Lesson Learned.

Sorry about that last post guys. It was complete crap. Leftovers of an angry, dissatisfied writer.

Forgive me?

I went to 2nd Story tonight, and it had been a Very Long Time since I attended the last one. In fact, it has been a very long time since I participated, attended or viewed anything that catered solely to the written word. It was nice to be in that atmosphere again. It was nice to see my former Fiction Writing teacher on stage doing his thing, and off stage telling me to do the same.

I have this uncanny ability of extricating myself from any artistic community as soon as I begin to doubt my (talents). I get excited about being around like-minded people. Then I have a freak out moment where I wonder what the hell I was thinking, and I bow out, saving myself from any potential disgrace. It's a fear of rejection--so much so, that I can't even bring myself to let my boyfriend read more than a paragraph of something I've written. And not just any old thing like that crap I posted the other day, but something true, something that is inherently mine.

I began writing because I believed that I had a story (or two) to tell. I stopped writing because I began to doubt whether or not I was capable of making anyone care about those stories. But I was going about it all wrong. First and foremost, I have to care about those stories. Because if I can't deal with it day in and day out, going over it, through it, around it, what's the point? It's like the Rilke quote at the top of this blog. Sometimes I think I know the reason I want to write. Other times, I think it's just a glorified childhood game I was never able to let go of.

But then again, how many of us have stories of how our lifelong dreams began? Don't they begin with a childhood game? Isn't that when the roots begin to grow?

If writing were just a game to me, I wouldn't dwell on it as much. I wouldn't have twenty-plus notebooks of journal entries and story ideas. I sure as hell wouldn't be blogging.

"Confess to yourself you would have to die if you were Forbidden to write."

I'm afraid I would.

So let's start over.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

This could be the Start of something Serial.

Here's something I wrote, that was prompted by this sweet little site. It's pretty awesome. People post ten words, and then you have to write a short using the ten words. I only got to about 5 when I began to divert my attention away from the challenge and onto something I might actually enjoy continuing. It's unfinished, but leaves you with a cliffhanger (audience: oooooh):

After a particularly sordid drunken film at a friend's house, I stumbled home in the rain to my own apartment for a great night's sleep--at least, I hoped. I had a knack for showing up on other people's doorsteps and lawns; usually other acquaintances, and occasionally exes. I double checked the address above the door: 1061. 'Okay, so far so good,' I thought. 'Now I just need to open the door.'

As I struggled to get my key into the hole, I felt a ragged, creepy breath on the back of my neck. I spun around to berate the mouth-breathing offender, but quickly realized it was only Ronnie, a very cute attendee of the party, and I vaguely recalled asking him to my place for 'coffee' afterwards.

I smiled my sloppy sexy smile--you know, the one where only half of your mouth rises, because you don't remember how to work the other side, and your lids are heavy because you see three of everything--and threw my arms around his neck, planting my lips on his. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the velocity of my passionate embrace, and we both crashed onto the sidewalk, which, thankfully, was only two steps down from my apartment door.

We both laughed, helping each other up, when I noticed blood on my hand. I looked down at the cement, seeing a small red spot.

"What is it? Did you hurt yourself?" Ronnie asked, his eyes slowly wandering to the ground, then back to my hand.

I stroked the back of his head, finding a wet, sticky mess near the nape.

"No, you did. Let's get inside and find some First-Aid," I said, turning back to the doorknob to work on my 'key-goes-in-the-hole' task.

'Success! This is my apartment after all!' I thought, as I opened the door to my modest Studio. I threw off my raincoat, tossing it on the couch, and zig-zagged my way to the bathroom.

"Feel free to help yourself to something to drink!" I called out, searching beneath the sink. Hopefully that little fall didn't ruin the night's coming festivities; especially since I couldn't really see any of the objects I was reaching for too clearly. First-Aid kits are usually in that plastic thingy, right? Or was it a tube?

A few moments later, I noticed his black Italian dress shoes out of the corner of my eye. I looked up into his crooked grin and green eyes.

"I was thinking maybe you could quench that thirst?"

I stood up, holding a tube of Gold Bond in my hand.

"Oh, well, let me help--" but before I could finish my witty sensual reply, he stumbled back a few steps, his eyes rolled upward, and he dropped to the floor, bumping the left side of his head on the toilet. Blood trickled into his hairline, and a small groan emitted from his lips.

Doesn't look like I'll be getting laid tonight.

(cue dramatic piano music and audience gasps)

Oh my! What will happen to our inebriated heroine and her concussed love-interest? Find out next time in:

I have no idea where this is going. Wanna find out with me?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

New Beginnings

I'm one of those people, who, if unhappy with something, will immediately change it to my liking.

This is how I live my life. Sometimes, it's a good thing, and other times, well... have resulted in my current track record of having attended five different post-secondary schools:

1)University of Michigan

2)Macomb Community College

3)PennFoster (yeah. Shut up)

4)Columbia College

5)Cortiva Institute

6) ???? Still working on that.

I've done the same with hairstyles (I've been known to pick up scissors within 5 minutes of my gushing over a haircut I see online), apartment design, hobbies, and jobs.

Jobs, guys, jobs.

I currently work in a thankless job that makes me feel like I'm ruining lives. And I can't do it anymore. Won't do it anymore. I'd rather give an old man a sponge bath than do what I do.

But I'm on my way out, and interviewing and applying like mad for other jobs.

Of course, I already gave my notice. :)

See where I'm going with this? Thought so.

And guess who isn't worried one damn bit? When I'm determined, I am motherfucking determined.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Slutwalk Chicago 2011: A Reflection

I had no idea what to expect. For the most part, anytime a form of activism is posted on Facebook, it's either virtual, or cancelled within a week of the pending date.

But this one wasn't, and I am SO GLAD I went.

I stepped out of the doors of the Clark and State El Station with two ladies and a sign, saying, "This is not a Walk of Shame". The air was thick with humidity, and the sun beamed down onto the heads of hundreds of people in front of us.

Wait-- hundreds? The three of us looked at each other as we watched the crowd wrap around the corner, and begin marching down the street. And they were still coming. Running to catch up, it was easy to get into the spirit of the march. The energy was all around; and it was dressed in nighties, fishnets, jeans, shorts, corsets, dresses, banana hammocks, stilettos and miniskirts. They came from everywhere, and traffic was at a standstill.

Hm... maybe we broke a thousand.

People looked on in horror, pride and humor. Vehicles from all around honked in support. We screamed anytime it felt right, and had a few rotating chants, like,

"No means No! Yes means Yes!"

"Gay, Straight, Black, White, all Unite for Women's Rights!"

and one of my favorites,

"What do we want?"

"Consensual Sex!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

That last one didn't catch on like many of us hoped. But it kept the spirits light.

We marched down Michigan Avenue, scaring tourists. There were cameras all over, taking pictures of the throng--actually, our sign was pretty popular (I can't take credit for it, unfortunately--another member of our awesome trio was the genius there).

We were dripping with sweat, losing our voices, and making a stand. And I had a little moment of reflection as my feet padded the pavement:

I'm doing this for my sister, who lost her life at the hands of an abusive man. I'm doing this for every other person who has experienced sexual assault, abuse in any way, been made to feel less than Zero, or that they don't matter. I'm doing this for myself, to remember that I never have to feel like my liberties are any less than a man's. Of course I'll scream til I lose my voice. I'll walk til my knees give out. I'll make sure someone fucking hears this, and listens, and understands.

It was a necessary reflection, a validation that I was indeed, alive, kicking, and standing up for something I believed in. And it felt really good. And I think 'she' would be proud.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~