3WW - writer prompt - apology.consider.distant

3WW - Separate entries

Hub:
Dearest, I know that I have been distant lately. Please consider this note as my sincere apology. Love, T

Me:
Despite a dozen roses and an apology on her bureau, she felt distant. It wasn’t her tears running down her face. It wasn’t him that she had been fighting with. Her thoughts would race on and on into the night. She would sit alone, paralyzed, shivering by her bed and she would consider picking up the phone to call him. But always, her mind would think better of it. It was time to move on.

I'm contemplating Murder

I can't say no to my kids, so when my little girl walked by the fish game at the carnival last year, I agreed, we won the fish and I let her keep it. I went out and spent $50 on a 2.5 gallon tank and accessories. I cleaned out the filter and put it in. The next day, I washed the filter again, and didn't realize that some of the carbon leaked out, and that it is a bad thing. So I get a call at work saying the fish is dangling in the plastic plant. We bury it.

Stupid me buys a new one. A very little one. I didn't think it'd grow or that the recommended tank size is 10 gallons. Now the thing is huge, it's swimming but not much place to go. Pretty soon it will be busting out. I don't want to buy another tank. We don't have enough house for a bigger tank. My marriage won't survive another tank.

So, I'm contemplating murder. I obviously have learned the method that works. My friend tells me to have a prayer by the toilet and give it the old flush, but that seems too brutal. Just a slip of carbon... It's just a feeder fish. 12 cents. The kids have made it through our cat's death, what's one more? Get the trauma over all at once.

Conscience. It's killing me. How can I kill a living thing? What will I do with this gigantic growing goldfish? Blub Blub Blub. HELP!

Writing and Asses

WriterKat is not in a writing mood. It's been a long week and I just spent a butt load on a daisy GS uniform (Tiger Scouts only cost about $10, why are girls so much more money??) Plus a writer friend is coming to stay over tonight so I have to clean the house.

Another friend just sent me this forward, I thought I'd share 'cause it's cute and I didn't write it. But no offense to anyone. In general, asses are lovely things...

Women's Ass Size Study
There is a new study just released by the American Psychiatric Association about women and how they feel about their asses. The results are pretty shocking:

1. Only 5% of women surveyed feel their ass is too big.
2. 10% of women surveyed feel their ass is too small.
3. The remaining 85% say they don't care; they love him; he's a good man and they would have married him anyway.

Blog Things

Blogging is like driving on a country road, you take a turn which leads to another turn which leads to..... Some real treasures on the scenic route. Today my travels in blog land in reading the weekly entries of 3 Word Wednesday, I happened upon Judy who in addition to a great read, links to Blog Things which asks what spice are you. As I'm feeling a little spicy (could be the thai curry I ate 2 hours ago), I took the quiz and came out basil. I have to ask my husband but I'm thinking he comes up cayenne pepper. (Sounds like a good pair & I won't even mention that the first google recipe for both spices comes up as "Stuffed Vegetarian Peppers" - that says a lot right there....)

So if you're game, what spice are you?

You Are Basil

You are quite popular and loved by post people. You have a mild temperament, but your style is definitely distinctive. You are sweet, attractive, and you often smell good.

What Spice Are You?

You Are Cayenne Pepper

You are very over the top and a bit overwhelming. You have a fiery personality, and you can give anyone a good jolt. You can easily take things up a couple notches, no matter what crowd you're running with.

What Spice Are You?

3WW - writer prompt - t-shirt.punch.unraveled

Hub:
Startled by the loud challenge, I turned around just in time to see to see Glen throw the first punch that knocked that bastard biker clean off his bar stool. In a flash, even before motor boy's head cracked on the floor, everything began to unravel. The mayhem was instantaneous – fists and bottles were flying everywhere, and the last thing I remember before I woke up here in the E.R. was the warm surge of my own blood drenching my t-shirt dark red.

Me:
It was New Years and predictably, my scrawny little Uncle showed up, greasy haired with his same old joke, “How about a Hawaiian Punch?” Followed by a swift hit on my arm. Usually, I’d respond with artificial laughter. But this time I felt my patience unravel. I yanked him by the t-shirt, and told him one more time, I’d beat the living crap out of him. It wasn’t until Memorial Day that he asked that question again.

Composting

I wrote this in 1999 on retreat at Esalen, Big Sur. I post it in memory of Nutmeg, my first "baby", my 12 year old cat who died today.

There is a cluster of Buddhist Monks who create sand mandalas as part of their practice. They will spend hours creating a room-sized mandala with intricate parts determined by individual colors of sand. For five days, they will weave together this circle. As the mandala is realized, there is the final task of removing it by a ritualized sweeping process in which the entire mandala is fused together and transferred off the table, no longer for us to see.

This process has confused me for several years. It has been so hard for me to let go of “the mandala”. If the mandala is destroyed, who will see it? A beautiful work of art lost in a fraction of time.

There is a tendency in our culture to want others to see us. To live in a way that others notice. To show others our pain, show off our accomplishments; entitlements to be and act how we please. The idea of privacy can be disparaging to us as we become caught up in “media frenzy” and “one-upness”. We seek to hold onto moments, justifying ourselves by living in the past, holding on to our perception of reality as if we would be lost with out. We ignore what is before us, unable to let go.

On retreat in Big Sur, I watched the gardeners planting seeds and tending the garden. I saw baskets of vegetables delivered to the kitchen. I saw beautiful savory dishes laid out for all to eat. I saw people gathering, communing and eating these plants. I saw the garbage labeled “compost” where people scraped the remainder of food off the plates. And finally, I saw gardeners using the compost to tend to their gardens.

No moment is wasted, no grain of sand destroyed. We are each moment composting moments for later fruition. We may think that every moment that isn’t seen by others is seemingly unworthy or needing to be told to others of its story. We may somehow fear the moments will be forfeited, that they are lost, and more so, that we, ourselves, are lost.

Like the Monks, like the gardeners, our task is to do our own work moment by moment. We can know that as each moment ends, we can let go of it. Because the part we need will become a seedling again and grow into what it needs to be. Grains of sand, working towards a circle of art, being swept away when no longer of service to be used for compost again. That our labor, our experiences will find us, even when we feel most lost.

Political Kat on the Loose

I'm sort of a quasi-intellectual air-head (is that an oxymoron?) I read a lot but don't feel completely confident in my worldly and political stance. This saying that I welcome my guest's input because you are likely to know far more than I.

Anyway... There's a lot of blogging lately on the future & status of this country, most recently, Stephen Parrish & pjd . Makes for some great reading. I need to let out some political Bush piss-me-off's and formulate my take on the world.

The latest piss-me-off is the whole economic stimulation package. Why is it that people who have not even contributed to taxes this year are getting a refund? What is being refunded? How is this going to help the economy? The way I figure it, there's going to be a lot of big screen T.V.'s bought, money in the millieu for a week, and then we're back to the old news. I believe Bush tried this a few years ago? $300 or something? Did it help? No, it most likely created more debt. For me, it doesn't mean a hell of a lot. It's going towards my next year's quarterlies - hopefully it'll knock off a few hundred, but that's probably optimistic. Who knows if I'll even see anything at this rate.

Here's my priorities for the November ballet:
1.) International Affairs
2.) Environment

If we can get a start on these, I imagine the economy & the rest will follow. For instance, re-building ourselves as a country that cares about the world, not just ourselves will open up a better system of flow between countries. It'll mean we change priorities to cleaning up the world rather than fighting it. Hopefully, we can work on getting the troops back home. The environment has huge potential for new technologies, products & jobs that can fight global warming and pollution while also increasing the economy and our position in the world.

As for health care, I think it’s important, but I’m glad I’m not the one trying to figure out how to set it all up. As a small business person, I can’t imagine being mandated to cover someone else’s health care costs; but as someone with a medical condition with $400/month medications, I feel very lucky to have a private insurance plan in place or I’d be uninsured as we speak. Something’s got to give.

The way I figure it, Hillary is the one with the most experience and has a handle on what is needed to get done. I’m hoping she can move us forward into the next decade. If she doesn’t get the nomination, I hope someone will be a strong back up for Obama. We’ve got a lot of make-up work to do and not much time to do it in.

Character Description: Smoke Break

Anti-Wife wrote out some great notes and example of character description. I've been having a mind block on one of my characters lately. I'm writing a jumble of experiences (loose and fictional) and trying thread a homeless person in and out of the book. So I thought I'd give her exercise a try -

Assignment - Write the description of 2 characters with potential for conflict, include internal and external traits. (Maximum 250 words each)


1st Character:
Waxie Peters had a home once. In the heart of Watts, it was styled Chicago gray with a flower garden carefully trimmed. Black proud with a husband and two sons. But when Jimmy was killed on the job, most of her died too. Her sons married, she became discarded trash. She wandered to the streets one day and somehow never turned back. Her life became no better than the heroin needles that killed her mother. So much for conquering – she had become the ghosts of her past. She didn’t even know where she was most days let alone find her way back.

Haunted, she was 73 by calendar but emotionally past 80. She had no idea where to find her sons. She was ready to die. Her mind played tricks, she heard voices of her mother telling her what a stupid bitch she was, and of a little girl begging for forgiveness. She couldn’t help talking back - sometimes crazy loud, other times in fits of tears. People offered her quarters. “I’m not one for pride,” she said. She took what she needed.

Yet she had her pride. The first of the month, she’d cash her SSI and painted her nails red. She made sure her bright golden wig was placed on straight. Her rough brown skin was always made up. But she couldn’t hide the jaundice in her eyes and deep wrinkles carved on her face. They told a story that she wouldn’t admit. Of a life alone.

2nd Character:
Berlin Symes was no beginner. Even though her long blond hair and smooth lavendar skin made her look no older than 18, she was actually mid-thirty and been licensed as a Shrink for a good seven years. True she was yet to be a mother, but her maternal instincts were regularly exercised on two cats, a fiancé and a psych ward of patients. Twenty-two patients to be exact. And Berlin was nothing but exact. Deliberate in movement, she stayed in control. Her voice was level, her presence soft, but she’d cross her T’s and dot her I’s before you could notice otherwise. It was her vaccination for the chaos she had lived as a child. There hadn’t been much order in the house of seven and the casserole-baking-no-boundary community she had finally escaped from.

She barely needed glasses to read, but she wore them anyways, covering her hazel eyes. She had a natural beauty, wore just the faintest touch of makeup, modest clothes and her blouse carefully pressed. She could be intimidating – she kept peers at a distance, but opened her heart for her patients. It might have been the shyness she had carried with her since she was 5 - despite her accomplishments, she felt out of place, like no one could really understand her. Maybe that’s why she drove herself so hard.

Any suggestions or critique are most welcome.....

3WW - writer prompt: girlfriend.slight.imagined

1.) My Husband's Entry:

I honestly think my paranoia began as far back as Jenny. Then Julie. Then my boss Dave... And it only got worse with each new girlfriend or boss... Every look they gave me, every single gesture they made, real or imagined, carried with it some subtle insult or slight.


2.) My Entry:

It wasn’t until much later that she admitted the affair. She told me that I imagined her covert glances, her lapses of attention. But the discomfort I felt in my gut, no matter how slight, told me the truth. Knowing couldn’t keep me from her. I loved her too much. She would always be my girlfriend, even in the arms of another.

Baby Bunk Bed

I was cleaning out my email files and came across this picture. It's my cousin's twins (boy & girl) that were born late last year. I have been so done with babies for years now, ever since my two children were born back to back (15 months apart). I was pregnant and/or breast feeding for 2 straight years. My son learned to walk one month before my daughter was born. I figure I'm about the best advertisement around of the necessity for birth control.

But seeing this ultrasound, for a short second, makes me think "oooooh! How cute." Thankfully, these moments are short lived and I go back to reality.

Love lost on Valentine's Day

Wake up at 6:30
Kids off to School
Adults off to Work
Go, Go, Go all day
Get home 6:00 pm
Dinner, Bath, Bed... Oh shit.

Forgot to do the Valentines cards - 35 per class - which were due this morning. (Thank God I bought them on the fly at Ralph's or we'd be in big doo-doo. 1/2 credit that they were there with me picking them out.)

Everybody out of bed.
Yell bloody murder to get at the dining room table and start writing.
For kindergarten, at least they are practicing writing names, so it's personal. ("Who the hell threw out the list??" as I dump out the kitchen trash.)
First grade "Just write friend, we don't want to sort" come the directions from school.
Who cares which Valentine goes with who, just get it done.
No smudging, double stickering, goofing off....... faster, faster... come on, clock's ticking.
Ahhh, Job's done.
Back to bed, covers on, two hours late, it's going to be a bad morning tomorrow.

What happened to the love? the hearts and doillies? kisses? love? love?

Religious Musings #2

When I think about my early religious experiences, I don’t think about God as much as I think about ritual. Like the hat my Grandmother wore to church, a wide black velvet headband with lace circling around and a flowered pin on top. It covered half of her hair. She wore gloves to match and a sturdy wool dress.

And myself, dressed in a butterscotch dress with black plaid, patten leather shoes and knee socks. My hair hanging neatly in two thick braids.

I remember sitting at the breakfast table before church with the ceramic cow pitcher of milk and glasses of orange juice on the table. Puffed Wheat with teaspoons of sugar. This was the table that had been set before bed that night. Bowls turned over backward on their plates, tea cups, two spoons, a fork and a knife set at each place, ready for the morning. And the starch white sheets that I slept in, the open window next to the bed, blowing the lace curtains as I slept.

I remember walking up the aisle at church and kneeling before the altar, waiting for the wafer and sip of wine. The confusing books that we used, I couldn’t follow - maybe I wasn’t able to read, or even when I was, couldn’t figure out what page was which. I remember darkness, an old New England stone church with poor lighting and musk in the air. I don’t remember what was said but I remember leaving, the foyer with large stain glass windows from ceiling to floor, cascading rainbows and sunlight as I walked out the doors, holding Grandma’s hand, and down the steps. We’d go back home and wait for my parents and siblings.

I remember the Sunday dinner, roast beef with mashed potatoes and peas. She sprinkled paprika on top of a butter pad which melted a hole in the mountain before we even sat down. Grandpa would stand at the head of the table with his electric carving knife and proudly pass around plates. If there were a lot of people, we’d sit at the kid’s table. But mostly it was just us, so adding a leaf to the table sufficed. That was a big deal, adding the leaf and taking it off at the end of the meal. One of the many rituals that made up the day.

Then we’d be on our own. Usually I’d be in the office with an old can, faded brown paint and black lettering. There’d be broken crayons and pencils in there. I could sit at the roll top desk and black seat and draw. The seat was wooden, and spiraled, I liked to spin around, make it go up and down. Sometimes my brother would join me, and we’d lay stomach down, on the floor making pictures. Or we’d go to the enclosed porch, painted lime green from head to toe. We’d sit on the metal glider, looking out the screens at the street. I can still hear the squeak as we rocked back and forth.

Sometimes I’d go back through the glass doors into the house and up the steep staircase. In the guest room, I’d look out at the other city houses, connected by clothes lines. In the sewing area, I’d play around in my grandmother’s trinkets. She had dozens of cans, boxes and jars filled up with old buttons and other sewing things. It was fun to just sort or play with.

There was a tiny attic just outside that room, the door was shaped like a triangle and I’d have to hunch down to get inside. We’d hide in there, looking at old boxes, some filled with books and my mother’s toys. No one would come looking for us, and we’d leave when we were ready.

Eventually, we’d go watch television, the large TV in the living room, usually football and toward seven, Lawrence Welk would come on. That’s when we knew we’d be going home soon. That’s when Sunday was over, the long drive through Cambridge and back to our town, religion and ritual tucked in our pockets like my Grandfather’s handkerchief, waiting until next week to bring out again.

E! Award

I received an award from Anti-Wife and am still in shock! Thank you! I am truly honored. I am pretty new to the blog scene, and have found it to be just what I had been looking for. A wonderful way to share my passion of writing with such talented individuals around the globe. My motivation for writing is continually being reinforced by the support and encouragement I have been given.

I want to express my thanks and appreciation for Anti-Wife. You have been such a great person to know, are full of surprises & such talent. I really appreciate your take on life, buttons, and your ability to make me laugh! Kudos to you!

In return, I am supposed to give this award to 10 others. Here are my picks --
Right back at you, Anti-Wife http://anti-wife.blogspot.com

Christine Eldin (my other twin and unfailing guide)

Word (a very funny lady who is there through thick and thin),

3 Word Wednesday, (my new found inspiration)

Pia (An most eloquent woman with a passionate voice)

Stephen Parrish (A man with so much to say and a big heart in saying it -- not to mention led me to the Kitler Kitty blog of which I thoroughly enjoy.)

Mary Cunningham (A very deserving and talented woman who serves as an inspiration for me to finish the work that I start) http://cynthiasattic.blogspot.com

pjd (A most extraordinary Haiku'ator) http://cornerkick.blogspot.com/

You are all awesome!

PS: I'm a total dork and can't figure out how to create direct links to these blogs. Forgive my failings on the Oscar stage. I'm a horrible presenter. :-) If anyone can enlighten, please oblige.

3WW - writer prompt: bridge.disturbed.still

“Disturbed,” they called her. “Something off kilter in that one,” they whispered when her back was turned. She heard their voices on her walk to the bridge. She’d been there many times before and the water always looked lovely. Sometimes the water meandered slowly and other times, it seemed like a rushing deluge. She imagined her body cold to the touch and just floating away.

Today, the water seemed hard. She could feel the rocks cutting her skin, scarlett bleeding out into the water. She rubbed the eighty-seven scars on her arm. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. The blood would seep down the river, through the veins of the town. No one would see it, but a part of her would be in the water they used to wash their hands. She relaxed at the thought, but her body stayed as still as ice. And then, like a light switch, the voices turned off. She pulled down her sleeve, covering the scars, and walked home.

Ash Wednesday Eve Religious Musing

"You hear the voices, do what they say."

A few months ago, I was driving by a church with this sign on the front (you know, the kind of sign they change from week to week). I have no idea what the intended message this statement has - are they referring to God talking? Saints? Satan? My immediate thought was that a person with auditory hallucinations is going to walk right by this sign, read it, and do something horrible.

I normally would let it go, but you know what I see on inpatient. I decided to immediately call the church instead. I left a message telling them I work with people who hear voices and recommended they remove the sign. I felt like an idiot, but I guess I was doing what my voices were telling me.

Last night on TV, I happened upon some preacher who looked ugly and weird. So of course, I stopped for a moment. He was saying how he had told his parishioners to give over a month's mortgage, and they would have unimaginable blessings. Several months later, a gentleman contacted him and said that after giving the $$ to church, his property skyrocketed. Now he is giving over twice the mortgage on his other house so God can yield even more blessings. Uh, yeah. Sure. Good for this guy (if he exists which I doubt he does). I can imagine a lot of hard working people making and then not being able to overcome that sacrifice, and feeling guilty for not giving more. Why did the preacher have to go with Mortgage? Why not ask for the clothes off our backs?

I'm a Catholic Convert, my kids go to Catholic School. I was raised Born-Again Fanatical Christian, a lot of weird and crossed messages in my house. There's a lot of stories there, believe me. Untapped horizons. I take religion with a grain of salt - take what works, leave the rest. To me, much of it is stories, symbolically giving us direction, and I like the ritual and respect they offer. To give Catholics credit, they pretty much leave you alone - not too much bible thumping.


Sometimes, all I can do is shake my head and say, "What are they thinking?? Do they even know what they are doing?"

Valentine Contest Writer's Prompt

The Society of Children's Writers & Illustrators is hosting a Valentine's Contest. Prizes: Winner to receive 1 year subscription to SCBWI. Runner Up will receive an SCBWI T-Shirt of choice. Entries due Feb 14 for details, check out http://www.scbwi.org/contest.htm

Blind Date: Contest #28 - It was supposed to be the dreamiest Valentine’s Date Ever. And then, you opened the door
and saw… In 50 words or less, set the scene of your Valentine’s Day blind date.

or, if you prefer to draw...

The Anti-Valentine: Contest #25 For some of us, the thought of Valentine’s Day is as appealing as an early morning root canal. The sight of hearts, chocolate and canoodling lovers can be enough to put one in bed for weeks. If only Hallmark had a greeting card to commemorate the Valentine’s Day Scrooge. What would that card look like?

Show us whachagot!

RIP - the Write Way

Rest in Purgatory or Rest in Peace -
Not sure which, but some of my manuscripts are going down. It’s time to clean the old wishing cabinets and put these rejected manuscripts where the sun doesn’t shine. Someone told me at about 12 rejections, one should start thinking it’s the manuscript, not just a fluke. IMO, those twelve submissions would need to be dead on to your target market to be worthy enough to even consider them true rejections. In my case, I’d say most were well chosen enquiries. I’d accept the blanket 12 rejections if it wasn’t for the random happenstance of the one personal letter.

I’ve received three really good personal rejections, each on a separate project. They gave the me (the manuscript) hope to keep on trying. But now I’m starting to think that they were for me (the writer) & not the story itself. So I think it’s time to let go. And keep writing forward............


So let's get serious people. This Kat needs to know... How do you know when a manuscript is ready to RIPeace or RiPergatory?