Can You Vague That Up For Me?

Bronwyn Green's Random Thoughts

Wordless Wednesday: Spring Where I Live

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Things are only just now starting to get green in the area of Michigan where I live, but the flowers are finally blooming and soon my lilac bushes will be, too, and I’ll be in heaven. But for now, I have wood violets, grape hyacinths, regular hyacinths, daffodils, and the crab apple blossoms.

What’s is like where you are? Be sure to check out Jess, Deelylah, and Kris‘ spring, too!

Flash Fiction #56 – Ever the Same

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Okay, so we’ve got to new blogger for the flash fiction posts–please welcome Siobhan Muir! Yay, Siobhan, we’re glad to have you!

This month’s song fic is Ever the Same by Rob Thomas. Here’s the video and here are the lyrics if you’re interested.

Laughter bubbled from her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth–as if she were just as unfamiliar with the sound as he was. Her hazel eyes sparkled with bits of brown and copper and gold mixing with brilliant green as they captured his gaze. He couldn’t look away from her. How had he ever thought she was plain? He  was obviously a fucking idiot.

“Hey, after we clean up here, why don’t we…” he began, but his words died as soon as they hit the air.

Her eyes widened, fixed and unblinking as she stared over his shoulder.  The blood drained from her face almost as fast as her smile faded. Her head dropped and she appeared to stare at the table between them, but he could see she was staring through the curtain of her hair. Glancing behind him, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and he turned back to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, laying a hand on her arm.

She jerked her arm away from him as if she’d touched a live wire. Her gaze flew briefly to  his. Her pupils had blown so wide they’d all but swallowed the irises, and her breath was far too rapid and shallow. Her fingers had turned white from clutching so tightly to her phone. “I have to go. I’ll text your driver. I’m sorry…I can’t–”

Whatever she couldn’t do, he wasn’t going to find out any time soon. She was race-walking toward the bookstore exit, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it, he still needed to finish the Q&A portion of the evening. As much as he wanted to chase after her, he couldn’t. These people had waited here all night. He glanced down. Her purse was still under the table.

He texted her, but there was nothing from her, and it seemed to take forever to finish answering questions for the assembled readers. Thankfully, he’d signed the bookstore stock earlier in the evening, so he could just grab his rucksack and Eliza’s purse and go. He continued to text her, but there was no response. He had no idea if she wasn’t getting his messages or was just ignoring him. As soon as he cleared the building, he started calling her. And as he expected, the calls went straight to voicemail.

As soon as he was in his room, he tossed his backpack and her purse on his bed, went to the doors of their adjoining rooms and knocked. No answer. “Eliza?” Nothing. He called her again. She didn’t answer, but he heard the muted sound of her phone ringing. She’d at least been there.

Worry sat like a boulder in his gut and he knocked again. What if she needed help? Crossing the room, he grabbed her purse rifling through it until he found her wallet. Her keycard was inside where he’d hoped it was. She must have gotten another card from the front desk. Heart in his throat, he walked into the hallway and knocked on the outer door. When where was no response, he called out, “Eliza, I’m coming in.”

Sliding the key into the slot, he sighed in relief when the lights flashed green and the lock disengaged. He pushed open the door and felt around for the lightswitch in the darkened room. When the overhead light flickered to life, there was no sign of her. The blackout curtains had been drawn, the bed was neatly made, and the bathroom was empty. He looked around for her phone thinking there might be some clue there as to where she’d gone. When he didn’t see it, he called her again.

He startled slightly as her ringtone sounded right next to him then was silenced. He turned and slowly opened the closet door. Elliza was huddled in the corner on the floor. Clutching her phone so tightly her hands shook, she glanced up at him, eye wide and face tear-stained. Her breath still came too frantic and fast.

His heart ached at the expression on her face. How many times had he seen that same haunted look on his sister’s face? Moving slowly, he stepped into the closet and sank to the floor, squeezing in next to Eliza. He slid the door along the track, closing them away from the light, and pulled her into his arms. She was stiff for an endless moment, then she sank into him, burrowing close, but she continued to tremble and gasp.

He pulled her over his lap to sit between to sit between his thighs and drew his legs up so they bracketed her. Her skin was chilled and clammy against him. Keeping his arms wrapped tightly around her, he pressed a kiss to the back of her head, and murmured, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She took a shuddering breath that nearly broke his heart. “I — I’m sorry.”

“Shh. You’ve nothing to feel sorry for. But you need to slow your breathing before you pass out.” He took a long, slow breath, letting her feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. “I want you to match your breathing to mine, okay?”

She nodded jerkily, hot tears splashing onto his forearms.

He took another deep measured breath and held it for a few seconds, hopeful as she tried to do the same. “Just focus on my voice and and the sound of my breathing. Those are the only things I want you to think about, now.”

She nodded again, still shivering almost violently.

He continued with his drawn out, exaggerated inhalations, quietly encouraging her as she gradually relaxed into him.

“Do you want to talk?”

She tensed.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to.” He smoothed his hands up and down her arms. “Whatever you need. I’m here.”

Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ posts: Kris, Jess, Deelylah, Paige, Siobhan, and Gwen.

Promptly Penned: Complete Douchebag

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Prompt: “Wow. Can we just pretend, for one second, that you’re not a complete douchebag?”

So this prompt fits a story that I’m working on really well, so I’m just going to  throw it at these characters and see what happens.

 

Eliza spotted her charge in one of the glass elevators, descending from the twenty-seventh floor, looking for all the world like he was still half asleep. Though, when the doors opened and he stalked into the lobby, he looked less sleepy and more surly.

Oh, good. The diva behavior continues. This is shaping up to be a banner fucking day. “The driver’s out front.”

Angus grunted in response as he walked past her toward the revolving door. At least, she assumed it was in response. For all she knew, that could be his way of saying “good morning”. Or “fuck off”. She knew which was more likely.

Whoever said “never meet your heroes” must have been talking about Angus. And it was just her damn luck she’d been assigned to babysit him.

Following him outside, she pointed out the black SUV the publishing house had hired. He got in and immediately shut the door, leaving her to go around the other side of the vehicle. And of course, it had to be the kind she was too short to climb into comfortably. Or gracefully.

Once she was seated, the driver pulled through the half circle drive and onto the street past hordes of convention-goers, many, if not most, cosplaying their favorite characters and waiting in line for the doors to open.

Angus blinked blearily at the lines of people then sat up and turned toward her, his expression equal parts confused and accusatory. “Where are we going? I thought the whole point of staying at that particular hotel was because the con was being held there.

Eliza took a deep, slow breath, held it for a couple seconds, then slowly let it go, trying to release the sudden stress spike with it. “That is why we’re staying there. But, with all the other con guests, the hotel couldn’t accommodate your reader breakfast, so we had to book the—”

“My what, now?”

She stared at him, growing sense of dread curdling her stomach. “Your reader breakfast.”

His dark brows drew together, and annoyance gave way to confusion. He was still ridiculously gorgeous. But every time he opened his mouth, that fact was getting easier to ignore by the second.

She crossed her arms over her chest. It was either that or strangle him. “Just out of morbid curiosity, when’s the last time you actually read a message from your editor? Or your publisher?” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “The breakfast was also listed on the schedule I gave you last night…which obviously, you couldn’t be bothered to read.”

“Nope. It’s still laying on my desk with my room key.”

“Wow. Can we just pretend, for one second, that you’re not a complete douchebag?”

He glared at her. “I don’t know. Can we also pretend that you’re not a ball-busting bitch?”

She stared at him, biting back every last thing she wanted to say. Things that would likely get her fired before the end of the day.

“No?” he continued. “Didn’t think so.”

Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!

Swallowing her internal scream, she maintained eye contact. “Eight a.m.: reader breakfast. 11 a.m.:panel: Near Future Sci-Fi — Genre of the Future or Too Close to Reality?” 

“Wait…I’m on that panel? I don’t even write Near Future Sci-Fi.

Eliza smiled sweetly. “Huh. Guess maybe you should read your email more often.”

That’s it for me this week. Now, I’m off to see what the other bloggers came up with for this prompt. Jess, Gwen, Kris, and Deelylah.

Top 10 Ways to Lose Me as a Reader

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Once upon a time, I finished every book I started. Then, I realized that my time is more precious than that. And once I drop an author mid-book, with very few exceptions, I don’t usually pick them back up again. But here are some ways to lose me as a reader of romance.

I’m focusing specifically on romance since that’s mostly what I write and a lot of what I read. Also, these are in no particular order. I hate them all equally.

10.) Awkward Dialogue.  If dialogue is consistently clunky, stilted unrealistic, or otherwise unfortunate, I’ll tap out. I know that sounds picky, but I read to escape into other worlds. But I can’t fully immerse myself in a story if the dialogue is bad.

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I did a dialogue presentation at my local writers group last summer and then uploaded it as a series of blog posts. If you’re interested in listening to me rant, you can find part one here.

9.) Too Stupid to Live (TSTL) Characters. This is a special breed of character. They’re especially prevalent in paranormal romance and romantic suspense, and even more frustrating, 99 times out of 100, the character is female. This is the character who proclaims herself to be strong, independent and self-sufficient. She can take care of herself, goddamn it. She’s also the target of a coven of angry witches/a pack of werewolves/a nest of vampires/a collection of mafia assassins/crooked cops or all of the above. The hero inevitably warns her that she shouldn’t leave the safe house/meet up with that sketchy sounding dude who says he’s got info on the real killer/go to Taco Bell. Our TSTL character does all of those things. Why? Because she needs to prove that she’s all kinds of independent, doesn’t need a man, etc. She doesn’t need a man. However, she does need is a fucking brain. Just because that advice came from a dude doesn’t mean that it’s categorically bad. Inevitably, the heroine goes out and does something dangerous because she’s got something to prove. And equally inevitably, she ends up needing the hero to rescue her. Prove your independence and ability to care for yourself some other way, and quit making stupid fucking choices.

Sometimes, characters take risks and go out in the middle of a witch-vamp-shifter-hitman-dirty cop-covered minefield. But it’s because the situation calls for it. If they don’t risk themselves something even worse could happen. But not to make a damn point.

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8.) Alphaholes. Why?!  Why are these bag-of-dicks characters still a thing?! WHY are these “men” considered romance hero material?! Let’s looks at the alphaphole checklist: Bitter and jaded about women and love? Check. Misogynistic? Check. Self-absorbed and mostly concerned about matters of the dick? Check. Tortured past? Check. Manipulative as fuck? Check. Considers heroine his property which voids her ability to speak to other men ever, wear clothing/have occupation/hobbies/thoughts he doesn’t approve of? Check. Check. Check. And super check.

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7.) Character Inconsistency. Now, I’m not saying that characters shouldn’t grow and change during the course of a story. That’s expected. Desirable, even. The thing I have a big old problem with is when a character is established in the beginning of a story begins acting utterly completely opposite to what’s been demonstrated as their personality. Certainly, there are things that will cause a person to react in a way that’s a little out of the norm. But when the characters personalities are like pendulums, swinging wildly out of control, from one extreme to the other, with absolutely no discernable reason for the seeming multiple personalities, I’ve gotta put that book down and back away.

I think I just had a bit of an epiphany as to why that happens, and if you’re still reading my rantiness, I’m about to share. I think that sometimes, the characters and the plot an author comes up with don’t mesh as well as the writer anticipated they would. And in an attempt to keep the plot going in the direction the author wants to, the characters are forced to react to each other/the environment/story events in a way that keeps their idea for the plot on track. The problem is, those characters are behaving in a way that’s utterly inconsistent with what’s already been written. The characters are basically being sacrificed for in order to adhere to the plot.

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6.) Same Freaking Characters – Somewhat Different Plot. I think all writers have certain character types that they gravitate toward, and that’s cool. I know I do. I like writing academics or creative types – I have a lot of those. I’ve also written the occasional therapist, cop, sportsball player, carpenter, knight, barista, accountant, musician – oh, I guess that’s a creative type, DNR officer, business person, vampire hunter, priest, doctor, detective, god, librarian, costume director, well, you get the idea. There’s a lot of variety here. And I think their personalities are all pretty varied, too.

Now, I’m not talking about series here,  but sometimes, it seems like authors get in ruts where all they write are characters who are billionaires. Or military or former military characters. Or professors. Or writers. Or some form or current or former law enforcement. Or a cowboys. Or fashion designers. Or psychics. Or librarians. Again, I’m not talking series. But just the same kinds of characters popping up over and over.

The same can be said of character types, too. All the guys are alpha and cocky. All the women are kickass, take no shit types. And there’s nothing wrong with any of those things, but if those are the only characters an author’s writing they can get a little stale after a while. Women are strong in myriad ways. Strength doesn’t always have to be about badassery.

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5.) Misandry Disguised as Feminism.  And while I’m on the subject of strong women, I want to touch on feminism in romance for a minute. I fucking love seeing (and writing) feminist characters–both female and male (and gender nonconforming) in my fiction. But here’s something I don’t love. I don’t love when authors confuse or conflate feminism with misandry.  While a feminist can certainly be a misandrist, they’re not always one and the same.  There are some writers who consistently write female protagonists who constantly bitch about men who are lazy, stupid, juvenile, selfish, worthless, pretty to look at–but that’s about it. The characters in the books I’m thinking of aren’t talking about a specific man for whom these things might be true. These are sweeping generalizations leveled at all men, including the love interest. Sorry, but I’m not buying that HEA. Misandry  is no better than misogyny, and I’m not here for any of it.

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4.) Head Hopping. Head hopping makes me stabby. So. Very. Stabby. Pick a point of view and stay there for the scene. Or better yet, the chapter. If you’re switching mid-scene, you’d better have a damn good reason. If you’re writing a romance I want to know what the main characters are thinking in their separate scenes. If it’s important to know about his BFF’s feels, s/he can tell us, out loud with dialogue. Same for parents, taxi drivers, random relatives, coworkers, etc.

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3.) Character Expectation vs. Reality. This falls under show don’t tell, and you see it most often with either character self description or description by the love interests. Often a character’s description of their love interest has no basis in reality. Like take Christian Grey’s description of Ana – brilliant, amazing, remarkable. NOPE. Sorry, Christian. There’s nothing in the text to support those descriptors. Ana is as boring, and honestly, not the brightest. I suppose you could say she’s remarkably weak-willed, but that’s about it.

Then there are the characters who self-describe as strong, independent women who love their jobs/hobbies/whatever and wouldn’t give them up for anything because whatever it is, is intrinsic to who they are as people. But, as soon as there’s interest from a man, all those things that were important to them? The very core of their personality? Gone. For the rest of the story, there’s no indication those traits were ever there.

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2.) Mostly Telling–Very Little Showing. When I was working as an acquisitions editor, I’d see a lot of manuscripts that relied on “telling” as their predominant narrative form. Don’t tell me that the airlock malfunctioned and everyone on the ship was terrified of getting sucked into the cold vacuum of space. Show me their fear – their cold sweat, the dude in the corner hyperventilating, burning up precious oxygen, and the woman who knocks him unconscious for the good of the many. Show me the tiny crack in the heavy tempered glass window, getting bigger and spiderwebbing faster and faster as it spreads across the surface making that ominous little tink-tink-tink-tink sound. Show me what’s happening so I can feel it.

This is an issue in all genres of fiction, but I find it especially problematic in romance. The author is asking the reader to take a journey with them–the journey of watching this couple (or grouping if it’s a ménage or poly novel) overcome their obstacles and fall in love. In order to do that effectively, the author needs to show us what the characters are feeling and experiencing. Don’t tell me he was more nervous than he’d ever been. Tell me that there were so many butterflies careening through his stomach, it lurched and for a second, he was afraid he was going to vomit as she answered the door.

It’s all in the details–and this goes for sweet romance as well as erotic. If the reader doesn’t see and understand what the character is feeling, there won’t be any connection with the characters. Don’t tell. Be like this little demon spawn and show.

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1.) Including Plot Elements Simply Because They’re Popular. This is when an author shoehorns in random things that really have nothing to do with the plot and don’t fit the characters at all. They just seem to be included in an attempt to boost sales. (Now, this may not be the case at all, but that’s how the stories read.) Examples of things I’ve see included in stories where they didn’t seem to belong and didn’t work at all with the narrative/plot/characters. Navy SEALS, over the top tragic backstories, BDSM, motorcycle clubs, stereotypical gay best friend, a stalker, sex clubs/dungeons, etc.

There are plenty of books where any of these elements work perfectly fine sometimes even together (just not all of them at once, please). But like anything else, any element included in hopes of boosting sales/popularity/visibility must be in tune with the characters and the rest of the plot.

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Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ lists to find out what makes them ditch books and authors. Jess, Kris, Gwen, and Deelylah.

Flash Fiction #55 – Steampunk Dude

 

Octavia turned up the flame in the gas lantern mounted on the wall of the subterranean workshop.  There was barely enough light to see, but she couldn’t risk bringing her work upstairs. If the guild realized what she was attempting to do, they’d stop her. And she couldn’t let that happen–not when she was so close.

Sliding her goggles over her eyes, she turned on her headlamp then wiped her greasy hands on her oilcloth apron. The last thing she needed to do was drop the soldering iron and bust it before she had a chance to use it. Activating the tiny hydraulic arm that swung the magnifying glass back and forth, she moved it out of her way so she could focus on securing it to the base, careful not to let the solder bead up and run onto his skin. Jules was already injured so badly, she didn’t want to make it worse by burning him with molten metal.

It was possible he wouldn’t feel anything no matter what she did. Sudden tears clogged her throat, but she swallowed hard, forcing them away and focused on her repairs.

Once his favorite accessory was secure–he’d be furious if he woke up and couldn’t use it–she gently pushed his hair from his face, exposing the tiny gears that now worked to open and close his left eye. Swapping out the soldering iron for a set of miniature screwdrivers, she made infinitesimal tension adjustments to the the roller chain around the helical cogwheels, until they spun without sticking.

The sound of metal hitting stone echoed above her, and she startled, dropping the screwdriver. It rolled under the workbench Jules sat motionless on.

“Octavia!” he father roared.

She glanced toward the tiny window set high in the heavy wood door. Lights bobbed as her father and several other guild members descended the steep stairwell. She was out of time. Dropping to her knees, she quickly turned the large clock key that protruded from Jules’ chest. It took both hands and all of her strength to fully wind it.

Fists pounded against the aged wood, almost drowning out the sound of the clockwork heart ticking to life. Jules slowly lifted his head, and her hands fell away from him as she sat back on her heels. Lifting his hand, he adjusted the magnifying glass and peered around the room, his left eye opening and closing perfectly.

“Jules?”

Tracking the sound of her voice, he turned toward her and stared, slowly blinking. There was no recognition. He saw her, but there was nothing there. Nothing left of her Jules.

That’s it for me today. Be sure to check out the other photo flash fic by clicking the names: Jess, Kris, Deelylah, and Kayleigh.

Monthly Goals Check-In: March 2017

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Welp…apparently, I was a little over ambitious in terms of what I thought I could get done this month. Well…that’s not exactly true. I did get a lot done. It’s just that most of the finished items weren’t the things I mentioned in last month’s blog.

Let’s review, shall we?.

This was my list:

Finish revising and expanding Mist and Stone. (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No.)

Progress on DN & EP  (No to DN. What the fuck is EP?!)

Continue with that damn yoga program and exercise program. (GIant NOPE.)

Update Writing Bujo (Yes! Finally. Sheesh.)

Put together Publishing and Promo Bujo (Oh good, another yes!)

Knit 4 more pussyhats. (I knitted 6.5!)

Continue with whatever’s next on the Organized Home Challenge. (Kiiiinnnda. A couple didn’t apply to this house and I’m finishing up the last one.)

Finish at least two of the three websites. (Still waiting on info from two of the three, but made progress on them.)

Complete all client edits. (I completed the ones I knew about when I made these goals. I did get some extras tacked on at the end of the month.)

Complete all March blog posts. (Yep.)

In total, I edited six novels and a short story, (I’ve got 2.5 to go), I started a new book I’m super excited about, I finished a short story for the newsletter and Jess and I got the newsletter out, I knitted 6.5 pussyhats and I have 3.5 to go, I helped gut the upstairs, and collected a bunch of stuff for donation, together with Jess, I wrote 20(!) taglines, I did some formatting work, some sewing, developed a promo plan with Jess, and helped my mom with a nightmarish cleaning project.

Okay, so…for the month of April, I want to:

Finish the client edits I have scheduled.

Complete all April blog posts.

Finish up work on 2 of the (now) 5 websites I’m working on.

Knit 3.5 pussyhats

Progress on new book and Mist & Stone.

Continue with the Organized Home Challenge

Finish sorting stuff for donation.

Sew more journal covers and open Etsy site.

Okay, that’s probably enough for one month. Now, let’s go see how Jess and Deelylah did.

Writing Fears and Anxieties

Apparently, it’s time for another episode of Therapy with Bron.

It’s totally cool to back out of the room now. Honestly, I probably won’t even notice. I’ll just assume you were looking for the bathroom or something. Maybe you were trying to find the kitchen? I did just make cookies.

Oh? You’re still here?

*passes the cookies*

Okay, so…writing fears and anxieties. I have quite a few, but I’m willing to bet that they’re not all that different from other writers’ issues. We all seem to have a fuckton of them.

I feel like this is one of those topics I could go on and on about ad nauseum, so I’m just going to stick to the biggest, doomiest ones, otherwise we’ll all be here for ages.

So, in the fear and anxiety round-up, there’s the ever popular:

I’ll never have another good idea again.

This one usually hits as I’m about 3/4 of the way through a book. There a little voice that whispers, “This is it. The last book you’ll ever write. You sure you wanna finish it?”

I hate that voice. That voice is a total asshole. Also, that voice is dumb, because the voice and I both know that I have pages and pages of ideas. But somehow, that voice gets me to listen to it, and I suddenly think all the ideas I’d previously loved are shit. Stupid voice.

The people who buy and positively review or otherwise say nice things about my books are just doing it because they’re being kind.

This is a popular one in my head. Like I’m the author version of that kid with the lemonade stand on the corner. You know the one…he was always kinda grubby and sticky-looking and you hoped that he’d just spilled some of the lemonade on himself and got sticky that way. Because you really didn’t want to think about him actually making the lemonade. And the lemonade itself was always weak tasting and uncomfortably warm–but you bought it anyway, ’cause you felt bad for that grubby, sticky kid.

That’s a really long way of saying that sometimes, I’m afraid I’m that grubby, sticky kid on the corner who people feel sorry for, but instead of questionable lemonade, they’re buying books.

I’m a fraud, and someday, my secret will be out, and everyone will know.

This is the garden variety imposter syndrome that I think most authors probably face. It’s that clawing feeling that no matter how well I do, it’s not because I’ve worked hard to learn my craft or have dedicated tons of time and effort writing these books. Nope. It’s all because of some cosmic misalignment of the stars, and when everything goes back to how it’s supposed to be, I’ll be here like this:unnamedAnd everyone will know that I’ve just been faking this whole time.

Okay, so that’s probably more of my neuroses than anyone can comfortably handle in one day, so I say we should all go troop over to Jess and Kris‘ blogs and see what kind of cookies and anxieties they have going on.

What would the title of my memoir be, and why?

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Please Note: If Kris Norris ever abandons me, this is how shitty my future book covers will look. *makes plans to bribe Norris with Tim Horton’s tea*

I feel like the “why” of this title can best be summed up by potential chapter headings comprised of things I’ve said in text messages.

1.) If I don’t answer for a bit, it’s because I’m driving home from the motherfucking store.

2.) I’d run away and join the circus, but I have no marketable circus skills. And also clowns.

3.) Yes…I ignored that little voice in the back of my head that said that person was batshit crazy. Again.

4.) Math is hard, yo.

5.) I cannot possibly people today.

6.) I’m sorry my cat hates you.

7.) Look, I just need some cheese.

8.) Is it wrong that I’m proud of my four-year-old niece for using “What the fuck” properly in a sentence?

9.) I don’t recall becoming a bigamist, but at the same, time, my brain has been nothing but cracks, lately. So…maybe?

10.) The hold music is static-y soft jazz. I am in hell.

11.) Excellent. I feel like the more people we have spreading the accelerant, the quicker it’ll be over.

12.) Filed under bad ideas: Don’t look at fabric you made your kids’ clothes out of. Especially not while you’re ovulating.

13.) I’m gonna need bail money. There’s a neighbor kid out there somewhere blowing a goddam gym whistle.

14.) But in Clue, aren’t you just supposed to murder people with the candlestick? Or are we lighting candles to celebrate afterward?

15.) I feel like we won’t be able to have our podcast if I’m in jail, though.

16.) I have zero of popsicles. And also zero of patience.

17.) Never look a gift moodswing in the mouth.

18.) I am a font of random information.

19.) Fuck that. I’m putting on my ruffle-butt undies and my ruffled bonnet. And we’re gonna go Pollyanna the fuck out of everything.

20.) ADD Powers ACTIVATE! Form of Squirrel!

That’s it for me this week, be sure to check out the other bloggers’ memoir titles. Jess, Jessica, Deelylah, Gwen, and Kellie.

Flash Fiction #54 – What are You Waiting For?

 

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Okay, so this month’s song fic was chosen by our resident Canadian and number one Nickelback fan. The song is What are You Waiting For? Here are the lyrics and the video.

Through the open door, Molly stared at what she’d been convinced was the answer to her prayers. It was all there in front of her. Their first apartment together–the one-bedroom loft above the town’s only bar. She glanced at the woman who’d brought her here–to her past, and she smiled benevolently.

Molly had thought the woman was full of shit when she’d told her that it was possible to go back to a time when she as Christopher had been happy. That she could have a do-over and go back to prevent things from ever going wrong in the first place.

As she drew closer to the doorway, she recognized her old leather coat hanging over the back of the chair shoved under the cheap formica-topped kitchen table. He’d always hated that jacket. She frowned. Was that why she’d decided to get rid of it?

She glanced around the rest of the room, smiling at the hideous cow-shaped salt and pepper shakers sitting on the counter next to the hand-me-down coffee pot from her sister. There was the spider plant rooting in a jar in the kitchen window along with a collection of cobalt blue glass bottles. Those had survived a bit longer than the jacket, but all but one had been smashed to pieces in a long ago arguement.

The calendar on the wall next to the microwave read March 1999. If she remembered correctly, they’d only been in that apartment for six months, at that point. There were so many memories here. And most of them had been good. Like Halloween parties they’d thrown or the Christmas feasts they’d invited both their families to. The book club she and her sister had started and the nights they’d spent gaming with their friends.

Molly crept closer to the doorway–a niggling sense that something was wrong. Almost as if something was out of place. But she couldn’t put her finger on it. From her changed vantage point, she could see past the kitchen doorway, through the dining room and into the living room. Christopher was sitting on the couch playing some Xbox game, and a younger version of herself, looking ridiculously dressed up for an evening at home, sat curled up in a chair reading.

Only she wasn’t really reading. She was sighing and staring at Christopher who didn’t seem to have any clue that she was even in the room with him. Nope…he knew. He’d just asked her to get him a beer. Another beer from the looks of it as she noticed the the three empty bottles by his feet.

Past Molly got up and grabbed him a beer from the fridge looking just as dejected and defeated as she currently felt. He barely acknowledged her when she handed him the bottle and returned to her chair.

“What are you waiting for?” The woman at Molly’s side gestured to the open door.

Molly had forgotten she wasn’t alone. “What?”

“I said, what are you waiting for? This is when you wanted to return to, right? The time when things were still good between you.?”

Molly’s gaze landed on the calendar again. On the day that had a big heart drawn in the center of the square–March 20th–their one year anniversary. The day that he’d decided he’d been too stressed with school and work to acknowledge their anniversary. Sure, he’d attempted to make up for it later, but she realized now, he’d never really been sorry. Like the majority of his attempts at amends hadn’t really been about her or their relationship. He’d just been looking for a way to make his current situation more comfortable, and often that meant appeasing her.

How had she been so stupid not to grasp that it had been this way since the beginning? She glanced around the apartment and was again struck by the onslaught of memories. And she realized that almost all of the positive ones were ones that included other people.

Molly looked at the woman. “I just realized that I’m in the wrong time. This isn’t the right door. I need to go to January, 1998–the seventh, I think.”

In a blink, Molly stood outside O’Toole’s Pub, the biting wind blowing in off the river and the snow swirling in eddies around her feet.

“Is this where you wanted to go?”

Molly nodded as she watched her past self push her chair away from a table full of her friends. Grabbing the cold metal handle, she pulled open the door and entered the bar, the woman following silently behind. Molly rapidly crossed the floor, cutting off her past self as she headed up to the bar, and the two collided.

Molly stopped stopped in the middle of the floor, a sudden chill skating up her spine. She glanced around noticing a vaguely familiar woman by the door. Molly shook off the chill–must have been a blast of cold air from when the woman came in from outside–and walked up to the bar. It was her turn to buy the post finals rounds.

As she waited, trying to catch the bartender’s, a cute guy to her right said, “Let me guess—you just finished your last exam?”

She smiled. “That obvious?”

“Me, too. My name’s Christopher. Can I buy you a drink?”

She stared into the prettiest blue eyes she’d ever seen and shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m here with friends.”

He nodded. “No worries.”

As the bartender took her order, she couldn’t help but feel that she’d dodged a bullet.

Okay, so that’s it for me today. Be sure to check out the other bloggers’ stories by clicking on their names. Jess, Kris, and Deelylah.

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