My Style: Comfortable, Hippie, Flowy, Bohemian, Jewelry-Whore (Whatever. It’s a hyphenate. It counts as one.)
My Looks: Fat, Low Maintenance, T-Rex Arms
My Personality: Laid Back, Friendly, Quirky, Silly
That’s pretty much the nutshell version of me, but I have to admit, this was harder than I would have anticipated.
I’m curious to see what everyone else picked to describe themselves.
Today’s flash fiction piece is inspired by a One Republic song called, If I Lose Myself.
Here’s a link to the video and the lyrics.
Zoë wandered along the familiar stretch of beach ignoring the brightly colored stones and bits of sea glass glittering in the sand. Had this been a normal day, she would have picked them up and shoved them into her pocket. But, nothing about today was normal. In fact, nothing had been normal for a while.
It was low tide, so she walked to the farthest outcropping of rock and began to climb. Usually, she liked the large formation closest to shore. It was the one she and Aidan liked to sit on, when they came down here. A tight ball of pain settled behind her sternum at the thought of her little brother, but she tried to swallow past it.
The rock was slippery beneath her feet. Layers of slimy seaweed clung to the porous surface, but she finally made it to the top, green and black gunk beneath her nails. She thought about picking it out but couldn’t really muster up the energy for it.
There were a lot lot things she couldn’t muster up the energy for lately. In fact, she’d wanted to come out here at low tide for over a week, and this was the first she’d been able to manage it. Hell, it was the first time she gotten out of bed in three days for more than a cup of tea or to go to the bathroom.
She was just so tired. Tired of feeling like a failure. Tired of feeling like she had no one to turn to other than Aidan…but Christ, he was fifteen, he didn’t need her shit fucking up his life, too. Mostly, she was tired of herself. How was she supposed to wade through this when she couldn’t even stand herself?
This stretch of shore was where she came when she wanted to think. She used to tell Aidan that this was the place she could give her problems to the ocean and let them wash away. It was a lot harder when she was the problem.
The wind whipped through her hair, and she could taste salt on her lips. She pulled a tube of strawberry lip balm out of her pocket and smoothed it on. Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she watched the water creep closer, inching up the side of the rock, in waves that rolled harder by the minute. Her shoes were getting wet.
Her phone rang again, and she tugged it out of her pocket. As expected, it was her mom–just like it had been the other four times. She let it go to voicemail. It had been variations on a theme since she’d picked up Zoë from the police station, she doubted the woman had anything new to say now.
You made your bed. Lie in it.
I told you that boy was no good, but you never listen, do you?
Your Dad’s drinking again. I hope you’re happy, now.
When the ringing stopped, she pulled up Aidan’s contact info and texted him the selfie she’d taken of the two of them on the ferris wheel at the street carnival last month and another message that said: I love you.
The water climbed higher, and for a second, she looked behind her, wondering if she could swim for shore. But that would mean she’d still be stuck with herself. No, she was better off giving her problems to the ocean and let it wash her away.
I’m not positive, but I think I’m the only one blogging today. Hopefully, everyone’s schedules will get sorted out and there will be more stories for you in two weeks. 🙂
Okay, so I have to know if this ever happens to any of my other writer peeps. Do you ever have people mention something specific in your work, and you have literally no idea what they’re talking about? Like, it doesn’t even sound remotely familiar?
This happened to me last night in a text convo with my editor.
Editor: BTW, love the added bit with the text near the end.
Me: Ummm…? *whispers* I don’t remember writing that.
Editor: LOLOL It’s in there.
Me: …
Editor: <excerpts passage she’s referencing>
Me:
Editor: LMAO
Me: *rereads the passage* Huh…still not familiar. But…that is pretty good – lol.
Okay, so clear sign I was raised Catholic…I saw the blog topic in our list and was like, wait…indulgences? Are those still a thing?
Then I got a clue and realized, that no…we weren’t talking Papal Indulgences, but normal people ones.
*eyeroll*
Anyway…guilty pleasures and indulgences. Let me think.
Well, at the risk of turning this blog into a therapy session, pretty much anything I do for myself makes me feel mildly guilty to exceedingly guilty, so most things I do for me are an indulgence. Which, yes, I know…not a healthy attitude, but I’m working on it.
But, here’s a list, though it’s by no means complete:
Naps (If I have time to sleep, I have time to do the myriad other things that need doing.)
Books (I can write these off as market research, so marginally less guilt there.)
Nail Polish. (No, I really don’t need another shade of brown, gray, blue, or purple, but sometimes, I buy them anyway.)
Going Out to Eat (I really enjoy not cooking, but I always feel bad about it because I could make it cheaper at home.)
Watching TV & Movies (I love doing it, but I always feel a bit guilty because if I have time to watch stuff, then I have time to work.)
Essential Oil Perfumes (Hey, here’s one I don’t feel guilty about! Progress! I can’t wear regular perfume because my body chemistry makes traditional perfume smell hideous on me. And traditional perfumes give me migraines. So, essential oils to the rescue. I enjoy both smelling nice and not being migraine-y.)
So…basically, the takeaway here is that I have entirely too much guilt in my life and need to take a lesson from Tom Hiddleston. Be sure to check out Jessica’s post. I’m hoping she’ll have a better handle on her guilt.
EDIT: Looks like Gwen and Paige posted, too.
Morning conversation with Corwin…
Corwin: *puts in a Billy Joel CD and immediately skips to only the Good Die Young*
Us: *singing along*
Corwin: You know…now, every time I hear a sax solo in any song, I can’t help but think of that guy from The Lost Boys.
Me: HA!
Corwin: I don’t think anyone needs that much body oil to play the sax.
Me: I don’t think anyone needs that much body oil period.
Corwin: Or chains.
Me: Truth.
Now I have that damn song stuck in my head.
If I had to pick my favorite holiday, it’s got to be Halloween. It, conveniently, happens during my favorite time of the year, too. I love making costumes and dressing up. And, of course, there’s the candy. Even more than the candy, I love roasted pumpkin seeds–and not those weird ones you can buy. Those are just all kinds of wrong.
As long as it’s not too cold, I love handing out candy and seeing the neighborhood kids in their costumes. It’s fun seeing what they come up with. My friend’s six-year old daughter, Freyja, decided that she wants to be Elton John this year. I can’t even begin to tell you how delightful I find that.
I’m kind of bummed that my kids and former daycare are too too big for trick-or-treating. But since costuming is my favorite part, here are a few of them I’ve made over the years.
So…what’s your favorite holiday? Click on Jessica, Gwen, Kellie, Kris, and Paige’s names to find out theirs. I feel like Jessica might celebrate Shark Week like it’s a holiday…
First off, a brief note: Apologies to anyone who tried to read this yesterday when it mistakenly posted. It wasn’t even close to finished. As it turns out, I cannot calendar. But, it’s finished now.
“Oh. My. God.” Andi gaped at me. “You look amazing, Hannah. Totally dead.”
I added a little more black eyeliner under my right eye. “Yeah?”
She clapped her hands together, gleefully. “Oh yeah. Blake is going to shit. Then he’s going to cry like a little baby. Best. Revenge. Ever.”
A twinge of guilt wound around me, but I crushed it. He deserved every bit of humiliation that would follow.
“I hope Madison wets her damn pants,” Andi muttered as she moved behind me to rat out my hair a little more.
If I were being honest with myself, I hoped Madison did, too. On the one hand, I knew I should get over it. It had been weeks since Blake dumped me at the homecoming dance for Madison–leaving me to walk home in the dark. And the cold. And the rain. And, on the other hand, I thought fuck it. They’d get what they had coming to them.
I glanced at the clock–almost seven, and it was already full dark. “What time are you going to pick up Trevor?”
“Seven-thirty. We’re supposed to get Blake and Madison at eight, so I’ll drop you off at the house on the way, and you can get finish getting everything ready.”
I grabbed my hoodie and a blanket and followed her out to her car.
The house where I planned to get back at Blake had been abandoned for decades. It was dank and cold, and the utilities had been shut off years ago. At one time, it was probably beautiful–carved wood, porcelain doorknobs, graceful, almost otherworldly light fixtures.
Now, everything was filthy. Dirt and spray paint covered most of the surfaces and bricks were missing from the fireplace. Empty bottles and broken glass littered the floor and the far corner of what used to be the living room smelled like vomit and old bong water.
It wasn’t the most inviting atmosphere, but it was where kids went to party mostly because it was so far away from town and few other people dared to venture inside. The rumor was, it was haunted by a woman in white. It was said she’d been jilted by her lover and she’d committed suicide in his house while he was marrying another woman at the church in town. With all the stories about this place, I couldn’t think of a better location to get back at my asshole ex-boyfriend.
Earlier, Andi and I had set up infrared cameras we’d borrowed from my brother. He told our parents he was shooting films for his college art courses, but I’m pretty sure he was recording himself having sex. Either way, the cameras were ours for the night. And if everything worked like I hoped it would, Blake would be all over the internet by morning. Now, all I had to do was wait until I saw their headlights, turn on the cameras and scare the fuck out of Blake.
Weirdly, one of the only things in the house that hadn’t been damaged over the years was the wood framed mirror hanging on the wall directly across from the front door. I checked my reflection and adjusted the bodice on my long white gown. One thrift-store find and a whole lot of bleach and even more makeup, and I was the perfect ghost.
Draping the blanket around me, I waited in the alcove in the entryway, holding the remote for the cameras. The plan was that Andi and Trevor would hang behind a bit and Blake and Madison would enter first. As soon as they were in the living room, I’d step out from the alcove and follow them into the house.
Through the broken glass of the windows, headlights bounced around the room as Andi pulled up and parked outside. The lights faded away as she shut off the car, and doors slammed as everyone piled out. As I listened to them approach, I hit “record” and let the blanket slip from my shoulders. I fought the urge to shiver as the room seemed even colder than it had earlier. My nerves were getting the better of me.
“I don’t know about this,” Madison murmured as they approached. “This place looks creepy as as fuck.”
Blake cleared his throat. “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”
“Booze is already in the house,” Andi called from further away. “If you want it, you’re gonna have to man up and go in.”
“Bitch,” Blake muttered.
Nervousness jangled through my body as I waited, listening to the scuffs and thumps of their footsteps on the porch and the creak of the front door being pushed open.
“This place is a dump,” Madison said, disdain heavy in her voice..
“Well…yeah. Abandoned,” Andi answered from the porch. I could practically hear her rolling her eyes out there.
I finally caught sight of Blake and Madison as they moved into the living room. Stepping to the side, I saw their reflection in the mirror across the room, and then mine as I silently followed them deeper into the house.
All of a sudden, a gust of frigid air swirled behind me, winding my skirt around my legs, and I caught sight of a hollow-eyed woman in a white dress with long, stringy dark hair standing next to me. Her image was right next to mine in the mirror. Heart in my throat, I turned to look at her. She swept forward toward Blake and Madison, creating a blast of arctic air that slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind us.
Screaming, Madison and Blake whirled catching sight of me and the woman who was now gliding in circles around them.
“Deceiver,” the woman hissed as she dove toward Blake. Reversing direction, she flung herself at Madison. “Whore.” The two cowered on the floor, crying.
The entire house shook, and I could hear Andi and Trevor banging on the door and twisting the handle. I ran toward the entryway, and yanked on the door handle but it wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t even get it to turn.
The woman appeared in front of me, and I fell back.
“Where do you think you’re going, pretty? This is what you wanted.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this.”
“Oh, but I think you do.” She walked toward me, then into me. My veins filled with ice, and my body was no longer my own. She moved my arms and my legs, directing me to the fireplace. Buried beneath decades worth of trash was an iron fireplace poker and she forced my fingers to close around the metal and drag it out.
My skin sizzled and ached as the iron burned my flesh. I screamed, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t let go of the thing. I couldn’t stop from moving toward Madison and Blake, either. I didn’t want to raise the poker above my head, but I was helpless to do anything else. My body was no longer my own.
I tried to close my eyes as I swung the weapon through the air and connected with the side of Madison’s head. I didn’t want to hear the melon-hollow thunk as metal connected with skin and bone, but it was impossible to not to. It was impossible not to feel the hot spray of blood against my skin, but I desperately wanted that, too.
My body turned toward Blake and his eyes widened. “Hannah! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
The woman in white forced my mouth open. “Hannah’s not here.” The poker raised above my head again, and Blake brought his arms up to block my swing. The iron rod glanced off the top of Blake’s skull. He bobbed drunkenly there for a minute, then his arms dropped limply to his sides. I drew back my arm before shoving sharply forward, the pointy end piercing Blake’s throat and pinning him to the scarred, hardwood floor, blood draining from his body and eyes staring dully at me.
As quickly as the woman in white had entered my body, she left, and I collapsed to the floor, next to Madison’s twitching body, covered in rapidly cooling blood. The front door popped open, and Andi and Trevor stumbled to a stop outside the growing pool of blood.
“Hannah,” Andi whispered. “What did you do?”
Check out the other Woman in White stories – I can’t wait to see what everyone has come up with.
I’ve been busy, busy, busy. It’s amazing what getting rid of a bunch of negativity and stress can do for one’s productivity!
But I wanted to share my shiny new cover for my upcoming release, Out of Sync. It’s the 5th book in my and Jess Jarman’s Bound series, and the lovely Kris Norris made the gorgeous cover. It’ll be out in a few weeks.
Ten years ago, Morgan Weaver walked away from everything he loved—his burgeoning career as a composer, his cello, and his best friend, James. Family obligations and guilt keep him tied to a job he hates, and his dreams have collected even more dust than his instrument.
James Shepherd was left reeling when Morgan abandoned not only their dreams of writing and performing together, but their friendship. James forged on to become an internationally known musician, but he’s always felt Morgan’s loss and has never been able to shake the feeling that he’s responsible for the other man’s choice to leave everything behind.
A simple request from Morgan’s sister brings the men together in a way neither of them expected, and long-denied desire bubbles to the surface overwhelming them both. Knowing it’s only temporary, Morgan finds himself lost in a haze of submission, finally able to experience being at James’ mercy and determined to enjoy it while it lasts. James, however, has other plans and is equally determined to show Morgan he can have all he’s ever wanted—including what they have together.
Excerpt:
James stared at Morgan. His wide gaze kept darting between James’ eyes and his lips, and his expression bordered on desperation and need. It was a much better look than he’d had earlier. He only seen Morgan that defeated one other time, and he refused to let it happen again—not if he could stop it.
He tightened his fingers in Morgan’s silky curls and tugged back his head. Giving Morgan all the time in the world to stop him, James slowly lowered his face, but once he touched Morgan’s lips, he was fucking lost. They parted on a gasp, and James wasn’t sure if it was the need for more air or to speak. All he knew, was that Morgan’s mouth was open, and he was sweeping inside, tasting the smooth sting of scotch and the warmth of the man he’d never stopped wanting.
Morgan’s fingers clenched on James’ arms, but he didn’t push James away. Instead, he just hung on. James slid his other arm around Morgan’s waist, and pulled their hips flush together. The groan that that escaped Morgan’s lips as their hard cocks ground against each other was the most delicious thing James had ever tasted.
Anger and lust slammed together, and he kissed Morgan harder, deeper, walking him backward until his back was against the wall. When he’d come home and found Morgan dozing on the couch with his computer open and empty glass of scotch, he’d lost it. He’d thought he was getting through to the other man—helping to pull him out of his self-imposed corporate prison. But leave him alone for one night, and he was right back fucking to it.
And the way Morgan had snapped back had sent James’ emotions careening everywhere. Pride in the fact that Morgan had stood up for himself. Arousal that mixed weirdly with that pride. Worry for whatever had set him off in the first place, because he knew that as explosively angry as Morgan had been, it hadn’t been directed at James—not all of it anyway. And concern that this man that he cared about was going to continue to trade his happiness for a life of misery and servitude. All of his emotions twisted together until the only action that seemed remotely sensible was to kiss Morgan like he’d been dying to since James had shown up his office less than a week ago.
He trailed his lips down the side of Morgan’s neck, nipping with his teeth, drawing little shudders out of the man. His fingers convulsed on James’ arms, and every little bite drew Morgan’s hips forward in sharp little jerks.
“Jamie,” he breathed. “What are you doing?”
He trailed his lips up to Morgan’s ear then sucked the lobe between his lips and flicked at it with the tip of his tongue before releasing him. “I’m doing what you told me to.”
“What…I—” his sentence ended on a gasp as James raked his teeth over that same bit of flesh.
James drew back a bit so he could look into Morgan’s eyes. His pupils had practically swallowed the warm brown of his irises. He dragged the pad of his thumb across Morgan’s full bottom lip. “You told me to do what I wanted, remember?”
He nodded, somehow managing to appear both desperately aroused and ready to bolt at the same time.
“So that’s what I’m doing.” James chuckled quietly as he tilted his head back and forth as he considered his next words. “Well, maybe not exactly what I want.”
“No?” Morgan’s voice came out rusty, like he rarely spoke.
“Well, you’re not tied up and naked, and I’m not finding out all the pretty shades of pink your arse can turn.”
Morgan’s eyes dilated a little further, and his breath caught, his chest lifting and holding tight against James’.
“Nor is my prick buried balls deep inside you, so…no. I’m not doing quite what I want. Not yet.”
Morgan swallowed thickly. “Oh.”
“But, I’m not going to do any of those things.” James thrust against Morgan, unable to keep his hips still.
Morgan thrust back, clearly needing more than James was giving him. “You’re not?”
James leaned forward and nipped the other man’s lower lip, pulling back slightly before releasing it. “Not yet.”
“When?” the other man choked out.
“Here’s the thing, Morgs…if this is going to make you run from me like it did last time…” His voice cracked a little on that last word as ten years’ worth of guilt choked him. “Make you run from the things that are most important to you, it’s not happening. Not now, not ever.”
Lips slightly parted and gaze hungry, Morgan shook his head, wordlessly.
James sobered. “If all I ever am to you is your friend, I’d rather have that, than tonight…no matter how fucking hot I know it would be.”
Morgan met his gaze and James couldn’t look away if he wanted to.
“I’m not looking to pick out china patterns with you—you don’t need to worry about that,” James rushed to say. “But no matter how hard I want to make you come…no matter how badly I want to feel your mouth around my cock, I’m not willing to be the cause of not seeing you again for another ten years.”
Morgan fisted the front of James’ shirt. “When’d you get so fucking noble?” Without waiting for an answer, he yanked James forward and captured his lips, pushing inside and taking his mouth as thoroughly as James had claimed his moments before.
There are some days that there isn’t nearly enough caffeine in the world for me to deal with my son Corwin’s relentless morning person personality.
Today is one of those days.
Me: *guzzles coffee and drives in bleary silence toward the school*
Corwin: Speaking of dick jokes…
Me: *blinks*
Me: *blinks some more*
Me: But…we weren’t…
Corwin: We are now!
This is the one I have.
I’ve always wanted an antique typewriter like this. But I feel like if I had one, this is how it would look 98.5% of the time.
But, anyway, now that I’ve distracted you with that cute picture, I’m going to say something that’s going to be rather unpopular.
I don’t believe writer’s block exists. I don’t believe that there’s a muse out there whispering in your ear, helping you plot your story or urging you to finish. Sure, it’s a lovely, romantic idea, but it’s bullshit. There’s no outside entity that allows or prevents you from writing.
For all of you out there who are struggling with finishing your books, or your papers, or your blog posts, or hell, even your grocery lists, and are currently flipping me off, hear me out.
If you’re really attached to the idea of a muse, consider this: You’re your own muse.
I’m my own muse.
I might joke and say Hugh Dancy (Hannibal style) is my muse, but obviously, he’s not. I may find him inspiring, but that’s a whole ‘nother post.
Are there some days when the words come easier than others? Absolutely.
Are there days you can’t write no matter how hard you try because you keep getting cock-blocked by life? Oh, yeah.
There are lots of way life can cock-block you: being at the mercy of other people’s schedules, being at the mercy of your own schedule, stress, anxiety, crippling self-doubt, overthinking, second-guessing yourself, sickness, grief, ADD, depression, kids, significant others–you get the picture.
Then there’s the self-inflicted cock-blocking of the internet, Netflix, books, craft projects, Facebook and Twitter, and, god help me, Tumblr.
And all of those things–even the positive ones take up valuable, mental real estate. If your brain’s main focus is one or more of those things (or anything not related to your story) it can be exceedingly difficult to find your flow and put words on the page. Somedays, it’s downright impossible.
However, there is hope.
Remember that thing about you being your own muse? Well, it’s true. You may not have the power to control other people, life events, or your mental state. But you can do things that can help facilitate writing–or at least free up some head space for it.
1.) Eliminate as many outside distractions as you can during your scheduled writing time–all the little things that pull you away from your story. Or that make it easy to be pulled away.
a.) Turn off your phone or silence your texts tones. 98% of those calls and messages will keep.
b.) Turn off your wifi. If you need to look up something in your story, make a note and come back to it later.
c.) Ask the people in your house to cooperate and leave you be. If this doesn’t work, go elsewhere and get your word count in.
2.) Actually make time to write and stick to it. Okay, so you’re not a write everyday kind of person, that’s cool. But you need to sit down and work on your story on a regular basis to finish the damn thing. Make dates with your characters and keep them.
3.) Use writing prompts. Let’s say your scene is stalled, find a writing prompt to get you writing anything about your characters–whether it has to do with the plot line or not. Here are a few that a very cursory search of Pinterest turned up.
“I’m only telling you this because you won’t be able to tell anyone else.”
“There are at least seventeen ways this could have gone better. Literally. Like, I’m counting them right now, you moron.”
“That is a terrible, horrible, incredibly foolish idea. Let’s do it and see what happens.”
“I don’t like salad or eye contact.”
“Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture.”
“This would be a lot easier at night time.”
“That’s the closest I’ve ever come to a heart attack. Let’s never do that again.”
Or, to save you from the siren song that is Pinterest and/or the rest of the internet, grab a book open it to a random page, chose a line of dialogue or narrative, type it into your manuscript and go from there. Obviously, if this scene finds its way into your story, you’re not going to be able to keep that line, but the idea is to get you writing again.(Be sure to mark it by bolding or using a different color text so you can remove it more easily.) Even if this scene doesn’t remain in your book, it still got you moving, and the action of writing has the lovely side effect of jumpstarting more usable thoughts that you will be able to incorporate and keep.
4.) Don’t stop writing because you feel like what you’re writing blows. Parts of it might, but there are also parts that are salvageable. Blank pages will still be blank at the end of the day. Shitty pages can be transformed into something awesome.
5.) Phone a friend. Brainstorm. Make notes. Talk it out. This is honestly one of the things I find most helpful. Talking about the point in the story where I’m feeling stuck, often shakes my brain loose or my friend will say something helpful that shakes my brain loose and I’m back in business.
6.) Offer yourself a reward. If I get 1000 words, I get X. (Cup of elaborate coffee, cookie, five minutes on Tumblr (set your timer, though!) an episode of your favorite show, etc.
7.) Play Frogger. No…not that horrible, annoying video game. If this part of the story isn’t working for you, jump to a different part and write that. Connect the dots later.
8.) Write something stupid, over and over and over and over. This is advice I once got from Jenny Trout. She told me that when she would get stuck, she’d type the phrase: ugly yellow tube socks over and over and over until her brain finally got sick of it and wanted to write something else. She might end up with pages of: ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks ugly yellow tube socks
But eventually, she’d come up with something else. I think the trick here is that if you type something over and over for a long enough period of time, your brain will be all, “Fine! I’ll help you come up with something else. JFC, just stop typing ugly yellow tube socks, already!”
9.) Push through it. Give yourself permission to write shit. The shittiest shit that ever shitted. Just keep going, because eventually your brain will catch up with you and your story and you’ll be back where you want to be.
I think that’s about it from me tonight. But be sure to check out Jessica and Kellie’s suggestions. They’ve always got good stuff. Because They’re awesome.