Handbags & Gladrags Part 3

Sorry it's taken me so long to get this next part done... I was chasing after some potential freelance writing jobs, and that took up some time.  Won't share yet, because they might not work out (will know in about 2 months if my writing was up to their standards??) and I don't want to jinx it or get my hopes up!  Okay, so... what you came here for (hope you enjoy):

         She awoke with a start, trying to grab hold of her surroundings and remind herself where she was and why she was there.  As her eyes adjusted to the dark room, lit only by a sliver of light through the curtains coming from a streetlamp outside, it all hit her with a force that would've physically knocked her over if she hadn't been lying down.  Tears sprang to life in her eyes and her vision was immediately cloudy and watery, like looking through stained glass.  She reached up and ran her hands through her hair, resting her shaking palms on either side of her puffy face.  As if those first few hours of bawling herself into exhaustion wasn't enough, she hadn't even been able to find relief after sleeping it off.  Eventually she knew she couldn't continue on like this, but for now, she was allowing herself some time to, well grieve.  She rolled over on her side and curled up into the fetal position, letting her arms drop and wrapping them around her.  She stared at the small crack of light and tried to let it warm her, shine some lucidity into her.  To most people, being disowned by the only family member who you had left might not be that big of a deal, but to her... well she was taking it almost as hard as she had taken her mother's death.

        When her mom had died five years ago, she had thought it was the end of the world, as would most fifteen year old girls.  Her mother had been everything to her.  Unlike most of the other girls she knew, her mom was her best friend, someone who she confided in, leaned on, hardly ever fought with.  The fact that she'd taken her own life, well to Cheryl it was almost the ultimate betrayal.  She hadn't seen any signs, had no idea that her mother was even in a state where she would consider such a drastic measure.  She felt like if she'd only seen or said one thing differently, this stuff would not be happening right now; things would be normal, like they should be.  She didn't leave her room, hell her bed for almost a month.  She took a leave of absence from school and began home-school (only because it was legally required, as she was a minor), though her "teacher" was more like a therapist and simply sat in the corner of the room.  He would read her work to her or try to get her to talk to him.  Mostly he forced her to get out of bed and walk over to the window and get some fresh air, or usher her into the bathroom to wash up and have normal bodily functions.  It was her ultimate rock-bottom, and after three months of cutting herself off from the outside world, her father came in one day and demanded that she go back to school.  He had been so patient and seemingly understanding, but Cheryl suspected that her teacher was planting some sort of seed inside his mind that if things didn't return to normal soon, her fate might become spending every waking moment in a psych ward.  Within a week she was enrolled back at her old school and she was seeing a shrink three times a week.  It took her a while to warm up to the psychiatrist, but she was nice and eventually it became easy to confide in her.  After six months, she cut her appointments down to once a week and after two years, Cheryl had finally accepted things as they were, as best as she knew she ever could, and she stopped going altogether.

       Thinking about those visits made her realize that it had also been around that time that her father had started dating again.  It had taken her almost three years to just come to terms her mother's death, and she still struggled with it from time to time.  But her dad, it had taken him only three years to get over his grief, his love, and his newly acquired singledom.  It made bile rise in her throat, and the metallic, acidic taste bubbling inside her forced her into a sitting position.  She hung her head in her hands, swallowing repetitively to wash down the vomit she hoped wasn't going to come, and allowed her thoughts to immediately shift to him.

       Sure she'd been given a year to adjust to his monogamy, but it would take her a lifetime to understand how someone could move on as quickly as he had.  It was as if the past twenty-five years of living, loving, and being with a single, wonderful woman, the mother of his only child, the woman he had vowed to be with until the end of time, those years were just memories, moments that had no affect on what was now happening, just a page in a book that he'd turned and had no intention of looking back on.  And she had tried to play devil's advocate with all this.  She understood he was lonely and sad and needed companionship.  She could see that he craved the company of another woman that was able to meet every need he had.  Maybe he was angry that his wife had destroyed the life they'd built together and offed herself. He might've even felt some resentment at having to raise a child all by himself.  He was crushed that his one true love was gone, and upset that he'd never get to grow old with her.  She got it, honestly she did.  She also fully grasped that not everyone grieved and remembered in the same ways.  Maybe this was just his way of dealing, shutting all the memories and feelings out.  She'd seen the many ways people dealt with death, she accepted the multitudes of personalities and various stages of mourning.  But the way he acted, not only about her mother's death, but towards her, towards Cheryl herself, it dumbfounded her.  It was as if she were no longer his child, just some person taking up space in his house, in the way of his newly active social night-life and more like an annoying cock-block than a daughter in desperate need of her father.

        After her mother's funeral, she had never once heard her him even utter her mother's name or make reference to her in any way ever again.  Every picture of her was taken down and either boxed up and sent to storage in the basement or crumpled up and thrown away.  When she'd come across a trashcan full of pictures, she quickly saved what she could and hid them in her room.  

        Quickly, her eyes darted over to a medium sized hat-box that was weathered and peeling, poking out of the top of a half-closed box.  She slowly climbed off the creaky bed and walked over to it.  She sat down on the floor and cradled the container on her folded legs.  She pried the lid off and looked down into what was left of her mother.  Photographs, trinkets, dried flowers & a program from her funeral, mementos and family heirlooms, jewelry that she would never, ever think about getting rid of, let alone hocking like that gaudy jewelry her father "showered" her with.  Jewelry like her mother's engagement ring and wedding band that her father had carelessly tossed at her at the hospital the night of her mother's death and said, "Well she won't be needing this anymore.  I certainly don't want it, but I figure you might... so here."  Just like that, a lifetime erased.  He'd thrown her out and tried to forget her as if she never existed.  None of it made any sense to her.  She let the cold metal rings fall back into the box and she put the top back on, physically and mentally shoving the thoughts of long ago off to the side.

        She stood and walked over to the window and pushed the curtain aside slightly.  She realized the light coming into her room wasn't a streetlamp, but was instead the moon.  It was full and glowing down at her as if shedding light onto some big secret that she couldn't know quite yet.  The stars twinkled softly, scattered throughout the deep, dark, midnight blue sky.  She knew she could sit all night thinking about the what-ifs and  trying to decipher the unknown actions and decisions of her parents, but none of it would change what was happening right now.  Dwelling on this stuff wasn't going to alter the situation she found herself in.  She knew that she had to start all over and she knew she had to do it on her own.  Sure she was frightened beyond belief and had absolutely no clue as to what she should do first, but she couldn't be inactive about this.  She'd allow herself the necessary amount of pity and despair; she was sure she'd spend a number of nights crying herself to sleep.  She wasn't in denial, and she knew that things weren't going to work themselves out on their own.  She had to be an effective and functioning part of her own life, and there were so many things that she wanted to accomplish for herself.  Thoughts like "It'll all be okay" or "Everything will work out" were not running through her mind, because she had no idea if they were true.  For all she knew, she might end up crawling back to her dad completely broken and a failure.  Or she might have to call upon the help of one of her "friends" from her family's "circle," and crash in their luxury house or 10,000 square-foot pool house.  She certainly wasn't going into this thinking she was going to fail, but she also wasn't pumping herself up for success.  Anything could happen, she understood that and she was accepting it.

        She let the curtain fall and slumped down in the ratty, old desk chair.  She caught a glimpse of a plastic picture frame which held a small sign that said, "Free Wi-Fi and HBO."  Luckily she hadn't yet gotten around to selling her laptop, so she bent over and shuffled through a few of the boxes near her feet until she came out with a power cord and notebook.  After letting it power-up and load the necessary programs, she stared at the desktop background, a picture of Cheryl with her two roommates from NYU.  It'd been a while since she'd spoken to them, and although she wished dearly that she could pick up the phone and cry her troubles out to them, she foraged ahead and opened Google Chrome, readying herself for a night of job-searching and Craigslist apartment hunting.

Okay that's it for now.  I'm not sure if I'll continue this or stop it here.  It has the potential for further storyline, and I could probably turn this into a novel-length piece, but I'm going to let this rest for now. (: Thanks for reading and I hope you'll come back for more of something new!

Handbags & Gladrags Part 2

          He'd hung up on her as if she were a wrong number or an annoying telemarketer. Her immediate solution was to think the whole thing was a joke or one of those "scared straight" tactics, but just to save face later on, she decided to pay a visit to the financial aid office anyway. She got information about loans, scholarship possibilities, and payment plans, but left still an enrolled student. She never imagined the conversation that was to take place when she got home. Mostly instigated by her witch of a step-mother, her father scolded her on the lack of responsibilities she had, that ultimately came down to the fact that her father had never allowed her any - but of course she didn't say that out loud. He also shouted at her about the way she "walked all over him" and "flaunted his money as if she'd done anything to earn it." To that she craved a chance to defend herself, though she was never given an opportunity to do so, as her father monopolized the entire exchange. She would've gladly brought up her previously voiced desires to make her own money and her father's insistence that she focus strictly on getting a proper education without any distractions.
          After the conversation, which was really a one-sided debate about the cons of being a father to a spoiled, clueless, college-aged child, she was informed that in addition to not paying for college anymore, he wasn't paying for anything else either. She was told "you'll have to get your own place after the wedding and start making your own money." He went on to say that with the help of his new wife (surprise, surprise), his eyes had been opened to the error of his previous ways. He ended the whole discussion with one last tidbit.
          "Oh and even if you do somehow come up with a way to pay for and graduate college (as if the thought of it was impossible and repulsive to him), your trust fund won't be there waiting for you. I've written you out of that, as well as the will. It's high time you learn that your problems cannot always be solved by me, or my money. And if you sit around with hope of money to come in the future, you'll never take this seriously."
          She sat completely stricken, not really caring that the money was being "taken away" but that he cared so little for her to basically erase her from the family tree in the only way he knew how. After a few minutes of contemplation, she struck up the courage to say, "Are you broke or something?" and then quickly regretted it once both he and his wife began an endless tirade of unpleasantness directed towards her.
         Thinking about it all only made the anger and frustration within her surge even more, and the overwhelming urge to walk over and slap sense into her father almost taking hold of her bodily functions. All she did, though, was continue to stare at him from across the room. She no longer saw the gentle, kind man he'd been when her mother was alive. She no longer sensed his love for her, that once swelled out of him and enveloped everyone around him. She no longer felt any connection to him, and feared she never would again.
          "No, Dad," Cheryl finally managed to squeak out, "I won't be needing Maxwell to drive me anywhere."
         "Fine then," he said after a short pause. As he guided his wife toward the hallway, he looked over his shoulder and shot her an almost sympathetic glance before exiting the room.
          All her fight evaporated the instant they were both out of sight, and she slowly slumped onto the bare mattress. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and at the back of her throat, and immediately bit down on her tongue to distract herself and keep her emotions at bay.
          You can cry later, she thought. Just get done with this and get out of here. You'll have all the time in the world to wallow in your own self-pity.
          She immediately stood back up and began stacking her bags and boxes at the top of the stairs. The butler, who'd been with her family since her parents had married over twenty-five years ago, suddenly appeared.
          "Miss Cheryl," Frederick greeted her with a familiar smile and a warm, deep voice.
          "Frederick you don't have to help," Cheryl said as he bent down to pick up an armload.
          "But of course I do," he began as he turned to go down the steps. "If you aren't a member of this household anymore, that makes you a guest. Either way, I've got to do my job."
          As he hit the bottom of the stairs, he turned toward her and sent a wink back up her way. Cheryl felt herself smile a little at him and was extremely grateful he was there to help keep her calm.
          After a lonely and hardly acknowledged farewell to her ex-home and ex-family (made up of maids, butlers, drivers, and dead - both figuratively and literally - ancestors), Cheryl climbed into the idling cab and told the driver directions to a nearby motel.
          She went in and paid for a month up front, before returning to the cabbie and asking if he'd drive her around the building to her new "home." His generosity was ever-evident as he helped unload her pitiful belongings into the pitiful room that acted as combo bedroom/living room/dining room. She glanced around at her surroundings as the driver made his way to the door. It was as close to a "culture shock" as she'd ever been. The place wasn't nasty or gross, but it certainly wasn't extravagant or upscale like she'd been accustomed to her whole life. There was a small kitchenette off the far wall and an even smaller bathroom to her right, but overall, the place wasn't bad. At least it'd do until she found something more permanent.
          "Well if that's all miss, I'd better get going."
          Cheryl turned to look at the kind older man with wrinkled hands and deep lines in his forehead. She reached down to the small purse slung over her chest and resting on her left thigh and pulled out the cab fare with a little extra for his helpfulness.
          "Thanks for everything," she said as he shut the door behind him.
          The quiet and stillness that closed in on her was instant and it took all her strength to make it to the bed before she collapsed. Slowly she brought her knees to her chest and rested against the wall that doubled as her headboard. She wept all night and eventually exhaustion overcame her. She had no choice but to give into it.







Hope you liked it! Part 3 soon to follow (: Come back for more!!

Handbags & Gladrags Part 1

                 She was alone.  She had been abandoned, forced to fend for herself without much of a warning.  She knew she wasn't "unwanted" per se, but she certainly didn't fit into their plan.

                "We love you Cheryl, honestly sweetie we do.  But..." her step-mother trailed off and looked helplessly at her husband, the desperate pleading for him to say something, anything, etched in every Botox-ridden facial muscle.  Cheryl suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

                "Cher..." her father began, clutching to his wife's trembling hands, "she's right.  We do love you, very much, but it's time you grow up and start taking care of yourself."

                "You're twenty years old dear," the witch began again, unable to meet her step-daughter's tear-filled gaze, "and um, we just think that it's best that you, ya know, do something with yourself other than wither away in this house."

                Funny, she thought, I was doing something with myself until you both decided things needed to change.

                "Stacey and I are worried that if we don't go to this extreme you'll never reach your full potential."

                It was at this point that Cheryl tuned out.  She'd heard this already, at least a dozen times, and every time she only got more and more confused.  Things were so out of control and upside down.  As she slowly began to drift into her own thoughts, she caught murmurs of the typical phrases, "your own good," and "we're always just a phone call away," when what they were really trying to express were the messages "we want to be newlyweds without you around all the time" and "you're a common undesirable topic of conversation among our friends."

                She didn't want to be crying, but it was just an involuntary reflex.  Anger and tears were so closely related in her mind that whenever she wasn't able to fight back, her ducts betrayed her.  Once the tears began streaking down her cheeks, she sensed that despicable surge of faux-pity welling up between her dad and his much younger wife, and it was like an open invitation for Stacey to step toward her with outstretched arms; completely unwelcome and overwhelmingly sickening outstretched arms, ones that Cheryl wouldn't fall into even if they were her only salvation.

                The moment her dad and this woman got married, she knew it was a matter of time before she would be completely shoved out of the picture.  When Cheryl's mom died five years ago, she never imagined her dad to be the type of widower to remarry so quickly.  At first he said he wanted a female role-model for his daughter during her most impressionable years, but it quickly became evident, once she saw the type of "replacements" he was lingering on, that her dad was much more interested in satisfying his hidden borderline-jailbait  fantasies.  He soon abandoned "project: new mommy" and instead took up the search for someone to fit the acceptable arm candy role.  He met Stacey a year ago and on the day she moved in, about three months later, Cheryl slowly began liquidating her few assets, taking all the overtime she could at her new (and first) job, and diligently searching for an apartment within her very limited price-range, all things she never imagined being on her priority list of life.  She knew it was only a matter of time before this conversation took place, but she'd been hoping she'd have a little more time.

                She suddenly realized how deep in thought she was and reeled herself back into the present situation.  Both of them were still trying to comfort her, though once she began listening to the words they were spewing, she didn't know why they even bothered; she couldn't quite comprehend how they felt their words to be encouraging or beneficial.  Ultimately, it didn't matter.

                She wiped away at her damp cheeks and uncrossed her legs.  She glanced around her bare room, a room that had once been a cocoon of warmth and had an undeniable feeling of home.  It was a time-capsule for every milestone moment of the past twenty years.  She'd been brought home from the hospital to this room, and had her first Christmas morning here.  She'd experienced her first steamy make-out session in the confines of these four walls, and broken up with her first true love right on this bed.  She'd come here, to this very spot, and wallowed in her misery when she found out her mother had killed herself.

                She let her eyes linger on the few belongings she had left, the ones she hadn't sold once she found out she was going to be "cut-off."  Her mahogany jewelry box was like a beacon of what was, a vessel for expensive possessions that she no longer had.  Only she knew of its minimal contents.  If her father ever found out that she'd pawned almost every piece of jewelry he'd ever given her, he'd go absolutely insane.  There'd been the two-carat diamond earrings that he'd given to her as a graduation present, or the matching platinum and diamond tennis bracelet and necklace set he'd had given to her, via  his secretary and a typed note, for her sweet sixteen.  There was also the 14-carat white gold wrist watch he'd given her after her mother died, his way of showing how much she meant to him and that he was glad she wasn't dead too, along with six or eight other extravagant and hardly-worn things.  He'd be especially pissed if he knew how little she got for it all, about a quarter of what it was "worth," roughly five grand.

                Her eyes continued to scan her almost-bare walls, but halted on the original Salvador Dali painting "Untitled" from 1972 that hung over the fireplace.  It was something that had been in her room for almost ten years, but it was not something actually ever given to her, just put in its place to add "culture" to her surroundings.  She felt her cheeks redden and hoped her father or step-mother weren't paying attention to her reaction as she quickly looked away from it.  She had thought long and hard about liquidating that asset right out from under their noses and silently pocketing the easy 100 grand she could've gotten for it, if she'd had the balls to go through with the sale.  She'd contacted a local art gallery and they immediately expressed an interest  in it, especially at the price she was offering.  They would've gotten it for close to half the retail value, a nice profit they weren't going to pass up.  She was in the process of acquiring a nice fake from an art major friend who had a flare for surrealism (one who she was going to reward generously with half her earnings) when she realized she couldn't go through with it.  Thinking over the severity of the possible repercussions of her illegal actions made her stop, but it wasn't so much her fear of what her father might do.  She was stricken more by her own moral code and the thoughts of what he mother would think, if she were still alive, of her daughter's desperation and desire to stick it to the almost unrecognizable man inhabiting her husband's body.  (But then, if she were still alive, Cheryl  certainly wouldn't be considering committing grand larceny).  Once she stepped back and looked at the situation through her mother's eyes, she canceled the appointment for authenticity verification and told her friend the deal was off.

                She shuddered slightly and turned her stare to her "parents."  They were both silently looking at her as if waiting for an answer to a question she hadn't heard.

                "Did you ask me something?" she managed to force out in an almost neutral tone.

                "Yea," her dad said, "um, when can you be out of here?"

                The question hit her square in the chest, literally knocking the breath out of her.  She blinked hard a couple times, desperately trying to clear her now-hazy vision.  After a few seconds, she felt her heartbeat slowing.  The painful pounding had resonated through her body, resting heavily in her eardrums.  Now that it was returning to normal, she found herself momentarily deafened as her mind raced to bring her back in touch with reality.  Of course she knew this was the ultimate outcome of the conversation, but hearing it, so bluntly and directly, from her dad's mouth - it had left her almost incapacitated.

                If this is how it's going to be, then I might as well not prolong this, she thought.

                She'd already sold all her expensive handbags and every piece of designer clothing that she'd owned.  Everything that was left, down to the last unmatched sock, was packed away in the few suitcases she'd decided to keep.  She'd been living out of them for a few weeks, preparing herself for the day when she wouldn't have any other option.  All that was left were the things out on her dresser and desk, her sheets and pillows, and her bathroom supplies, which would take her all of ten minutes to box up.

                She stood up from her bed, startling her step-mother, who was perched at the foot.  In one swift motion, Cheryl pulled the comforter and sheet down, an unvoiced signal to Stacey for her to get up, and began folding.  Stacey reached out to help and Cheryl stiffened, glaring over at her.  Stacey froze, allowing the blanket to fall, and then slowly stepped back into the warm embrace of her husband, getting the obvious hint from Cheryl that she was complexly capable of taking care of this herself.  Besides, isn't that what they wanted - for her to do things on her own?

                "Is this honestly how you're going to behave?" he father asked solemnly.

                Without stopping or turning towards him, Cheryl snatched up the now-folded linens, began cramming them into a nearby box, and said, "How am I supposed to behave, Dad?  You're kicking me out of the only home I've ever known for the most ridiculous of reasons.  Reasons that (she moved onto the picture frames, candles, and other knick knacks) you've conjured up to make yourself feel okay about what you're doing to me, all so you can live out some fantasy life with your sluttly new gold-digging wife.  A wife that's convinced you to write me out of your will, my trust fund, and most importantly, my role as your daughter."

                Cheryl swiftly moved over to the dresser and began boxing up the few items there.  After a few moments of absolute silence, her dad said, "Well, if you're almost done here, I'll have Maxwell take you wherever you need to go."

                She stopped, went stone still.  She didn't even blink.  After what felt like a solid minute, she slowly, but heatedly, turned to look her father square in his eyes.  She wanted to scream at him, shake him out of this trance-like state he'd fallen into.  She didn't understand any of it, none of his actions over the past year made any sense to her.

                Before this woman had come along, he was a fairly normal guy, and Cheryl was a normal girl.  She'd been attending NYU and was on her way to a degree in economics  when she got a notice that her tuition hadn't been paid.  She called her father who had forever told her, "As long as you make good grades and continually strive to better yourself, you don't need to worry about paying for school."  He'd always told her that she didn't need to pay for her daily expenses as long as she contributed to the household by picking up after herself and cooking on the weekends when the maid had off.  It was a family tradition that once you graduated college, you received a nice trust fund that was supposed to support you until you found your niche in the world, thanks to your newly acquired degree.  That was the way the family had always worked, for eight generations.  She was from the Astor bloodline for crying out loud, that was just the way the world worked for her.  She didn't smear it in people's faces, but she certainly wasn't blind to the fact that life was easier for her because of who her family was.  She still worked hard for what she did have and was eager to make a name for herself, and she wasn't afraid to take the help so readily available for her to do so.  And up until she got the notice, she hadn't worried about anything because her end of the deal was under control.  She'd held up her end of their bargain so far, and had never doubted that her father would hold up his.  But when she asked him what was going on, he'd told her through a cold, clipped, monotone snippet, "Things have changed Cher.  We can discuss it at dinner tonight.  Unless you can come up with the tuition on your own, you'll need to withdraw from the university before coming home."

                She was absolutely dumbfounded, but the impatience in her father's tone allowed her no time to stop and freak out.  Instead she quickly came back with the first thing she could think of, "But can't I just use the money in my trust fund?"

                "Well the condition of the trust fund is you graduating college.  You can't do that if you aren't enrolled. "

                She blurted the next thought that instantly came to her, "Okay, so can you cosign for a loan and after I graduate, I'll use the trust to pay it back?"

                "Cheryl, I said we'll discuss this tonight.  But I mean what I said, you have to come up with the tuition of your own accord.  I won't be helping you."

                And then he hung up.  

Look for part 2 sometime this week (: Thanks for reading.

The New Genre-ation

Firstly, I'd like to say - I'm dying without my laptop.  Secondly I'd like to say, James's computer chair is entirely too uncomfortable for me to be creative and imaginative in.  That being said... I'm jonesin' and decided to give in and write from this frigid, ill illuminated, marigold/mustard colored room.  I've been reading - A LOT lately - and it's been helpful in inspiring me.  I've definitely gotten some thoughtful insights about the world of YA literature, more so than I did in my Adolescent Lit class the last semester of college, or from any one of the many books I've got lining the shelves of my bookcases.  I've decided I'm much more inclined to fall in love with a series rather than just a single book from some random author.  L.J. Smith has been my most widely read author these past few months, and though the majority of her stuff was written in the late eighties/early nineties, that woman can write.  I don't care how lame and outdated the covers are to her novels, or if her choice of "authentic" slang/dialogue has become a thing of the past.  She's not afraid to litter her "teen fiction" with words like: melodious, ebbed, malice, succumb, belligerence, sinuous, or supine (and that's not even delving into specialized fields she tends to focus on like witchcraft or psychology).  Sure it all comes wrapped up in brooding young lovers and paranormal activity, but it's inspirational because she's not afraid to use wholesome, well-defined characters or real human vocabulary that might make her readers need to pick up a dictionary.  Her stories do fall well within the typical confines of the teenage-style plot line, but she does it without compromising her intelligence or her writing flare.  I admire it, quite frankly.  It's kinda what I aspire to.

I think what I love most about "young adult" fiction is that it's so filled with those overwhelming "butterfly" feelings of your first kiss, that intense climactic problem that must be overcome, cresting to that intimate sexually-heated encounter without ever really going over the edge.  It's filled with mystery and wonder and fascination and takes me back to the days when I thought I could conquer the world.  It re-instills in me those longings I had as a teenage girl pining over that particular guy or wishing that I could do this or that impossible task.  It's all so innocent.  It's all so inviting.

That being said, I do love me a good sex scene.  I can hardly stand those ridiculous romance novels.  You know, the books with scantly clad women hanging onto topless cowboys or Fabio-men shielding their lacey chemise-bearing lovers splattered on the covers.  Or the ones with titles like "The Captain's Forbidden Miss," "Desert Prince, Defiant Virgin," or "In Heat: Mating Call" (yes these are actual titles, and though I haven't read them, I'm certainly not advertising their content, only exploiting their detestable names).  But I do love that intense feeling that a love scene arouses in you (no pun intended here).  My problem is that there isn't really a genre out there that encompasses both these aspects: the full force of adult content (elegantly done, that is) mixed with the timidity of young love.  That stage of life between adolescence and full-blown adulthood.  That gray area where it's still possible to be involved in not-so life-threatening/life-changing situations, but where you're old enough/capable enough to deal with it on your own if it does come to life and death, without that fear that your parents will find out, if any of that makes sense.

But it doesn't always have to involve romance - I'm just itching for life situations that aren't either kid or adult.  I'm not interested in reading about a husband that cheats on a wife (because frankly, if you're my age and already/about to be divorced, there's a serious problem with the world) or a wife who kills a husband (nope don't have any slasher fantasies here people).  I'm not interested in reading about how a woman lost her husband and her job in the same day and doesn't know how she's gonna feed her kids.  On the flip side, I don't want to read about a girl who's involved in a secret relationship with a teacher.  I don't find interest in mundane childish problems like failing a test or getting your first period.  I also don't want to read about the scary bad guy (vampire, werewolf, witch, wizard, fill in the blank) who wants something that the main character teen has but thinks needs to be protected and he/she has to fight the battle with the help of his/her sidekick teenage friends - kids are dumb these days and I don't understand why they NEVER go to their parents when things get too difficult for them to deal with it on their own.  It's a stupid unwritten rule that YA literature depicts adults/parents as the enemy.  I must be an anomaly because I actually liked my parents growing up.  When something went wrong, huh, whodda thunk I actually went to them with my problems.  Even as an adolescent I didn't understand that aspect of literature.

Anyway, my goal, is college-age fiction.  I want to start a revolution, a new genre, a new generation of readers.  Okay maybe not ME personally, but I want this idea to become popular.  Sure I'd like to get the credit for it, but I really just want new stuff to read.  Real-life problems for twenty-something year olds, possibly combined with a ton of creative, imaginative twists.  That's what I'm trying to write, and I hope that people are as desperate for a change in the genres as I am.  If not, everything I'm doing is all for nought.  Not for nought, because I'll get personal satisfaction knowing I'm not just following the curve on what's "popular," but honestly, what writer writes without the hope of getting paid eventually? (:

Confessions: writer's block

As the cool kids say, it's been a minute since I've posted a blog.  I've noticed on facebook that many of my "friends" have started blogs of their own, and I commend them, honestly I do.  It's a lot harder than one would think to post a daily/weekly/bi-weekly blog, especially considering (well for me anyway) that writing is what I breathe for.  So seeing all these "Oh hey here's my new blog" posts is making me realize it's been a month since my last post and I need to jump back on the "bandwagon."  I hope you all stick with it, but I'm a bit of a pessimist, so we'll just see how long that lasts (:

Here recently with all these things happening ALL at once in my life (and the harsh reality that I'm a television junky and find watching stories unfold holds much more immediate gratification than writing one and making it unfold - wow how many dead writers are rolling over in their graves right now????), I've not been writing as much as I want or need to.  I'm halfway through a pretty fantastic manuscript (if I do say so myself?!) and can't seem to get out of the funk I've fallen into to finally finish it and hopefully start in on the 2nd in the series.  I've come to a point where I seem to be stuck.  It all started when I decided to make one of my characters British.  Though I'm a huge fan of British television, humor, and quite frankly life, when faced with the difficult task of being an American-born, American-residing writer trying to dialogue for someone from another country, one from a place I'd never been, I became irritated and flummoxed.  (Do people still use that word?)  I fell to the all-knowing world of the internet, navigated by Google, and came up with the typical, generic, boring, retarded answers to the question, "What's another way that a Brit would say dude or man other than the obvious mate?"  I got chap (really people, really?  I'm writing a 20-something year old male college student here, not a 43-year old global studies professor), ace, bro, cock, and chum.  Yes, someone actually suggested I used the word cock as an expression of fondness for a male sidekick.  So basically I got nothing.  And it wasn't just my need for British synonyms for friend that I was looking for.  I was seeking some guidance on how to make my character believable.  I wasn't really getting anywhere, and unless I wanted to watch all 200 seasons of Doctor Who (I have to say I so don't get what all the fuss is about over that show!) or scour through interviews with every famous British actor making money in American films, I was stuck with just sorta winging it.  To make a long story longer, I pretty much just got frustrated and decided to take a breather.  Step back.  Reevaluate.  Decide if this was the right move for my character and if not, go back to the drawing board.  But somewhere along the way, I just got... bored isn't really the right word, but sidetracked might fit better.  Because I honestly believe in what I'm writing.  I think people will like it and it's pushing my boundaries as a writer - I'm challenging myself.  And maybe that's what my problem is... this isn't easy so I'm trying to sabotage myself?  Argh. 

In any case, I know that I'll finish, I just want to do it by the end of the year.  The last manuscript I finished took me three years, which is a horrible turn-over rate, especially if I want to make real money doing this.  I hope to make this the first book in a series of four, so I better to get work, huh?  Thing's not gonna write itself and me complaining isn't getting it anywhere either!

Here's to hoping I find a way to resolve both mine and my characters' internal struggles.

(:

My personal eulogy

Daniel Lennon was 85 years old when he died.
He is survived by his three children, Andrea, Teresa, and Steven.
He is survived by his five grandchildren, Melissa, Samantha, Matthew, Steven, and Joseph.
He will be missed by many.
The day to remember and honor him is taking place tomorrow.
An 8am wake followed by a noontime mass and ending with a burial.
I've never been to a funeral before, and only seen 1 person no longer living face-to-face.
Sure, a mixture of fear, nerves, sadness, and longing are at the forefront of my mind now, only to be heightened tomorrow when I'm staring death squarely in the eyes.
I've spent the past few days immersing myself in the world that Danny Lennon made and passed down from generation to generation.
My father and Auntie Teresa took me on a tour of Newton, or "The Lake," their old stomping ground, as they call it.  I got to see my roots, my history.  Where my father and his family lived growing up.  Where my mother and her sisters lived.  Their schools, their hangouts, their favorite places to eat.  Places like "Palace Pizza" and "Golden Stah" that don't exist anymore, but whose buildings are still standing.  I got to see where the yearly fair was held when Grampa would give em all $5 to spend on candy and rides - "That was big bucks back then, Sissy," Dad says.  The spot where Dad got bit by a dog or where Auntie Teresa had her first kiss.  The window that Dad used to throw rocks at to get Mom to come down and sneak out with him.  Things that ultimately don't matter in the grand scheme of things, but if not for them, who knows if things would be as they are now.
Grampa made a home, one that's lasted the test of time.  One where people know each other and when somebody from that neighborhood dies, you bet your ass everyone makes a point to come pay their respects.
Magni funeral home, the same people who took care of Grandma when she passed fifteen years ago, they're taking care of Grampa too.  They'll be buried close to each other and for the first time ever, I'll get to say Hi to Grandma and see that they are finally reunited after all this time.
Grampa, well at least how I knew him, was never a man of many words.  He lived a simple life, didn't complain much, and when he spoke, you'd do best to pay attention because what he had to say was probably something worth listening to.  He always had a bright smile for us when we'd (rarely) come to visit, and I always remember he'd be more than happy to give out a hundred hugs or have me sit on his lap and soak up as much of my attention as I'd give him.  His crooked smile and hearty laugh always followed his dry sense of humor, which he passed down to my father, and then down to me.  You could always see him with a cold beer and suspenders, eager to keep himself busy doing something around the house.
I wanted deeply to be able to say, "Hey Grampa.  It's good to see you, it's been a while."  Though that opportunity didn't work out for me, I will get to see him off to his final resting place.  A place where God will keep him safe until it's time for him to be reunited with Grandma.  A place where he's no longer suffering and we're able to remember.  I don't want to greive for him, I want to honor him.  Pay testament to the man he was, the family he raised, and the legacy he set out for the people who came after him.
This will be one of the three readings at Mass tomorrow and it helps put things into perspective for me.  I hope by leaving it to you for a read that it might help you too. 

Romans 14: 7-9
"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.
For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.
For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living."

We love you always Grampa and you'll be missed deeply.  Thanks for existing so that I can now.  Thanks for making a family that I'm a part of.  I hope to be able to create a legacy of my own some day that matches the one you're leaving behind.

Ceasing to Exist

Death scares me a bit.  Maybe it's because I'm only 23 and haven't lived a long, fulfilling life yet, and there are so many more things I wish to accomplish.  Or maybe it's because I value what I have as a living being and losing it all frightens the hell out of me.  In either case, whenever I think about dying, I have the urge to cry.  My heart beats a little faster, the hairs covering my body stand erect, and tears begin to form along my bottom eyelid.  I wonder, like all people do at some point in their lives, what happens when you're dead?  Is it really like going to sleep?  Will there be a white light or a vision of whatever God you believe in?  Will I become reincarnated in another person/creature/organism, and if so, is it immediate?  Will I remember who I was before?  Or... will I go to heaven or hell?  Is that immediate?  Does purgatory exist, a place for me to prove myself worthy of one or sentenced to the other?  Will I be able to look upon those mourning my death and hurt because I can't take their pain away?  Will anyone even be there to mourn me, or will I be forgotten?  Will I have left any sort of impression on the world that is no longer my home?

I'm mostly wondering these things, not based off a religious pondering, but a philosophical one.  Death is such a mystery.  No one can answer ANY of these questions.  There are those that have had near-death experiences, all of whom claim different encounters with "the other side."  And of course there's the sensatinalized version of death as being something so peaceful... but no one really knows.  More than likely, the reactions those people who claim to "see a white light" are having are simply side-effects of their brains either shutting down because it's been seriously injured or shutting down to preserve that which is left of them until they become conscious again.  Tons of neurochemicals firing in your brain as a reaction to outside stimuli or increased adrenaline.  Or, you think you're dying so you imagine what you think you're supposed to see and once you wake up, you chalk it up to being a chance meeting with the unknown when in fact you were simply out of it for hours, days, or years.

I dunno what to expect and I honestly don't spend much time worrying over it because it's not something I can control.  Sure I can eat the right foods, get proper exercise, stay away from alcohol and drugs... all those things can prolong life, but nothing can stop death from coming and wrapping its cold, dead fingers around you, squeezing until the life drains from your body and you cease to exist on this plane.  Nothing.  There's no elixir of life, no philosopher's stone, no fountain of youth.  Vampires and immortals don't exist.  Witches can't cast spells to keep you alive or chant incantations to bring back the dead.  As they say, the only thing guaranteed in life is death.  It's sad to think that we are simply living to simply die.  I oftentimes wonder what is the point in being born at all.  Though I do not believe in depression (yea I know, crazy right, but that's a discussion for another place and another time) I do ask myself the age old question of why are we here?

Now this is normally the part where I, the romantic drama writer that I am, would then say, we exist to love.  Or we exist to share our lives with one other person and experience everything that this world has to offer.  And while the hopeless romantic, fiction-lover in me does believe that, at this moment I'm simply left with a palpitating heartbeat, unsteady nerves, and an urge to become an alchemist so that my underlying panic about no longer living can be erased forever.

But then I wonder, why would I want to live forever?  I'd still have to ask myself what is the point in life?  After a century I'd assume I would've accomplished so many things that I'd get bored with my existence and find ways to undo whatever I did to live forever.  Then, the only guarantee in life would be... life?  No, this is where the person who wishes to leave some mark on the world says, the point in life is to make an impression.  Any impression no matter how big or small.  My mother, a hard-working, independent, high-school diploma bearing, blue-collar worker mother asks me all the time why she is on this earth.  And though it pains me to know that if the circle of life follows the usual course I'll see her die, I hate even more that she thinks she hasn't made an impact in this world.  I hope to do big things with myself.  Whether or not they actually come true is up to me, but knowing that she birthed me... brought me into this world to hopefully leave a mark... that's why I know she's left her imprint.  Of course she's done so in many other ways, not just by making two great kids.  Millions of people might not know her or what she's done, but enough people do that she will be remembered.  That's what we live for.  To leave a memory for someone else to be affected by.  To show others what they can strive for.  To help another person guide themselves through their own lives.  I haven't set my own bar as high as I have because I want fame or fortune.  No.  If I've only impacted a single person by the time I perish, that will have been enough for me.  I don't want recognition for what I hope to accomplish, I just want to know that someone out there is just a bit different for having read my work or known about me.  I may not be a glamorous actress or a crowd-pleasing rock star, but if I can touch the life of someone and help them find their own way, that will have been enough for me.  At least, that's what I strive for.  Sure fame and fortune would be grand, but who's gonna remember that when you're dead?  I might be wrong about all this.  There truly may be no point in life at all, but if that's the case, I'd think the suicide rate would be much, much higher.  I'd like to think there's life after death.  That perhaps life is a 100ish-year vacation from death, a chance to live-out (no pun intended) another path.  But, now we're just getting crazy with what-ifs and possibilities and if I keep pondering this post will never end, well at least not til I'm dead.

So knowing that... what do you think life is all about?