Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Functional albeit Crazy

I've never been shy about admitting my short comings. I'll make fun of myself probably more than I should. I think everyone should have a healthy dose of self-deprecation, it makes for interesting conversations.

Over the years I'd like to think I've fine tuned this whole writing business. What once took four years I cut down to less than two. Occasionally a particularly hard finish might take me longer. Enter Released. Holy smelly crap Batman I started that SOB I don't know three years ago...maybe longer. Sad sad

<----(Just call me Ahab, this bitch was my white whale.)

Surprisingly, and without jinxing it, I have started the hopefully not near as long process of finishing the story. I can't exactly say what went wrong with it. Another book stole my interest. I didn't know how to fill in the story even though I knew how it would end. It's kind of a conundrum. Released just wouldn't give me a break. Yesterday I wrote something I feel is both fitting and awesome. Not to toot my own horn but after a book gives you the hell that it did, finally writing something good is the best damn high I've ever freaking had.

Strangely enough, this writing wasn't done in the wee hours of the evening. It wasn't written in the early hours of the morning. It was written in the middle of the day when a grown person should be working, and strangely enough without pushing super hard and finding the right pace. I've lost some bad habits, and that my friends is a beautiful thing.

The Wild Hunt was almost entirely written at three in the morning. Every day for years. I used to have the absolute worst sleeping habits. It's still not fabulous, but I don't do that crap anymore thank God! So I guess what I'm trying to say is that finally, at the ripe middle young, not super old age of 33 I have learned to be functional albeit crazy.


Wednesday, March 2, 2016

You can never go home again..

Slowly, like a small pitiful first bloom, the need to read and write is coming back to me. Idea's are plentiful, they usually are. I watch a movie, read a blob, anything really can find me and an idea is born. I'll think about zombies, usually around the time an episode of The Walking dead is on, and I'll want to write a story from their perspective. I'll think about the twisted way humans punish each other and themselves. The way hate breeds and love dies.

Maybe it's spring, the changing of the seasons the fact that the sun continues to shine. I feel hopeful, like in the near future I'll actually write something good. Today I came across a story about a girl I went to High School with. Though it happened years ago, and I remember when it was a hot-topic, somehow today of all day's it resonated with me. I think of where I grew up with a mixture of bittersweet memories. I had friends I loved, churches, activities. There were many community programs, dinners at the elks, football games on Friday's. Fireworks, hot air balloons. Every season had it's activities. Homecoming floats downtown, the Christmas parade in the winter. Easter egg hunts, Prom. The Horned Toad Derby. Camp Yeager. I both love and hate where I come from.

I think that's probably how it is for everyone. We love some things and hate the others. Parts are tainted by pain and hate, while others are filled with the colorful wonder of childhood. Though I have a common story, something smaller in comparison. I know where she was coming from. I felt that bitter sting of judgement and the sharp tongues of gossipmongers who had nothing better to do. So I get it. She was a year behind me. A sweet beautiful girl. Someone who struggled more than she should. I remember in particular that we had Lab Bio together. A subject I loved. A teacher I would never speak ill of, but teenager's however, can be assholes. The town I grew up in, or I should say we grew up in was small.

Small towns make for hateful breeding grounds. Every dirty secret, every bad decision, every lie, every curse (mine a wild older sibling) follows you. There is no rebirth, no second chances. You make your decisions and that's it, if you're lucky you have friends. If you're exceptionally lucky you have more than one. I myself had many. Not all of them were close friends, I grazed, rotated daily, and was a free wanderer. I had a few close friends, but mostly I roamed. This was an acquired notion one that I learned because of my own bad experiences.

When I was fifteen, I lost my virginity. My choices though not broadcasted in the very public way hers were, were still picked apart. Everyone knew what I had done. Not because people generally discuss the sexual escapades of a teenager, though it happens in small towns. Not because I became the statistical calamity that is teenage pregnancy. My escapades were broadcasted because my father, not altogether a sane man, decided to press charges.

My boyfriend at the time was older. An eighteen year old senior to my fifteen year old freshman self. He wasn't a dirty old man, or some disgusting pedaphile. He was a teenage boy, dating a teenage girl. This is not uncommon. High school boys dating high school girls, in fact you could say that this particular scenario is as old as time. Boy meets girl, hormones explode, people get naked. I don't regret my decisions. I loved him, but what my father did, in a small town, was like throwing dynamite into my social life.

He pressed charges. Statutory Rape.

It didn't matter that I was a more than willing participant. It didn't matter that I a hormone raging female wanted to have sex with the ferocity of a starving animal. It didn't matter that I was the one who initiated the act. My father blew up this guys life.

Needless to say the whole town was talking. People I didn't even know suddenly knew my name. I was instantly the town slut. A whore, it got so bad that the boy I had been dating, his older sister started stalking me. I had packs of girls following me home and chanting whore all the way there. I had girls standing outside my house yelling profanity's. Once, while at the local Dairy Queen, this boys sister yelled at me in the parking lot, told me I needed to learn to keep my legs shut, my older sister, laughed in her face. Said that I was just a kid, and she the older sister of this older boy should know better.

I was heartbroken. Humiliated. What was supposed to be an act of love, became a circus. I had to undergo a rape kit.

This in and of itself is demeaning. I stood buck naked in a room full of people and was made to spread myself and allow a black light to check my skin. I was fifteen. Barely familiar with sex, and raped for real that day, by the nurses, and police officers who thought they were doing the right thing. I don't think I was old enough to be having sex, but I don't think what they did was the answer. What they did to him....a trial, jail, probation. It wasn't right. Sure he was older, and legally an adult, but really when I look back he was just as much a kid as I was. He didn't deserve it.

Years later, as I lost friends, and rebuilt my life. I found out why the other kids at school were so upset with me. Though the girls were just, as if not more sexually active as I was, I was being punished for one reason...I got caught. When I was a senior, my boyfriend at the time told me something truly disturbing. He was a college student, going to the local community college, and he told me that his Professor, a grown man, with a college education. A man that taught others for a living, told my boyfriend, that I was a slut.

This was three years later. Three years. I had sex with one boy, and yet I was a slut. A grown man said this, a man I didn't even know. My boyfriend of course asked me about it, wondering why his college professor said that I wasn't worth the trouble.

The reason I bring this up, the reason I'm even delving back into these memories is for her. She wrote a blog, not unlike this one, about our hometown. A place I left as fast as humanly possible. It is tainted. By idleness, by jealousy's and gossip. By people that are old enough to know better but don't care. They ignore their better judgement and continue on. It is small, ignorant, and I am ashamed. I don't return, just as I am sure she will never return.

People in small towns aren't bad per say, but the smallness of it, makes everything to them seem big. So when she wrote her blog, and it circulated, and they behaved badly. Well all I can really say is that I'm not surprised. People will go on living small, and talking big, and other people will be hurt by it. The best thing I got from that town was my adaptability. Those hard few years of high school taught me how to live. I stopped caring what they thought and ignored the bullies, even the grown up ones, and learned to be myself.

I learned to not take it all so seriously and just exist, in a moment, in a minute, in the future I would someday have. Getting out was beautiful, but staying, fighting, living through it, was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. So I thank the asshole professor who told my high school boyfriend I was a whore, I thank my first's older sister who told me to keep my legs shut, I thank the teachers who scowled and shook their heads, the girls who looked away when boys taunted me, and the friends who remained without judgement, I thank the police on campus who actually cared, and made me feel minimally safe on campus, but could do nothing once I had to walk home. I thank them, because without them I wouldn't be the thick skinned, bad ass that I am now. Pick on someone who gives a shit why don't you. I really hoped that once I left things would change.

Oh Coalinga, you are still a freaking asshole, but for some reason I still love you. You could say its one of those ugly love-hate relationships. I wouldn't change it, but that doesn't mean it should stay the same.


Thursday, February 4, 2016


I'm blocking myself.

I haven't sat down and read a novel in months.

I don't know what's wrong with me other than the usual health scare life altering changes going on in my life. I'm so focused on my health I'm forgetting everything else. I have tunnel vision. I see my goal, I watch the scale go down. See my body changing for the better. See my doctor smile with my progress and the level of my blood pressure, and it is the only thing that occupies my mind and time.

I know I can multi task. I know I can read while I'm on the treadmill, listen to books on tape as I ride my bike. However, the desire to do these things is gone. I get on my treadmill and lose myself in the crazy wash of Netflix bingeing and old reruns. I focus on clean eating and squeezing in just a few more steps before my day is over.

It's frustrating to be so consumed. But it's for the best, for a little while anyway. Sometimes I wonder if my life-altering moment changed more than just my outlook on health. Has my desire to write been stamped out as well. Has my life changed so drastically that my one true love of writing is gone?

I wish I knew the answers...

So I'll keep taking my steps, count my calories, eat my whole clean foods, and wait, for the desire to write, for the desire for anything other than my health to take over. If it doesn't, I might start looking in a new direction. Maybe I'll write healthy cookbooks. Write about the things I struggled to find, like eating with less sodium in a country that over salts everything. I can't even eat a normal meal out without going over my daily guidelines. A salad at Applebee's barely squeaks by with 1400 mg of sodium. That is over half of what I get for the entire day. In. A. Salad.

I'm worried about us as a nation. All those extra calories, all the poisons inside the soft drinks that every restaurant supplies. What ever happened to just water. I can remember when the tiny town I grew up in didn't even have a fast food restaurant. Sad how things change and warp so quickly. How we kill ourselves in the name of convenience. Expanding waistlines, and God only knows what its doing to us chemically. The additives and growth hormones fucking with our brains ability to think, to maintain our biological clock.

I wish I could feel the urge to write it all down. To make a story. But I feel nothing but the pull to take another walk. To bundle up in warm clothes and ride my bike with Ben Howard blaring through my ear buds. I need to create. I need to find that desire that burns so bright it doesn't allow to me sleep. Where are you muse? Find me, I need to write, I need it even if the desire to do it is gone.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Another One Bites the Dust....

Another Year....that is. It's gone. It packed up and is on its way out. The taxi is waiting. The plane ticket is in its greedy little hand. What a year.

It has been EPIC. Crazy. Insane, fucked up and immeasurable. I have no idea how I survived. Seriously. I spent almost a week in the hospital. I am lucky to be alive. Life is a crazy twisted mess of more fucking crazy.

I thought I was going to die.

The pressure in my veins. The fear in my heart. The pain. The dizziness. I thought I was going to die.

I didn't. FYI, no shit. I wouldn't be typing this otherwise. I'm alive. I never thought I'd have this little lesson so early in my life. I am thirty two years old. I am not old enough to die, though people have gone before me, younger, brighter, more full of the stuff that makes us burn out fast and in a blaze of glory.

I am alive.

I haven't written a word in months. I've been focusing on my health. Eating better, working out at least four days a week. Changing my life. De-stressing. Living in the moment. Thanking God and the powers that be that I'm still here in this moment. I've had some scary scrapes. Preeclampsia with my first son. Blood Pressure so high it's amazing I didn't have a stroke. I didn't think it would affect me long-term.

I didn't think.

I hate going to the doctor. Not only does it take time, and I hold time like a bandit with just hours to live...it takes money. Something of which I am even more obsessed and careful with. You have to be when you are living on scraps from writing and your wonderful husbands income. I have long thought of returning to the world of Health Insurance, but just the thought breaks me out in hives. I will make something of my writing or go back to school, I will not sludge through the horrible Insurance world ever again. Never.

So I don't go to the Doctor on what you might call a regular basis. Every two years maybe. Less often probably. If I'm dying well then don't call the ambulance drive like the devil because if I live through this shit, I will not pay thousands for a car ride. I am stubborn to say the least. A towering wall of immovability if you ask my husband. I don't budge.

I had a toothache. A bad, horrible, killing my face toothache. It had moved up my face and into my ear. I went to the Dentist, kicking and screaming, paid my copay begrudgingly. Waited...waited...and waited in the waiting room where every second made me twitchier and more annoyed. Fifty bucks to sit FOREVER...I hated every moment. By the time they called me back I was practically vibrating with anger. I didn't want to be there. I wanted to go home to die in agony in a place I loved.

She took my blood pressure.


You could have a heart attack!


You could also have a stroke.

What the fuck?

I in an already frightened pain ridden state panicked. I might have jumped from the seat and needed to be peeled from the ceiling.

It didn't make sense. My blood pressure was insanely high. Stroke possible high. So high that when in labor and pre-eclampsic I had an EMERGENCY C-section.

Of course this high-blood pressure business meant my root-canal would be postponed, because the Dentist was uncomfortable working on someone with so high of blood pressure.

I left in a cloud of denial...and pain...and extreme fear buried somewhere deep.

I didn't tell my husband everything of course because it frightened me. The next day...I dragged myself to the Doctor, who suggested I go to the emergency room.

Now I will say that when going to the ER, it is convenient, (terrifying), to have extremely high blood pressure. All these fancy machines start flashing and making noise and you are whisked away to a private room and covered with goopy sticky monitors that make sure you aren't having a heart attack. They draw your blood and bam you've been in the waiting room long enough to sit in a chair. It's fantastic, (albeit terrifying), service.

Later they ask a thousand questions, and poke you everywhere. Have you take chest x-rays and start taking Nitro Glycerin. Until a doctor comes by to explain that you are not in fact having a heart attack or stroke but you have scary blood pressure and you should see your doctor tomorrow.

Upon seeing said doctor, blood pressure is still scary high, and you go into the ER again later that night to do it all over again except this time you had a bad reaction to the diuretics and anti anxiety meds which surprisingly make you more fucking anxious so you spend five fucking days getting poked, prodded, stress tested, Cat Scanned, Angiogramed, and every other horrible damn test you can think of and go home so damn happy to be alive that working, writing, is the last freaking thing on your mind.

So yeah....that happened. And I'm taking a sabbatical so to speak to concentrate on said health and blood pressure until I'm sure I'm going to be ok.

I feel better just typing that all out. I still can't believe it.

Friday, August 28, 2015

The Ultimate BLOCK

I've hit a wall.

It's been there for a while. Constructing slowly. Block after heavy block. It rises and I fall. Further from the dream...from the place where I want to be. I can't complain really. I have written and published five novels. I have ideas for countless more. But somewhere along the way I lost my passion. It grew dimmer slowly. Like all things time was the bandit. It crept by slowly. Whittling away. Tick tock. Second by Second.

There was a time when I promised myself I'd be published by thirty. Here I am thirty two years old, and I am published, but selfly. It isn't the same for some reason. I tell my children I'm an author but I rarely feel it in the words as they spill from my lips. I feel like a liar as I say them. Yes I'm a writer, but I've yet to meet my success. I spent thousands on advertising. Even more on needless things. Bookmarks, swag packs, wasted money. Wasted opportunity. I'm not sure where I lost my way. Back in the beginning. After the numbers didn't rise.

I've given away hundreds of books, a lot of which I paid for. Where has it gotten me? Do I have more reviews on Amazon? After a while I stopped caring. I bled myself dry and threw my work out into the huge space of the internet. Where it was lost. Where no one cared...and slowly that wall started growing. Where do I go from here?

Do I give up...continue to tell the lie that I'm a writer. Many before me who were far more talented toiled without recognition. Plenty were unknown until they were gone. As any artist goes I may never be a great one. But in the beginning that isn't why I wrote down my stories. I wrote because my dreams and nightmares spilled across the pages. I couldn't stop typing. I was alive in my world of self constructed towers of words. I loved it. I loved every moment of creating my multi-faceted complicated heroin's. I loved the way words could build new worlds. Painting pictures with each push of the keyboard.

Creating something from nothing. I lost that drive in the race for recognition and glory. And somehow from the ups and downs I've found my way back. It was in the writing of another author that I woke up and remembered why I'd started this all to begin with. It wasn't fame and fortune. I wrote because I could, because above anything else it was what I wanted to do. My dream job.

I took it for granted...but I'm back bitches!!!

I feel it coiling up inside me like a tidal wave long forgotten. It builds and boils up in frothy waves. I want to create, I want to bleed out upon the pages. I want to rip my heart to shreds and weave it into first sentences my fingers aren't fast enough to type. I want to weep my soul into my words until I'm left empty and spent, like a lover after a long marathon of crazy fucking sex. I want that wonderful release I can only get from writing.

I was dead for a while. Stuck in the crypt I built for myself. It isn't about fame and glory. It's about the words. The world, the wonderful fucked up awesomeness that is writing.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Being a grown up...

We all want something...love, a home, a family and friends, a good job. The list goes on and on.

I want my innocence back. I want that moment where I realized how fucked up the world is switched off like a light so I can go to sleep at night without thinking about the women in other countries who are being raped and murdered simply because they are female and weak. I want to enjoy this short time on Earth without seeing what everyone else pretends doesn't exist. I want to drive away from my kids school and not see some guy walking his dog and ultimately think...predator. I want to see the good again.

I want back my rose colored glasses.

All of us suffer from some pain at the loss of our innocence. Divorce, death, bullying, lost love, and the unrequited. We all have that moment where we realize our last shred of innocence has died.

I remember mine. I was twenty one. In love with the man that eventually became my first husband. Not long into our relationship something significant happened...we moved in together...got engaged...ended up pregnant. Before my twenty second birthday I was married and a mother for the first time. I was a baby still. So foolish...so prideful. I didn't think anything bad could ever happen to me.

While I was pregnant and he worked late...I didn't ultimately think he was screwing his co-worker in the break room. I didn't think those late night inventories were code for booty calls. I was a child having a child. I was inexperienced. A small town girl living in a much larger city. I was naïve...still so innocent.

Later I found out the truth. Not only was he a cheater during my pregnancy...but it was worse. A family secret...inched it's way out sometime during the whirl wind of our relationship. That reason he had to go to the Police Department and register...wasn't for assault and running away. No one get's a felony for pushing down his sister.

I was naïve.

I should have known better. I can hit myself all day with the things I didn't see. I wish I were smarter....more world wise. Less ridiculous. I believed him when he told me why he had to register. I believed him when he told me he had to work late. I believed those lies because I wanted to see the best in him....the way I wanted to see the world through that beautiful pink colored hue.

It was an accident that I found out the truth. I wasn't smart enough to dig for it on my own. I was not who I am now. It was fate really...or God trying to give me a heads up. If I'd only listened...

It was not assault in the way I thought...but it was assault...he didn't lie completely. It was his mother who erroneously told me what was really happening. She asked me if I knew about why he had to register in California. I told her that yes he had told me the truth. She tried to lighten the blow by saying that she thinks it started as a misunderstanding...that his sister had lied about it being unconsensual...it was that word that made me realize that something wasn't right. I wish I could slap the girl of then with the reality of her situation.

His mother thought it was initially consensual. A massage that got out of hand. Two horny teenagers who didn't quite realize what they were doing. Self-exploration. Whatever. All I could do was run the word assault around in my mind. Redefine it. I thought assault meant injury. A punch, a push, a broken nose. Violence of the angry kind. Not sex. Not Incest. Never in my mind had the thought of him fucking his sister entered into my idea of what assault meant.

I didn't see the ugly in the explanation. I saw what I wanted to see...him loving me. Him being beautiful...him being good. Him being honest. Him being a person who wouldn't lie, wouldn't cheat and certainly wouldn't rape his own biological sister.

I didn't see it.

Even after...I didn't want to. I lived in a bubble of numbness well into my third trimester. After my sons birth. It all aligned in an insane way. The world burst open. I was no longer walking in a black and white world. There was color everywhere. Green for envy...red for lust....black for sorrow...and an ugly grey yellow was the color of his lies...and they covered everything.

His explanation for his past...his reason for registering in the state of California. The late night inventory. The lies...the deceit. The truth covered everything in a puke tinged brown. My life fell off it's axis. The world was changed. I couldn't raise a child with a man I didn't know. He was a figment of my imagination. A phantom.

We divorced.

It was ugly. I caught him fucking his now wife while I was at work. I came home early you see. To a house with a whore in it's bedroom. Now I have to smile while she hugs my son. I have to pretend like it's okay for his benefit...not hers. I want to scream at every teacher meeting where his lies and fake personality win over every red blooded female that he's a sick sack of shit who raped his sister. I want to spew the ugly hatred from my body. I want to tell my son where his fathers money was going when I was raising him without financial support from his father and barely making ends meet while his dad paid for hotel rooms so he could screw his mistress. I want to tell him that she his step mother doesn't respect me because she knows that I know the deep ugly heart that beats inside her fucking chest.

But I say nothing.

Because it will only hurt him. But someday. Someday I'll be so knocked down by fake smiles and laughter at my back and teaching my son to disrespect me that I'll spew the brown vomitus truth all over their ugly yellow lies and the world will see what they really are.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Mourning...a voice

I am in a constant state of mourning. Waiting for that last shoe to drop. In seven years I've lost two crucial people in my life. Two beautiful souls called home. They were both over eighty, had lived long lives, and made a better world for their children as they left it. Though I miss them and mourn them, it is not their loss that cuts me at this point in time.

My father is dying.

Physically he is healthy. His heart is strong and his body able. It is his mind that suffers and decays. At first a few small pieces shriveled and died. The disease mutilating what once may not have been a perfect man but a good one. He is no longer recognizable. Every day, week, month he slips further and further away. How can a man, a law abiding man, one with principals and a pure belief in God suffer so at the end of his life. How can God allow him to become this shell...this aggressive angry stranger I no longer know.

He has been kicked from the home that my brother so painstakingly chose, to a drab, sterile, institutionalized hell. It isn't right. It isn't humble. Do not go quietly into that night...there is no quiet...there is no struggle...there is only suffering. Night...would be a mercy. We don't know how long we'll have to watch him suffer. Losing him while we wait for him to die. It's macabre and morbid. I don't usually wish for someones death...but my father if he knew himself...would hate this.

He punched a women in the face. A women! The man that raised me...though stubborn...though the fool when it came to women....never hit them. Never. He wouldn't. He saved my mother from a violent relationship. He didn't believe in violence. Though he would rise if called, it was never his solution to problems. He was more prone to yell than hit. I hate watching this. I hate feeling this anger towards my God.

I believe in things happening for a reason...What is this reason? Pain. Suffering. Am I to be made stronger...does my father really deserve this? I quiet my mind and wait for clarity. I am in a constant state of mourning...though he isn't dead...though I sometimes wish it. Death will claim all of us. I know this. I fight the fear and the reality everyday. I know my time is coming. It comes for us all. I concentrate on the living. I want to see my sons grow, marry, have children.

My father no longer recognizes his children. I am someone he knows. Someone he sees as family.

I am nameless.

God, what I would give to hear him call my name. I replay my grandmothers voice as she calls for me. Remember her smell. I no longer remember my father's voice as he called my name. He hasn't said it...in over a year.

The things we miss without realizing they are gone. A burst of smoke that evaporates too quickly. We can't hold onto it. One moment it is there...and in another...it's gone. Only the memory remains...or the emptiness of a memory. I wish I'd played his voice saying my name in my mind. I wish I could find it there hidden in the depths.

Fear follows. Will I succumb to the same disease that's claimed him? Will my children also miss the sound of my voice as I say their names...and worse of all...will this horrible moment happen....while I'm still alive?
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