I turn forty in June. Science has yet to develop a way I might miss this deadline. Well…I could die. Let’s hope not. This is also not the deadline you were looking for (cue Jedi hands).
Forty got me thinking about all those things left I might regret on my death bed: A trip across the pond (the big one…either one…I’m leaning towards Atlantic) and publishing a book.
That’s kind of a short list. Does this mean something?
Anyway, with that in mind I set about making yet another deadline for myself: Finish editing by April 30th. If I do that I can hand it over to an editor and be prepared to publish in June. This time I didn’t tell anyone. Why torture myself more? I’m not as masochistic as I used to be…or maybe I am. It could have been a strange twisted need….psychological introspection.
The point of this post is its April 20th and I’m done. So…no more setting deadlines in public. I contacted an editor. I submitted my manuscript to a publishing company that requested it a while back. This is all pretty much a done deal.
I keep vacillating between “meh, whatever” and “OHMYFUCKINGGODDESSWHATAMIDOING?!” (because anxiety).
If Entangled refuses it (pretty certain they will) I will self publish in July. Why waste however much time on rejection from publishers when I can get it from the whole world all at once. ::grin:: So brace yourselves:
Tonight is…moonshine and Diablo 3.
I have this idea. A girl, about 13, sits down on a park bench to start drawing. She looks to her right and finds a tiny notebook. Being a kid more curious than wary she picks it up. Inside is a strange series of scratches in a multitude of colors of dipped ink. To almost anyone in the world it would only be random doodles, but to this special little girl it’s a map to an extraordinary place.
In another world, closer to this one than you think, a little gray kitty with orange eyes named Elet ransacks her room glimmering in candlelight searching for something she lost. It is something of unbelievable importance. She reassures herself that it’s fine. It’s here and if it’s not then it’s somewhere no one can read it. Little does she know her mistake is about to make two worlds collide.
I’m basing the characters off my daughter and my cats. My daughter will love it. Not sure if it will go anywhere. The ideas are still very much in their infant stage. I can only say this about this new idea:
And now for something completely different!
But hey, maybe that’s what I need…something different. Life keeps feeling like dead ends lately. I changed my dating pool – ten plus years younger to almost 30 years older – and it worked. Maybe getting away from more adult lean in my writing will finally help me find my muse? Who knows? I’ll just have to wait and see.
I remember a little way into my first year at college in 1996 I wanted to go home so I pack my shit up and I went. I want to now so bad today, but there isn’t one to go to. I don’t think there was back then either, but at least I didn’t have to worry about bills and grades. Life as a teen wasn’t so bad, but there was always an underlying dark yuck that followed me everywhere I was. Seems it still follows me. Everything is an almost…well almost everything. What do I have now?
- A wonderful healthy daughter
- A full belly
- A full tank of gas
- Rent will be paid next month at least
- A Car I love
- A man I love even if I haven’t told him that full out yet
- Friends that I love and love me
Life is good even if it isn’t perfect. One thing someone with a rough past can almost always say is that things have been worse. And if you are sitting where I’m sitting now you can say they tend to get better.
Home isn’t where the heart is or where you fall back to when you have no place to left fall. It may be for some people, and I guess home is something a little different for everyone, but for me home is where you make it. Just some days it’s a little harder to make than others, but that’s why I’m the Battle Raven.
I’m cheating. Season 12 of Diablo 3 came out and I’ve been enjoying my “free” time there. So I slacked on writing. You get a story I wrote a while ago. This story involves consensual non-consent. Sometimes that means what I have with my boyfriend: he can do anything he wants to me any time without discussing it first. I can ALWAYS call “red”, but it would take a lot. We have this arrangement because I trust him in a way I’ve never trusted anyone before. In the case of the following story it is what some might call fulfilling a rape fantasy. I don’t like calling it that because its not rape….consent is involved (red will always stop a scenario no matter what) even if it walks a fine edge. If this isn’t your thing move on. If it is….enjoy.
“They” say that the witching hour is 3am. Or maybe it was midnight. I don’t know. Hollywood and wild imaginings have mucked it up a bit. My hollow bones disagree.
The witching hour is maybe a moment when magic is easiest to summon. It may be the moment when monsters are most likely to roam. Regardless of how it manifests it is always a moment “between”.
There is a veil that protects us from the between. Most people never even know it’s there. They move through this world as if it is the only one. Some people can hear or even see through it. A few can cross it. Me? I just know it’s there.
I can feel it when the sun dies daily leaving only the strangeness of twilight. I know it in the moments before I lose the last vestiges of a dream. I am positive I’ll find it as I move from life to death so death doesn’t scare me.
I think a part of me exists on the other side of the veil. I think that’s why crows call to me and why I don’t quite feel I belong here. Maybe at one time I was a messenger between gods and men. Or maybe a guide from this world to the next. I wonder why I came here sometimes. There must be a reason. The places my mind wanders…
I was walking through the renfair campgrounds in nothing but a tutu, fishnet stockings and pirate boots. Let’s start with: there’s a situation I never really thought I’d be in. I’m proud to say alcohol was not involved.
So there I was in my little outfit. I will now add I had a simple paint job, including glitter and jewels, across my boobs. On the way back to camp some chick stopped me with “oh my god that’s just paint”. She then proceeded to caller friends back to gawk. Drunk? She didn’t seem it. Seriously she was a girl. I’m sure she’d seen boobs before.
At some point she realized she was being an ass and said she found me impressive. Ok…I guess. It will be a story that makes me giggle until I die though. Not only does her odd reaction make me laugh, but I get to look back and say “yeah…I did that.”
My first thought was to talk about consent with a nod towards the difference between kink and sex which would foreshadow a future post. Then I was going to mention the hardest thing I ever had to except about myself; understanding that actually liking some of the twisted shit that happened to me as a kid does not make it OK for my abusers to have done it. But there…I said it…it doesn’t need a whole post. I realize now that I’m obsessed with sex. Well, I always knew that, but I’m getting older so “rediscovering” things happens a little more often.
Nope…what I’m going to talk about is the fact that I have this huge festival this weekend and I have no clue how I’m going to write at 6:30 every night. You may get shit like:
I am so drunk it took me at least 20 minutes to fall into that ditch. And have you seen my shirt?
I have spell check on my phone.
But Piratefest isn’t about drinking…it just happens. It’s actually the gathering of a few close friends that’s blossomed over the last 20 years into a small city temporarily growing in the parking rows of the campgrounds of the Texas Renaissance Festival. It’s pretty amazing. Don’t think of dusty streets, bad costumes and vendors hocking last week’s turkey legs for the cost of a sit down dinner. Imagine, instead, a group of ships moored off a deserted island with so many long boats pushed onto the shore you almost mistake them for a strange brown capped wave. Beyond that are flags and fires and tents that line a road in the sand leading to a make shift bar. There are drums and guitars and some salty bastard commandeered a violin from somewhere. We don’t ask and we most certainly don’t judge. We sing.We tell stories. We sample the spoils of our fellow crews, and revel in the friends we’ve kept along with the friends we’ve made over the last year. There’s a bittersweet scent among the smells of spitted meat and fine rum because we know it will end far to soon. All truly wonderful things have that pall, but we wouldn’t trade it for anything. So heave ho and hoist the colors high my friends, for never shall we die.
It’s been interesting here on the gulf coast reminding us that you never know what to expect out of life. I certainly never expected to wade out of my apartment with two cats and my computer hard drive on my shoulder, but that happened. Thankfully I came back to most everything. I wish everyone had been as lucky. I did get to see the human heart at its finest in the last few weeks however. I know Houston was hit hard, but there’s a little city called Dickinson just up the road from me that was nearly wiped out. My heart aches for them and everyone rebuilding after this disaster.
Now for something a little…tastier. I said I was going to do this every Friday and I meant it.
Exhibitionism is a desire to either be watched or get caught in a sexual act. It’s a fun fetish that is easily indulged.
In a fit of boredom Kayla followed her friend to a swingers club only to find herself immediately regretting it. Sex with random strangers in public was definitely not her scene. That was until she came face to face with a stranger named Jack and his is ocean blue eyes tempting her to step into his world.
She held her pieces in her hands
The way that only broken can
Looking up with pleading eyes
“Help me make it through the night”
When the last one broke her tether
She put herself back together
Looking in with beauty bold
She painted in the cracks with gold
Learning not to be afraid
Understanding what life has made
She holds herself in her hands
And no one needs to understand