WORLD, as I often do. I kept telling myself I was waiting for Jeremy to proof-read it before I sent it, but really I just don't want to send it. Having a job where I have to set goals for myself is irritating. Especially because they aren't goals to improve my job performance, or advance my position. I'm already excelling in the performance area, and I can't advance my position until the people hired before me either advance their own or decide they don't want to. I'm dependent on them. I don't like it. They're personal goals, to I guess help me enjoy my work day? I made stuff up that sounded like what they would want to hear.

In more important news, I definitely don't like my job. I told my brother that and he said, 'I could've told you that.' So uh... why didn't you? I keep that maybe if I were in a different unit I would enjoy it but I can't really say for sure that what I don't like can be narrowed down to a specific thing like that. There's a lot I don't like, and not much I do. When I was discussing this with my aunt about a month ago the things I did like outweighed the things I didn't and we decided that while it wasn't perfect it was still better than having a job and disliking the majority of it. I've reached the point where I dislike the majority of it.

Jeremy and I were talking about our mutual dislike of our current means of employment and I was saying how I need a job where I don't have to go anywhere if I don't want to, that allows me to be creative and challenges me, affords us the kind of vacation time we want (a week off without having to schedule months in advance, or even just a weekend off without having to schedule a month in advance and still not be totally sure that I'll get it), and also affords our expensive taste. Or even moderate taste. Comfortable living, really, is what we're aiming for right now.

I said, I need something...

Jeremy said, write.

Except for some reason I heard that word as, right.

I think both words apply.

Until then, I guess I just have to pretend I like my job and hope that eventually it'll come back to me and I won't be pretending anymore. And also keep writing. Always always writing.

New Story

Posted the first two chapters of a new story I'm working on. It's likely just going to end up being a long short story, like most of my work, but for now I'm keeping things separated. So check that out when you have some time. Still haven't figured out a good title yet for it. It's saved on my flash drive as 'Killers, Objects' because it was the only way I could think to remember what it was about. I hate having things saved under 'Untitled' and it's even worse when I have more than one thing Untitled because then I have to open each file up to see what the hell it is. So I try to use short, succinct descriptors.

Been watching some more Supernatural (thank ya Netflix) and it's stunning how far I have not gotten. There are 8 frickin' seasons, you guys. I just started 4. And sometimes I'm like, this episode is super not important and I'll do other stuff and then suddenly something awesome is happening and I'm completely lost. Just watched the episode where Dean goes back in time by magic or whatever and initially I was like, 'Dean don't touch your dad! Bad stuff could happen! Gross don't say your mom was a babe!' but then I thought, 'no it's cool, it's not science it's just angels and stuff.' But what if it's all the same you guys? I know, it blew my mind too.

I feel like this is reading like I'm hyper or something. If it is, that is because I am a little hyper. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, even though I buried my head under the covers like I was sleeping like a champ. Kept having super bizarre dreams, which seems to be my thing lately. Except instead of the horrifying nightmares I tend to have that make me wake up kicking blankets and whatnot all over the place, screaming, or crying (sometimes all of the above) I actually woke myself up from a dream yesterday, laughing. Not just chuckling, or light laughter, no. I woke up laughing hysterically. And I remember the dream too, cause I was laughing in it. It was not that funny guys. My subconscious has a terrible sense of humour.

I start work next Tuesday. I'm super nervous. I related this to Jeremy, he was all comforting and 'you'll do fine.' Then I worried that I would get fired, and he was all comforting and 'it'll take them a year to replace you anyway.'

Because it took them almost a year to hire me.

He's a hoot.

This All Gets a Little Confused Near the End

I feel like I'm hearing people talk about how they don't want people to read things they wrote when they were younger, or that they don't want to expose themselves too much in regards to their literary pursuits, quite a bit lately. It's strange to me, in the way that when you learn a new word suddenly everyone is using it. I'm sure the people in my life who are talking about these things now have been for some time but I'm only realizing it now. Except it isn't because I've found myself in the same mental position, it's the opposite really.

Without making any conscious effort, I've found almost absolute clarity. This also didn't occur to me until someone told me that's what was happening, well they said something to the effect. We had been talking about trying to find direction and consistency in our work and lives and when she was leaving she said I seemed focused. This possibility had never occurred to me. She said she thought I was going to be fine and that even though I didn't see it in myself she felt that I seemed focused. That's the word I zeroed in on. After she left I thought about it constantly. I kept going back to it. Focused. This whole time I've felt directionless, like I had no idea what I wanted, and even if I did know I had no idea how to get it. But someone heard me talk, they saw how I carried myself, and they said to themselves, 'that girl seems focused.' I couldn't stop replaying it in my head, and that night, well very very early the next morning, I lay awake in bed because I just wasn't tired and I said to myself, 'maybe I am focused.' Somehow that made it true.

So now I'm focused. Once I said it, everything felt like it fell into place. I want to be a writer. I want to share my stories, my thoughts, my inconsequential opinions, with as many people as possible, as often as possible. And I want them to share with me. Which brings me back to that first paragraph up there. Remember me telling you about deleting half of my work and how it seemed to be an insult to a friend of mine? I do absolutely believe that sometimes you have to be willing to just throw some things out. Which is why I did. But I also believe that sometimes you have to be willing to show people the parts of you that are so embarrassing they're practically shameful, because it helps you accept yourself. I published some of my awful, awful poetry on the website linked on the right of this page (where you can also find some of my awful, awful short stories) and the only apology I made was that I was once a young, passionate teenager. That is the only excuse I made for my work. I shouldn't have even had to do that, but I haven't reached full acceptance yet. When I do, I like to think that instead of using my youth as an excuse for my shitty melodramatic poetry, I'll use it to mount my defense. 

You should read my poems. Because it's the work of someone who has cared very deeply, and very much, and tried so hard to be open and vulnerable that she didn't realize she was the only one hurting herself. It's the work of someone who grew up way too fast, and not fast enough at the same time. Literally the exact same time. It's honest, and it's tries way too hard, and it's over-the-top, and it has no discernible direction except that of moving forward; sometimes at a steady pace, sometimes at a gallop, sometimes in a clumsy stumble. If nothing else, it is always earnest.

After that, you should read my short stories.

After that, you should ask me what else I'm working on, if I've written anything new, and can you read it. You should ask because chances are exceptionally high that it will be crap and you will not like it, but chances are also pretty good that you'll find something small and interesting in it. Something that will make you want to keep reading on the off chance that my work gets better. Then you can say you've been a fan from 'way back when she was writing really shitty, angsty things about fire, and love, and werewolves, and fanfiction like she actually knew anything about anything.' It'll be cool. Promise.

The reason I maintain this blog still, even knowing it could be damaging later in life when I'm super successful and respected (things like that, saying things like that could do damage), even knowing there's only a handful of people reading, is because at some point someone will stumble upon it, the way I stumbled onto so many unexpectedly fantastic things in my life, and it will make them feel like they're not completely alone. That's what I want to do. I want to make people feel like they belong somewhere, even if I never know I've done it.

Writing feels like the way for me to do that.

Wherein I Talk About Words As If They're People

I've been encouraging people to read my blog lately. This is absolutely frightening behavior for me. As a general rule, I don't even tell people about anything I write, or if I do it's in passing and if they ask about it I sort of gloss over it. "Oh you write a blog?" "Yeah. So I was doing the laundry yesterday and I found a receipt for Sheetz, which I haven't been to in like, a month. How the hell long has it been since I washed those jeans?" "You mentioned short stories?" "I basically just write anything, to clear some space in my head so I have more room to analyze how Sherlock survived that fall last season."

Things like that.

But I keep reconnecting with people who seem to think there's something interesting about me, and it's making me think there might actually be something interesting about me. So I'm all, yes read my work and help validate my existence. Except that isn't how I feel anymore. I used to think that in order for me to feel confident in my work and about my work that people had to like it. In a way, a very small way, I do still think that, but I've found myself at a point in life recently where I can feel confident regardless of whether people will like it. This world is nowhere near as small as people keep saying it is. It is incredibly vast, and there are so many people on it, and they all have different tastes. So if I'm going to be a successful author, I can't keep writing in the hopes of making everyone love me. I have to write so that I love me, and keep believing that the audience I'm trying to reach is also trying to find me.

The other day I woke up with residual writer's block from the previous evening when I had apparently exhausted all of my mental faculties, which culminated in my writing the same sentence almost word for word three different times with the exception of the last effort, where I actually wrote "insert character name here" instead of the characters name. Which I knew. So I decided it was time for bed. Woke up the next morning feeling the same exhaustion but instead of taking a break from writing and waiting for it to come to me, as is my usual approach, I made myself a cup of coffee (cream, no sugar), opened up the document, and forced myself to write. Forty-five minutes later I had written just over one thousand words. And not only did I not absolutely despise them, they were actually kind of okay. Maybe I'm growing.

I forgot to mention this, or maybe I didn't, but I surpassed my goal for November of 50,000 words by 7. I set the whole thing aside and didn't come back to it until a few days before Christmas. When I deleted more than half of them. That's right. I went through each story, found the really awful parts, found the not-so-good parts, found the parts that were kind of good but felt forced, I even found some really good parts that in a different context would've worked really well. And I deleted the fuck out of them.

When I told a friend about this, it was like I had slapped her in the face, In all honesty, this reaction never occurred to me. At some point very recently, I decided that if I keep holding on to things in the hopes of them getting better I'll never be able to get to the things that are already better, the things that don't need so much work and hand-holding, the things that take so much more time than they should. Writing should be like being in love. Sometimes it's really easy and it just makes sense and it doesn't take any effort whatsoever, it just happens. Sometimes it does take effort, and it is work, but both parties are working, both parties want the best for each other. The things I had to let go of, they weren't working with me. They didn't want to help. They didn't have my best interests in mind. I had theirs in mind, and I knew they would be better off without me. The thing that felt most natural to me, was deleting them. So I set them free.

Maybe they'll come back. But if they don't, it's not the end of the world. If they don't, we'll both still manage.

The Embrace of Love and Resistance

It had been awhile since I posted anything recently, which obviously meant that one of the three people who read this had to send me a text asking why for, so that I would get back to work regaling them (as well as a small portion of Russia, apparently) with the details of my super-awesome-exciting-day-to-day-life.

Things that have happened recently:

• Finally got the library job! It was confirmed about two weeks ago, I don't start until mid-January, and I have to dress like I give a damn (thank fuck). I also had to a write a formal letter of acceptance, which I wasn't even sure how to do. I get the general concept, it's pretty self-explanatory, but they really emphasized the acceptance letter so I asked my good friend Google about it and Google was like, 'don't be a dumb bitch, Storm, read this article.' And so I did.
• Finished the collection of short stories! Sort of. I finished some of the stories, wrote just over 50,000 words total, but didn't write 13 different stories. As I predicted, a few of the stories and I got along better than some of the others and I focused more on those ones, because the ideas came easier. Then I re-read my work, and decided I fucking hated it. So I deleted almost as many words as I had written and I'm starting from scratch.
• We hosted Christmas Eve! And it went pretty well, if I do say. I'm quite proud of Jeremy and myself. He got really drunk, I, surprisingly, did not. Also had alcoholic eggnog for the first time ever. It kinda tastes like cough syrup.

Since it's New Years Eve, (you guys it's freaking New Years Eve) I feel like I should write about resolutions or some nonsense, but I don't make resolutions. So here's this instead: 

Storm's Continued Happiness Plan

Live every day being a little kind, being a little selfish, giving a crap, not giving a crap, being angry, being hopeful, wanting more, being happy with what you have, loving some things with all your heart, loving some things just a little bit, not loving some things at all, wanting to change the world in any way possible, wanting to make a difference, accepting that you probably won't make a difference but trying anyway, always doing your best, not really trying at all, being honest with yourself and with others even if it means hurting someone (but don't intentionally hurt others with honesty), and most importantly, live every day like it's your life. Cause it is.

And now, some insight from Jack London that always makes me feel like I should be shouting from mountain tops, or being badass in slow-motion.

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.

Stories and The Like

Let me start by saying that I had the best intentions for the past few days. I was going to make cookies, butterscotch ones to be precise, and clean out my basement, and clear out some of the ridiculous amounts of  glasses in our cupboards to fit in our tupperware which has been sitting on a chair in the kitchen in the box it came in while we use it, and tidy up the living room so there aren't random stacks of papers hanging around on coffee tables, basically I wanted to declutter my apartment.

Then yesterday hanging out with mom her Jeep broke down and I didn't get home till like 7, and I watched True Romance, ate Spaghettios, and got sleepy then went to bed. Today I got home from work and hung out with mom again, then I came home and fully intended to make the butterscotch cookies, cause I definitely wasn't going to get to the basement, and then discovered that I had no butter. So... still no cookies.

Yesterday was Ray Bradbury's birthday. He would've been 92. I was feeling really bold and inspired and I was going to post one of my short stories here, to commemorate what a remarkable summer this has been so far for me. Someone I felt very close to and who made me feel welcome in my own brain passed away, and a little more than a month later someone I hope I always feel very close to and who makes me feel welcome not just in my own brain but in my body and soul celebrated a year of marriage with me. I've slowly begun clawing my way out of overwhelming debt. I haven't gotten a new job yet but they are still interested (they'll supposedly be calling me in the next few weeks for yet another interview). Jeremy got a new car. I colored my hair for the first time in years, and I actually went lighter for the first time ever. I climbed into my house through a bathroom window (that was awesome for me.). So on and so forth.

Then of course I started thinking about it and decided not to post anything as I am every fearful of what people will think of my work. I'm worried they'll think it's awful but not tell me that, and sometimes just as bad is the concern that they'll think it's awful and tell me it is. Or they'll have no response at all. So I figured it would be easier to not take the chance. Because I am a total pussy. Maybe some other time.

Written Word

I've recently been informed that I've offended/upset some people with a few of my posts. My intention of keeping this blog in particular was never to offend or insult anyone. It's basically a train of thought, or a few trains, whatever happens to be on my mind at the time, and I stop only to fix a punctuation or spelling error. Then I hit the Publish button. And I don't go back to it again.

I don't write drafts, or proof-read (aside from the punctuation or spelling, which are errors that I see as I go), or have someone else tell me if they think I should change anything here or there. I just write it.

So I absolutely guarantee that I've said some things that are rude, inconsiderate, impolite, crass, insulting, completely offensive, etc., etc., etc., about family, friends, people I don't know at all, family, people I do know but not that well, family, that asshole who passed me on my way home from work and laid on the horn because I guess the speed limit just isn't fucking good enough (I will cut his face if I ever see him again. Straight up. His face.), family.

There are many things I could say to excuse my behavior. I won't say those things. I could easily just start filtering what I say, and plan out my posts so as not to offend people. I won't start doing that. I could apologize for the things I've written, but to do that feels hollow to me. It feels insincere. These are my thoughts and opinions, and it's important to remember that they are constantly changing. My opinion of you as a person doesn't stay the same from one moment to the next. I never completely make up my mind about a person. (ED NOTE: I just went back to put in the word 'say' in the first sentence of this paragraph, and in the time it took me to do that, I got distracted by the TV for like, ever. (I just did it again.) )

I will say that, since I'm not apologizing for my thoughts or opinions, I would like to apologize for the way in which I expressed those thoughts or opinions. Maybe I could have been more direct, and discussed the issue personally, or maybe I could have been more polite, because I'm often quite bitchy. But I didn't. And unless the issue is something that is sincerely bothering me, I probably won't in the future.

The above paragraph also pertains to this post, and all future posts.

There's a Fucking Bumble Bee in My Library and It Just Happened So I Didn't Blog About That

When I think about the past few weeks, I feel like I've been productive. But then I actually think about them, and I have nothing to show for them. So I have no idea why I feel accomplished, but I really need to nail it down so as to use it for the rest of my natural life. Because we all know I will continue this trend well into my 40's.

My sister-in-law introduced me to Pinterest. I think because she hates me. No joke, I've killed like, days on there. Bookmarking shit for later, like I'm really going to do any of those projects. I just had a four day weekend, know what I did? See the above paragraph.

Spring cleaning is going to be insane at our apartment this year. I moved two pieces of furniture in the bedroom today and nearly died from the dust that I kicked up. Oh! And the blinds. The blinds! Those poor bastards haven't been dusted since we moved in. Before that actually because the landlord didn't really clean this place. So at least 3-4 years since they last were cleaned. No wonder we get sick so much, this place is a breeding ground. Breeeeding. I'm going to start spring cleaning early, cause I don't actually want to die in this place. The thought makes me sad.

I'm always excited when I start a new story, cause it's a fresh story and new characters, and then I remember that I abandoned my other characters in favor of these ones. I'm like the character in angsty tween movies on ABC Family who gets in with the cool crowd (I'm in with the in crowd) and bails on her kinda dorky friends who have been there since the beginning. And good riddance too. Fuck those kids, with their individual style and kind of wacky hair, or whatever makes kids losers these days.

What else is going on...oh yeah I down-sized my lotion collection. And it was a collection. Vast and heavily scented, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon except easily transported (but not airline approved) bottles filled with water and glycerin and "essential oils." Please, those scents are made in a lab and we all know it, Bath and Body Works. I still have about five bottles of lotion left, but you haven't heard the original number yet. Ready? Alright here it is, and I'm not exaggerating, I counted: 21.

Who the fuck needs 21 bottles of lotion? Shit, who needs 5 but that's beside the point. The point is I have a problem. My skin isn't even that dry. Well it wouldn't be really, what with all the 21 bottles of lotion. So I just mixed them all together. I really thought it would smell awful and I would just have to throw it all out and start over from scratch (I would think that because buying more lotion would be joyful for me. Again, problem.), but no. No, it actually smells really good. Like, bubble bath good. That's not my best analogy but I really do love bubble baths. I like to take them either before or after a shower, this way I still get clean. I soak for hours. Hours. I get all pruney and water logged and the water gets room temp before I'm done with it. Sometimes,  I add more hot water. Mostly I just like being in the water. And pretty smells. A bubble bath combines both of those things. Why would I not like it?

I made a vest out a T-shirt recently. It's pretty pimp. I would show you, but some asshole keeps not buying a chord for the camera like he said he would for me to upload pictures. And I'm waaayyy too lazy to buy one myself. So just take my word for it. It's B.A. Barackus-style. I used one of Jeremy's old shirts, and cut the sleeves and collar off and then cut the seams open and the open neck becomes the arm holes. I have a Cobra Kai vest now. Thanks Jeremy!

Character Development

I've been struggling for weeks now to mold this one character for a story I'm working on. She is giving me, trouble. Seriously. Every time I think I have a back story figured out, she decides it's not good enough, or it's too complicated. She needs to shut the hell up. I'm the writer here damn it. Then, just yesterday, the outfit I was wearing was perfect for her. So I jot down my general attire, and last night I have a dream about a girl wearing those clothes. I wake up for work this morning all happy and ready for work, still thinking about the dream, and continuing to develop a personality for this girl, and feeling pretty good. At 10:45, I know because I was looking at a clock, I realized why it was so easy to create her: Cause I based her on me.

So I scrapped that character and started work on an entirely different story. I refuse to be the author who writes the version of herself she sees in her head, into every story she writes. That girl is not nearly as interesting as I think she is.

Other things that have been happening: I made a cake bread, totally by accident. Well, the bread shape part of it wasn't really an accident. I was mixing a cake with the intention of making cake pops, but then for some reason I turned the oven on, and it was like 10 minutes later before I realized it, so I just went with it. Then I was going to make a sheet cake, but remembered that I have no pan for that, so I ended up just grabbing the loaf pan and greased that up for the batter.

At no point during this did I stop and think to myself, hey wait Storm. This is stupid. Completely stupid.

I also added too much flour. So now when I eat it, I just cut it in slices like it's bread and butter that shit up. It's actually pretty good.

I'm back on over nights next week at work. Except for that one day when I work at 5 am. I don't think they actually know what they're doing there. Not just in scheduling. I mean, in general I don't think they know what's going on. I'm not complaining about the over nights though. Normally, I totes would. But we still only have one car so our schedules not overlapping is really helping things out right now. Additionally, I'm not complaining because I get time and a half for the over nights. Or at least I'm supposed to. If I don't, I'm setting that place on fire.

Things

I got to work this morning and the truck wasn't there. Sometimes it'll run late but be there by at least 5. Then 5 came and went and still no truck. So until we heard from the distribution center we BS-ed and changed some headless mannequins clothes and the like. Then we were told the truck wouldn't be here in enough time for us to get shipment done before the store opened. Long story short, I woke up at 4 this morning to work for an hour and a half. And now the truck is coming tomorrow.

I know it sounds like I'm a pussy, but it is really exhausting waking up at 4 or 5 every morning only to work for 4 hours. Cause then I come home and have to try to stay awake until 8 or 9 that night. If I take a nap then I end up awake at midnight, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to sleep. This is why I want a second job. I can come home, hang out for a bit, take care of the dog, then go to another job for about 4 or 5 hours. And the extra money. I also want a second job for the extra money.

My mom is involved in community theatre around these parts and the one theatre she's a mainstay at is looking for local playwrites so they don't have to pay royalty fees and she keeps pushing me to finish a play so they can put it on. Except none of my ideas are ready to be seen yet, and the one good one I think I have is still just a tiny little spark. And it would need to be done by December or January.

It would be good motivation, and it would get my work out there, and I could put it on a resume (I'm not actually sure, do writer's have resumes? Or is it just a reputation?) but the real problem I'm facing is that I have no one to discuss it with. No one to bounce ideas off of.

Which brings me to why I enjoy Mad Men so much. I love the creative process. When I did 24-Hour Theatre, the few years that I did do it, I really enjoyed talking things out with my writing partners. I liked being on a team and I wasn't afraid of saying something stupid because I would also be able to say something funny. All the teams I was on, everyone was very helpful and encouraging. It is impossible for me to be encouraging when I'm the only writer. I can only be disdainful and patronizing.

I also really enjoyed Studio 60 on The Sunset Strip for the behind-the-scenes look at making a sketch comedy show. That was one of my favorite shows, the whole 22 episodes it lasted. Poor Aaron Sorkin. Aside from The West Wing his TV shows don't exactly soar.

I also would not get paid for the play. Which makes it difficult to get motivated.

A Look Into My Writing Process...

Sometimes when I'm at work and I have an hour left in my shift and not a lot of product left to put out, I often find myself wondering if I can stretch out the placement for the entire 60 minutes.

That's just an example of how much I don't care about my job.

I never do actually take as long as possible of course, cause if I were bad at my job then I wouldn't be able to judge everyone else for being lazy and inefficient. Which is a favorite past time of mine.

I've been thinking of wearing skirts to work. And if you know what my job is you know how stupid it would be for me to wear a skirt. Climbing ladders and shit all the time. But I do love wearing skirts and dresses. And outside of work, I don't really go anywhere. So I'm basically just sitting around my house, brain-warping on my laptop or watching Netflix, looking spiffy as heck. And nobody gets to see it.

I had this idea for a play today. It's about a guy who goes into an exotic pet store, it's a well-known front for drug dealing and the like, but the guy doesn't know that. So he goes in and he's looking for some exotic bird, and the name of the bird (I don't have that yet) is the codeword for wanting to buy drugs. And when said drugs are brought to the guy that's the exact time the cops bust the store, naturally. Hijinks ensue in the second act, but I haven't fleshed that out yet.

There's an exotic drug store on the corner of our street that we're pretty sure is a front for some kind of drug trafficking. I honestly don't know where I get my ideas from.

Words, Words, Words

I've been thinking lately about writing. Well really, I think about writing most of the time but I think about it in terms of 'making money from it and being able to pay bills.' I used to think in terms of 'this would be a good story, I should write this down.' It frustrates me that I think I have to consider it from one perspective or the other. Why can't I think about it from both simultaneously? 'This would be a good story, maybe there's a profit in there somewhere.'

This one blog I read, Volcanic Ensemble, the woman who writes it had a post a few months ago that I really connected with. She was celebrating x-number of years writing her blog and she said when she originally started the blog the tag (or possibly the name of the blog itself, unfortunately I don't recall exactly) was 'I promised myself I would today so here goes.' Or something similar. Let's consider that a paraphrase. I used to do that. Not tell myself I would write today, but I would literally write everyday. I had a book bag full of notebooks and pens and I would take it with me wherever I went. Instead of a purse with essential things in it, I carried a book bag with what I considered essential things. Sometimes, I would wake up at night and write something down, a poem or lyrics or a title, and go back to sleep. Something would come to me and I would write it down and go back to it later. That was such a good system. Now when I think of something I spend hours agonizing over it, trying to force the idea into existence. I thought of this great title for a sci-fi/fantasy novel over a year ago, and I came up with a name for a main character. Since then I've struggled through six variations of half of the first chapter. I haven't even finished one chapter.
This one's better: I've been working on a story since I was 13. I have never written an ending for it. The characters have changed drastically, the storyline has changed even more drastically, I've altered the

This one goes out to the ladies

i'm posting this from my phone so punctuation just went out the window. this keypad looks a lot bigger than i remember it being. the buttons are like the size of my pinky nail, which isn't really that big but it's still quite large.

anyway, things that i've been up to:

had measurements taken for my dress

went on a mini family vacation (mini because it was both a weekend trip and half the family wasn't able to go)

saw my cousin get high, offer it to everyone (it was totally adorable), get the giggles in like a minute, then pass out like it was her job not even thirty minutes later

remembered why i love my brothers wife (i don't call her sister-in-law because i don't ever want people to think i mean jeremy's sister)

writing a cult classic about a girl who hears voices in the water and connects to her long dead family through them with the help of her cousin... that one's probably not going to happen. it sounds stupid. but i have been fairly diligently writing.

oh, i also had someone show interest in a coffee cup i designed on etsy and that seemed promising except thwy live in europe. and it would cost a crap ton to ship it there. i would lose money and i'm not ready to lose money when i haven't even made money yet.