“She’s ready for takeoff,” said Germaine, Tony’s flight instructor. He motioned toward the waiting Cessna.
“What, already?” Tony’s voice cracked a little. Apparently some of Martha’s fear of flying had rubbed off on him over the years.
Germaine laughed at him. “I’ll be right next to you you at the controls. It’s okay to be nervous.”
That cinched it. Tony was not going to be timid in front of Germaine. He liked Germaine; Germaine was a nice person, an honest person and with a great confidence about him, for such a pup. Tony was more than twice his instructor’s age and that fact shamed him into action.
“Let’s go,” he said, barely stopping himself from adding, “young man.”
This was such a lot of work to do to simply cheat on his wife. But it was important to Tony’s ego that he take an equally astonishing and magnificent lover as Martha had already found for herself. Fair was fair. (more…)
My cell phone rang at two minutes of four in the morning. I swiped my thumb across the green ‘answer’ button, put the phone to my ear and grunted.
“Meow?” came the reply. It was my cat.
“Waffles?” I cleared my throat and sat up. I hadn’t heard from my cat in two months.
“Meow.” She sounded sad and exhausted and I could guess why. She’d gotten herself a job and apparently she was—predictably—in over her head.
“You’re not going to try to tough it out?” It was kind of cruel of me to string her along. We both knew she couldn’t handle this.
“Meow.” It was a long, drawn out meow. Almost like back in the days when she still lived with me and her food bowl wasn’t entirely full and she desperately needed me to cover the entire bottom of the dish with kibble.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there by tomorrow.” I hung up. I hadn’t said ‘I told you so.’
*** (more…)
“I guess you know by now we’re leaving,” he says, tears freely falling down his face. My son, barely twelve years old, stands on a step-stool in front of a bookshelf full of knickknacks, a frayed yo-yo in his hands that he fiddles with, rolling it up and letting it fall before rolling it up again. He keeps his eyes downcast but can’t entirely hide his sobs or the glistening on his cheek.
Of course I knew. I’m not stupid, despite what my wife thinks. I knew before he did. I’m pretty sure I’ve known for months, ever since I got sick the first time. Maybe I’ve known this was coming for years. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier. (more…)
Shaun wasn’t normally a guy who carried around a lot of hate in his heart, but after the day he was having, he found he had plenty of room for a little want-to-kick-his-ass.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Shaun saw his brother’s suitcase by the door. He took it as a good sign. Maybe Neil understood how serious this was.
Shaun found the little prick sitting at the kitchen table. His kid brother, a twenty-four year old fuck up whose life ambition was to own a car wash, was fidgeting in his seat, but Shaun suspected it was an act. Neil had a general idea of what contrition should look like, but he lacked depth and sincerity, so he never quite pulled off seeming sorry about anything.
I am something of a holiday junky: I enthusiastically celebrate them all.
But I really love Christmas. I am one of those people that everyone hates who starts listening to Christmas music the second Thanksgiving is over. I fight with myself every year to wait until the first day of December to put up lights and decorations.
However, Christmas means something a little different to me than a lot of people. I’m not religious. I don’t celebrate Christmas as a Christian celebration. I should probably call it something different, but I feel that the idea of Christmas has evolved to the point where it can mean whatever we want it to mean these days. (more…)
Holidays are a strange time. For some, they are a joyous occasion involving a celebration of gifts, family, and friendship. For others, they take a dark turn. Holidays can be a devastating time. You hear joyous music, you see bright lights, and you see the glow on children’s faces that can only be the prelude to material gluttony. Unfortunately, not everyone is in on the game. Some people don’t have families and friends, at least nearby. Some cannot afford to take part in the all-you-care-to-eat buyer’s buffet. For those people, the holidays are less about what they are about to get, and more about what they feel they will never have.
I’ve been on multiple sides of the holiday season. My family celebrates all holidays pretty much the same way. We plug Crock Pots full of casseroles, baked beans, mashed potatoes, and turkey into overloaded networks of power strips. We praise each other’s culinary achievements and avoid that weird marshmallow salad that is inexplicably topped with cheese. In the glory days, there would be as many as sixty or seventy people at lunch. That number has fallen, via emigration from the rural area in which my parents live, and the inevitable overturn of generations. (more…)
This is what the sound that makes you cringe looks like. Image attribution.
Feedback is important because no writer works in a vacuum. Not really. We have day jobs, families, significant others, pets, friends, and obligations. A writer won’t necessarily worry that much about feedback, or shouldn’t any way, but will keep on going until it becomes obvious it’s time to stop.
That time is usually when no one is talking about your work.
Having someone who supports you with your writing is perhaps one of the biggest motivators to keep going, story after story and page after page. A support group does wonders for this, but when the support follows you back home, that makes all the difference.
I have been very lucky to find that support at home. When Lindsey and I first moved in together in 2006, I don’t think she took my threats of “I don’t do anything during November except write” seriously. She soon learned, when dinner wasn’t ready in time and dishes were piling up, or when I was wearing the same shirt for the third time that week because I couldn’t break away from my novel to do laundry. It was the true test of a relationship – and we got through it with flying colors and only the occasional squabble. (more…)
There’s an old story that a boxing kangaroo is only good until it gets punched. After that, they don’t want to fight anymore. (Don’t ask me where I heard it. My head is filled with useless trivia like that.)
The same thing happened to me. Kind of.
All my life, I’ve been lucky. When I told my parents I wanted to be an English major, they were very supportive. When I told them I wanted to go back to school and get my master’s degree, they encouraged me. My folks were always the type to say, “You can be anything you want to be.”
Of course, that’s not strictly true, is it? As kids, we believe we can be anything. It’s not until later that we realize we all aren’t athletic enough, clever enough, or artistic enough to make those dreams come true.
I am extremely spoiled by the support I’ve received from my family and friends. The only negativity I’ve ever received came from the girl in the mirror. She’s pretty good at it, though, so it was plenty to keep me from following through for a very long time.
Norman Rockwell’s “Girl at Mirror”
My parents never laughed at anything I wanted to do. As a kid, I wanted to be a writer. In high school, I looked forward to getting a degree in English. When I got to college…well, that’s a long story. I’ll try to keep it short. I moved around a lot. I changed colleges with every move. And I changed majors frequently.
First, it was film. I wanted to be a producer, though I had no idea, really, what producers did. But they had a lot of money. When I shot my final project at the wrong speed, I panicked and dropped the class. I hadn’t written it to be in slow motion. Nobody laughed, though. They encouraged me. Even though I quit the rest of my classes, too, and moved away.
Business is smarter. If you want to get rich, major in business.
Did you know they’ll make you take accounting? I was getting a C in the class, but still had no idea what the hell I was doing. I quit. And yeah, I moved again. But it was okay. Follow your dreams, right?
We’re not even going to discuss marine biology. I love the ocean. Whales are awesome. Living near water might have helped this move along better than it did, but let’s just call it a non-starter and press on.
I did other things. Started businesses doing weird things like desktop publishing and making stuffed bears dressed like people. But writing was always there. I just didn’t think it was smart to make it a career.
Thirty-six. That’s how old I was when I went back and finally declared myself an English major. My husband was proud of me. My kids were proud of me. My parents were proud of me. It all slipped into place. I wrote stories and finished them. I went away for a week to a writer’s workshop. I had a few things published in the university’s literary magazine.
Everyone beamed with pride. The encouragement was incredible. For Christmas, my brother presented me with a copy of the year’s Writer’s Market, telling me “It’s time.”
He was right. I took the next steps, and when I became a neurotic wreck from submission-related waiting, my family rallied around me, soothing my fears, making me eat, and telling me constantly that I’m a great writer and something good was bound to happen.
And now? They still rally around me when I’m afraid, neurotic, depressed, or obsessed. The kids make sure I eat when I’m on a writing bend. My husband doesn’t complain when he can’t find clean socks. My friends understand if they don’t see me or hear from me for weeks. The whole house goes silent if I’m on a deadline.
Nobody’s ever laughed or told me I was foolish but me. And even the girl in the mirror, though not exactly encouraging yet, no longer voices objections.
