writerontheradio

There seems to be a central theme in some of my writings lately. I keep referring back to that scene in “Sex and the City,” where Carrie is blathering to Aiden, when he tells her that you broke my heart. I think that was a very powerful scene. I’m not used to men on TV (or real life, for that matter), telling women that their hearts have been broken.

There’s a scene in the novella that I’ve been writing, I wrote it about three years ago, and he’s having one of those moments. He wants to tell his ex that he ruined her for a bit, but realizes that it’s pointless. She’s fickle, and possibly a drug addict, or maybe recovering addict, but still. She doesn’t quite get the depth of the damage she had done to his psyche, but he tries covering it up by his coolness and pretentiousness. 

 

Good news! I should be done with this damned novella very soon. Maybe by next week. I feel so relieved, that it’s finally over. I feel like I’ve been giving birth to this damned thing for over three years, and I just want to get rid of it. Or maybe hold it in my arms and raise it. That was weird. 

 

Later! 😀

Yes, it has been collecting dust, but no longer! Here is an excerpt that I wrote over a year ago, maybe even two, who knows? *shrugs* From now on, I will be making a commitment to writing a blog every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (or at least three times a week, whichever comes first). I must get my 10,000 hours in. Enjoy!

“You bitch!” she breathed. “You got me pregnant!”

It was a Sunday morning, around four. He’d woken up to the sound of furious pounding at the door. He tried ignoring it, thinking it was a confused neighbor. But the knocking only grew louder and louder. He shook his head, threw on a pair of jeans, and swung the door open.

It was her…who else would it be?

Her silhouette grabbed him and pushed him back into the living room.

“You son of a bitch! I’m pregnant!”

“What? How?”

Stupid question (in retrospect?)

“You must be stupid. You got me pregnant! “

She hit one of his walls. “I don’t want your fucking kids! I need to work on myself. I’ve got enough on my plate without bringing your spawn into the world.” She punched the wall again, louder than first time.

“I need a drink! That’s what I need.”

“You really don’t…”

“You got a beer in the fridge? ” She went on, clearly ignoring him.

“No,” he lied.

She stared at him. “You’re lying!” She yelled at him. “Son of a bitch!” She yelled again as she jumped over his couch and violently opened the refrigerator.

“Liar, liar, LIAR! You have a six pack in here!” she pulled one out.” I will help myself to one.”

He grabbed it out of her hand.

She smacked him in the face. Hard.

He slammed her against the wall.

Then he left. He walked past the complexes. The convenient stores. The bar. The park. He sat under a tree by the lake. He stared at that lake, in all its glory. The moon was only a sliver, but it still reflected on the lake quite beautifully. For awhile, he was lost in the merging of moon and water.

He didn’t want to have a kid. He was still young. And that girl was crazy. He couldn’t have a kid with her. She would do crazy things with that kid. That kid would have half her crazy genes. He couldn’t have that.

He sighed. He knew what he had to do. She was crazy, she drank, and she did drugs. She was always downing a cocktail of chemicals. It was a hit or miss – sometimes she was the most wonderful person in the world, but others, she was a paranoid, overemotional, and sometimes violent brat.

He didn’t understand why he put up with her, and for so long. Maybe she was adding some excitement to his life? Maybe he saw a little of himself in her – the confusion, the uncertainty of it all. Life. Maybe he had a Messiah complex and wanted to save her from herself. She was very beautiful, he thought. But she was a lost soul, her head forever stuck in the clouds. And she found reality extremely difficult to cope with – that’s why the drugs and alcohol were always there. A baby couldn’t survive in an environment like that.

He got up and headed back to his apartment. The door was still open. She lay sprawled on the floor, crying quietly.

She sensed his presence and straightened up. Her stare was hollow.

He walked over to the small box on the fake fireplace and opened it. Surprisingly his money was still there (she would usually take some whenever he refused to feed into her habit). He grabbed a wad of fifties and gave them to her.

They had a moment: he looked at her, she at him. They knew what was going to happen.

She cried out, jumped up, and gave him a nearly suffocating hug. “Thanks, baby. I love you so much!” She started kissing him. That was their normal routine. But his heart wasn’t in it this time. He felt nothing towards her. He wasn’t surprised. This too, was routine: the breaking up and the shouting match that ensued, the long periods of not speaking to each other, the inevitable getting back together and acting as if it never happened dozens of times before.

It was a cycle that had been going on for years. He knew it wasn’t going anywhere. But who was going to stop it?

Today is the 7 year anniversary since I’ve moved to New York. It’s also Friday the 13th. 

 

Moving on….nothing to see here, folk!

I had a bit of an epiphany/Moment of Truth the other day. After being swamped with work (and feeling a bit lazy due to being in a lull), I finally sat down and started working on the novella (yes, that novella).

Now, I had read Stephen King’s “On Writing” not too long ago, and he talks about not using plot so much as creating characters with problems, and they work those problems out. So I took some of this in mind. I have a general idea of how I want the story to end, but nothing is set in stone. It’s more of a “what would he/she do?” in a situation. It requires putting on the skin of that character, to see everything through their eyes. I won’t say this is a painful process, but it most certainly draining. But I love that feeling.

So, I sat down and started writing. It felt good. And cathartic. And I felt that feeling of apprehensiveness was pretty much gone. I studied this feeling with great interest. I was her, and he was, well…him. But for the first time ever, I was her, but he wasn’t him. He was the character. And the words flowed. Because I no longer felt a sense of embarrassment. It’s hard to explain, but to me, this is more than just a story. It was therapy. But perhaps now, I no longer need this as therapy, but the story needs to be finished. So it can be buried. the final nail in the coffin (Or, maybe…just maybe…I’ll be invited to the Brooklyn Book Faare, heehee).

I got excited. Was the pain finally over? I wondered. I’ve noticed that those feelings of nostalgia and revenge were gone, almost. And I didn’t even have to ask myself, “How do you know when  you’ve let someone go?” Because you’ll just know. There isn’t some checklist for these things.

I dunno. It’s a feeling of lightness, of calmness and clarity.

So yeay for me! I live for these light bulb moment.s

 

I think I may have found my mojo!!!!

 

More on this later, before I legit lose my mojo….

An old flame barges back into your life and attempts to rewrite history. The history that left you damaged, its imprints etched deeply into your skin.  

Some people don’t understand that “I don’t ever want to speak to you again” means “I don’t ever want to speak to you again.” It doesn’t mean, oh, maybe she’ll have a change of heart or maybe things will change. Maybe these things will happen, but it’s not up to you to decide that you’ll “hurry” things along.

I recall that scene from Sex and the City where Carrie is outside Aiden’s apartment at night and she’s blathering about being sorry for hurting him and she misses him. And then he yells “YOU BROKE MY HEART!” THAT, that drove the point home.

I may not have been in love with you. But I really don’t appreciate when people take advantage of a situation and then try to get back on friendly terms, as if nothing happened.  I don’t forget anything.   And what’s even more insulting is the passive aggressive way it’s being done. Text messaging. Liking an old ass photo on Facebook.  Which means you were on my page and combed through my photos. Who does that?!

Ugh. Anyways. That’s out. And that felt good. Time to brood.

I recently came across an article on modern dating and the ugly truths of it. A lot of them were no-brainers and frustrating, like how people seem allergic to set plans, and they create these “maybe” plans that they’ll only go on if nothing “better” came along (I couldn’t date someone who did that, save for emergencies, obvy). And then the whole communicating through texting, which is horrifically impersonal. Yet I admit that I did that initially with my current beau: it took me a week until I actually talked to him on the phone. Texting was ok, because he could have been at work, or just didn’t want to answer (decisions, decisions!). And our first phone conversation was six hours or eight hours long. Whoa!

BUT….this was the one that caught my attention the most, and it was about karma. When things end ugly, some of us like to think that this person will get a huge dose of karma, and as quickly as possible. Well, sometimes, karma does come, but sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, these people will just live their lives, and you’ll be left feeling miserable as shit.

I’m wondering why we think like this. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism. Oh, you cheated on me, so one day, someone will cheat on you! Ha! Oh, our engagement fell apart, I hope you end up getting some chick pregnant or contract an STD ha! And I can’t help but wonder if part of our motivation to succeed and do better in life is in the hopes of running into said person again, life in shambles, while we’re on the top of the world. And see that look of despair in their eyes, the one that says, “Damn. The good one got away.” And maybe they’ll grovel at your feet, begging, pleading for you to come back. And you’ll just look them in the eye and tell them, “HELL NO.”  And walk away, with your own 70s blaxploitation-style music playing in the background.

Oh, wouldn’t life be better that way?

I’m wondering if that’s why it’s even harder to let go of people. It’s something that a lot of people that I know suffer. It’s something I have suffered myself. I sometimes wonder, how does one know when you’ve let go of someone? What is the list?

But maybe….if you have to ask, then you probably aren’t.

I couldn’t sleep last night, so I had a rant  post about my novella and the whole Sterling thing (in short: I’m stuck on the novella as a result of mixed feelings and I don’t really care about the Sterling thing so much as the “outrage” surrounding it).

But then, I had a breakthrough. How silence is both a Godsend and a curse. 

I thought about the Sterling incident. I am the last generation who had somewhat of a childhood without computers. I watch my boyfriend’s three year old cousin play on iPhones and tablets like it’s nothing. He knows how to push play and make something fullscreen. He will never grow up not knowing about this wonderful technology.

And yet, part of me misses those days. There is way too much “connectedness” now. I don’t have anything damning out there on the internet (well, last time I checked I didn’t), and I see teenagers and even people my age being reckless. Not knowing (or not caring) that whatever they send out to the digital world can never really be erased. 

And even now, we must be more mindful of what we send out. Private messages are no longer sacred. I just recently screen shotted a conversation of some guy essentially threatening me, because I didn’t agree with his stance on overweight women. One can’t backtrack and say they didn’t say that when there is evidence everywhere.

But maybe now we can’t even say what we want in the privacy of our own homes, without fear of being recorded. Money aside, etc., she knew what she was doing. She knew he was going to go on another racist rant (one doesn’t stay with a blatantly racist man for years and not know these things!), so she decided to record it. And hand it over to TMZ. 

I’m not terribly concerned with people recording me because I don’t usually say things that will bite me in the ass later. But it’s still something to think about.