The internet has been telling me that October is unofficially
Bold Moves October, and I've been wanting to make changes lately in my life. I hate the feeling that I'm not moving forward, particularly when I'm actually not moving forward. I get it, life, you don't have to smack me in the face with it.
I colored my hair blue.
That was supposed to be my big change, the thing that propels me to continue to make changes and take chances. And then not even a week later, the color was already fading. This did not bode well for my immediate future. My catalyst was already getting tired.
There were a few other things I wanted to do, not very drastic changes, but changes all the same that I wanted to make and things I wanted to do. But I kept finding reasons not to do them. I'm still finding reasons not to do them. That list of things I posted should have been a good indicator that I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life, or what I want from it. So I'm trying to figure that out. And then maybe I'll be able to make changes. It's hard to know what changes will make a difference when you don't know what changes need to be made.
The first step I'm taking is making a concerted effort to finish writing at least one book. I'm making it easy on myself (because it appears to really fucking difficult for me to stay on track) and writing a collection of short stories. I have a title and everything.
13 Tales of Love + Revenge
I hate that it looks that way, but other variations were already taken. I considered changing the name but I really like how this one sounds. I'll be honest, I stole the title from an album by The Pierces, who everybody should check out. It's also technically fourteen stories because I'm including a prologue. I had the idea last year about this time but I was going to use song titles as story titles. Then I made that list and discovered that I have fourteen unfinished short stories. I will refer to this discovery as the eureka moment when I'm regaling audiences at the Q&A after my book readings.
In light of this resolve, I will also be forcing myself to be more secure with my work. And let people actually read it. How can I know if it's any good if nobody ever reads it? With that in mind, I will be sharing with you one of the incomplete short stories. (They're all incomplete, but some of them are seriously just titles. No body.) I wish you could understand how protective I am of my work, and how much bravado it's taking me to post even this one partial story. Sometimes even worse than worrying what people think when they read my work, is worrying that no one will read it at all. If you take the time to read it, please try not to be too critical. I'm a sensitive artist.
(Straight copy-and-pasted from OpenOffice, this shit is even dated. Boom.)
Longhand
3-feb-12
His
callused hands were trembling when he finally put the shovel down. It
had taken all night, and the sun would be up soon, but he had to do
it. So he did. It made him sick just thinking about it, and so many
times he wanted to drop the shovel and run. Leave the bag, the trunk,
the jacket he had discarded when he got too warm, and just get the
hell out of there. But he owed the lady a favor, and if nothing else
could be said about John Sovereign, he at least paid his debts.
Seven
years ago to the day John Sovereign had knocked on Lady Demain's
door, disregarded all his pride and dignity, and shamelessly asked
Lady for one hundred grand so that he could marry Sara Boudreaux.
Lady Demain knew John's standing in town, poor but dependable,
motivated and ambitious but again, poor, and money could accomplish a
lot more than ambition. She also knew Sara's standing, as the
daughter of the wealthiest man in town. Lady smiled at John and
invited him in for tea.
John
Sovereign is thirty-two when his daughter is born. He was hoping for
a girl, unlike everyone else in his family, his wife included. She
dies giving birth. It takes her all night and she does not go
quietly. She sobs and screams well into the early morning hours and
as the sun starts to rise she seems to finally expire. With the last
of her strength she curses the baby Sovereign and gathers her soaked
and bloody rags to her bosom, cradling them as she should have her
child. Her maid leans in to check her pulse and is startled when the
woman sits bolt upright suddenly and whips her rags across the room.
She collapses back into the bed, finally gone, as the rags splash
against the baby's crib with a moist slap and are left to pool at the
floor. John, resting his eyes in a rocking chair beside the crib,
leans forward to check on the girl. She's awake, but quiet. He smiles
down at her and she stares back in wonder. As the sun pours through
the window behind them he sees the blood that has spattered on her
face. He reaches in to brush a few drops from her cheek and they
leave a smear across her face. She looks like a tiny warrior,
imposing and sedate. Baby Girl Sovereign remains quiet as he wipes
the remaining blood from her. She has come into this world quiet and
accepting and she stares at John with trust. So unlike her mother,
who has left this world angry and bitter and throwing her blood back
into it defiantly, at her own child no less. How dare this child be
her demise. How dare this woman act as though she can seal this
child's fate. John names her Michele, a gift from god. He reflects
how, even clean of it now, in the morning sun she still looks as
though she were covered in her mother's blood.
When
John sees Lady again his beard is almost completely gray. He has
lines all over his face; frown lines across his forehead, laugh lines
around his mouth, crow's feet at the edges of his eyes. He's still as
handsome as the first day he came to her door, hat in hand, shuffling
his feet, swallowing nervously but never once not meeting her eye.
His back is just as straight, his shoulders just as broad and strong,
and his head is still held just as high. His eyes are still clear and
they still meet Lady's unabashedly. But she sees in them now, more
than anything else about him, just how old he really is. And oddly,
despite the gray hair, all the lines in his handsome face, the almost
ancient eyes; it's Lady that feels old. Looking at him, so
shamelessly human, she can't help but be reminded of her own lacking
humanity. She's reminded of her lustrous auburn hair, her beautiful
and flawless skin, but more than anything when she looks into his
eyes and sees all of his life, she is reminded of her own eyes.
Empty. Lifeless. So devoid of a light of any kind they can't even
seem sad. But Lady is sad. So very, painfully sad.
In an
instant, from the door opening to seeing the startled look on Lady's
face, John has fallen in love with her yet again. When she takes in
his appearance he sees her expression change and no one else but John
would ever notice it but he does, because he's John. He watches her
go from startled, to appreciative, and to infinitely sad within
moments. His heart pounds in almost unbearable agony and anger with
equal measure. Agony in response to her own, anger in response to her
suffering. He sees her eyes, so gray and dark, like an autumn sky
before a snowfall. He takes in her face, so lovely and open, and he
knows how she sees herself: eternally young and beautiful. And he
sees that too, it's impossible to miss. She looks exactly the same as
the first day they met, when he was much younger, many years ago. But
he sees something else too. He sees how she hates knowing that she
will always be young and beautiful. And he wants to make her see how
he sees.
Lady
seems to be waiting with bated breath. If she needed to breathe, John
knows she certainly would be. She seems almost frightened. Then John
smiles at her, and she would swear she melted. He takes a step
forward, the toe of his shoe right against the threshold of the door.
She hears the flutter of his heart and she can feel the warmth
radiating off of him. Her eyes seem different now, still so dark and
gray, but the sadness isn't as prominent. It's been replaced by
something else, something she feels in every part of her. It's all
over her face and looking at John she feels as if she were seeing an
exact reflection of herself. It's the one thing she's never wanted
anyone to see, even if she thought they could. No one but John. And
she knows he does. Lady smiles back at him, so warm and inviting.
John takes one more step.
