Dark Chocolate makes my tongue melt. In the good Way.

Like a good, robust red wine. Mmm...

While the roommate is in the bathroom making out with her new TWA (teeny weeny afro), I thought I might do a little bit o' writing over here.

So I'm submitting 3 pieces to the Story Week Reader, all precise prose pieces under 750 words. I wrote drafts of all of them last night, and the deadline is New Year's Eve. I know, I know. But give me a break! I needed to recharge my literary Mojo. Now I'm raring to go, belly full of stories I've finished reading, and a cup overflowing with ideas for my rewrites and new "babies."

Speaking of which, I just finished "The Bell Jar." WHY DID I NOT READ THIS BEFORE? I really liked it. It's right up my alley--confused college aged girl not knowing what to do with her life and/or coping with grief and the pressure to be perfect, goes to nuthouse and gets better. Probably why I love "Girl, Interrupted" so much. (*note to self: Read that one too.)

A PenPusher thought:

Writers are always told to write what they know, right? Well, I want to know just about everything. I want to become a Private Investigator not just because I think it's cool to, well, investigate things, but also because I want to be able to use it one day in my writing. The same goes for sky diving, bungee jumping, stripping, having sex with a fat man, breaking an arm or leg or wrist, being committed, going on a road trip, being arrested, getting into a fight, eating a worm, drinking absinthe...you get what I'm saying.

Some of the things I do (including right now, Goddess help me) aren't the smartest, but it's something else I can write about. For that reason, I believe my language will be well-rounded, evoking through the pages a life well lived, a life worth living. I never was a fan of the stereotype of the writer that holes him/herself up day after day, trying to write some great novel but coming to nothing but numerous dead ends because they have nothing to write about.

The imagination, I believe, is fueled by life. If you've experienced nothing, what could possibly come out of that skull of yours? It starts somewhere; it starts with you, fellow writer/visionary of some other form, having an experience, be it good, bad, ugly, beautiful, terrifying or hilarious. I've had all of these. And I get to write about them. Top that.* Please?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S: I'll be posting some of the things I've written in class as well as the Flash Fiction I'm submitting in the next few days. Lemme make it pretty fo ya first.

*WARNING: Pusher. of. Pens. does not condone the heavy use of drugs or other harmful substances (when ingested in large amounts), nor does she agree with stunts/acts that could Fucking Kill You. Pusher. Of. Pens. does not like real death. Just the pretty, melancholy, poetic symbolic kind of death that she writes about often.*

So now that I'm (seriously) willing to call myself a writer...

I will post my Final Assignment from my Fiction 1 class. But first, some updates:

I'm done with the semester as of 12:36 pm today.

I go back to MI on the 20th, and have to leave ON the 25th to catch a 6:30 (pm) bus back here. Thanks, Club Monaco, for ruining my Holiday. Mom and Dad are pissed, too.

I have more than 30 days to get back to my normal level of (in)sanity, during which time I plan on reading 3 (or 4) books, writing/rewriting (and finishing) some stories, making awesome music, making money, and sleeping. And maybe even eating.

I can't FUCKING wait.

I'm so excited, I don't even want to make this sound pithy and shit. The normally scheduled writing genius will resume tomorrow.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Stream of thoughts

I've got an idea for something I'd like to publish...

A collection of thoughts/memories/wishes, published into a book. Memoirs? Partially. Fiction? Mostly. Creative Nonfiction might be pushing it...

But I think this is what I want to do. As for when and how, well... just let me get it out on paper first.

I'm not sure if I feel like a Fiction Writing major yet. What is that? What does that mean? All I have to show for it so far are a bunch of assignments that are about 4-5 (or more) pages long on some random idea flying out of my head. Nothing finished. Nothing revised, peer reviewed. Nobody is telling me about my weaknesses, my strengths. People just remember things in the semi circle. Not that I expect these people to tell me what to do...we're all in the same position.

But I DO feel like a writer. I always have. THIS is what a writer looks like, THIS is what a writer does. I'm sitting here in a green face mask that keeps me from smiling all the way, surrounded by books, notebooks, journals, post-its (it's an obsession) and a pen. And I write in them simultaneously. Is that not a writer? I stay up until 4 or 5am, reading, writing, and learning about famous (and not so famous) authors, or random info that could help with my story-telling. Is that not a writer? I zone out in the middle of the street because I've realized what to do with one of my characters... I practically pull my hair out when I can't get down a single cohesive thought. Is that not a writer?

I linger on the simplest of words, the most complex words. I play with visualizations in my head, and attempt to turn it into something you can see right with me. I spit out all of my thoughts, but eat most of them. I eat everyone else's as well. I make no sense, but usually I do. My logic will never be your logic, and your creativity will fly past my head at times, but see, we've all got something to express.

And when I get to a point where I stop making sense (even to myself), I pick up a book and read. I read until all of it makes sense again, and I'm ready to give it another try.

This is one of those blogs where you just close the browser window and nod. And then you move on with your life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

She's finally yawning...

This is the second week in which my sleep pattern has been drastically shifted.

Nothing worries me, I have no big assignment to finish (yet), so I assume it's by the lack of daily tasks with time deadlines. All I know is my mind keeps running on high with thoughts, faster than it ever has before. I actually function better by the time darkness falls.

This will be about the 9th or 10th consecutive day in which sleep does not behold me until daylight peeks through the slits between the blinds...between 5:30 and 7. Almost as if I'm not allowed to sleep before then. When I see the light, I automatically become tired. It seems I've switched to a Nocturnal cycle (if only temporarily), or I'm slowly becoming a vampire (if only in my wildest dreams).

Do you know what it's like to be stuck in yesterday, today and tomorrow at the same time? Well, I do, now. It IS, in fact, possible.

So my day usually starts around 1:30 pm. And while I know I should feel like a lazy bum, I seem to sleep so damn well! I wake up in the best moods. Oh, if my days could stay like this when school starts...

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment Part 3

Here I am, older, wiser, a tad more furnished...

I have my things thanks to the Loving Parentals who drove all of my stuff up here (they just wanted an excuse to leave Michigan), bought me a bed for my birthday, then proceeded to test it out the night before they had to leave...

Once they left it was time to get the ball rolling.

Lesson Two:

a)-It's a new city, It's a new apartment, I have a new outlook on life...and with that, a new color scheme. Gone away are the typical blues and oranges and spritely stripes and polka dots. In with the darker, the deeper, the sensual...black, deep reds and burgundies, and hints of gold. Try something new, different. Think about who you are, and what reflects your style, your personal views, your soul...

b)-Dammit, kids, make a list of what you need to buy to get your place started. Don't forget the food. And then check off EVERYTHING on that list. And seriously, don't forget the food. I spent almost $400 at Satan's Playhouse (**Wal-Mart) to get me started, and never bought groceries. That was a hungry night, my friends, as I played with my comforters and built/organized my desks and shelves.

**Side note: Do not be alarmed if you ask an employee a question and they seem to back away in horror. It's only because in truth, they were captured and forced to work there against their own will.**

c)-Try not to be offended when a compliment goes horribly wrong. For example: I am very enthusiastic about building things/putting things together. And so, with said enthusiasm, I put together two desks, two chairs, two lamps and two bookshelves within 18 hours (with a little assistance from Darling Roomie). In awe of my innate ability to follow directions and screw things into holes, Darling Roomie exclaims,

"Dude! You're like a man...with boobs! It's amazing!"

(insert giant anime head with sweatdrop here) -_-'

I must say, having initially felt incredibly empowered by my lack of necessity for a "man's hand", I was immediately knocked down to the size of a mouse by being likened to the sex I thought I had no need for.

In this instance, I could have gone off on a feminist rampage about how women can never get away from men--if they don't need one, they must BE one, and so on--but I knew that she was just surprised at my skill with a screwdriver and hammer.

d)-When you're done setting up, don't sit around the apartment looking at your shit...GO OUT! It's a big place, kiddos, and not everything is "right around the corner". Experience life (remember that?).

So far I've been to the Museum of Contemporary Art, 4 nightclubs, a Farmers Market, a ton of restaurants, a handful of coffee shops, 1 music venue, Lollapalooza, Water Tower, and I'm discovering new places everyday. And they don't ALL cost money (Actually, Lolla was free for me by way of MIRACLE, I'm thinking). Look for cheap nights on the town. Get all the local weekly papers, grab all the flyers that tickle your fancy, and get some culture!

Now's the time to take control of your life. I suggest you do it.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Journey to the Center of ME

I lay on the ground, face down, feeling the cold Earth against my sunken cheek. The flesh was beginning to fall from my bones, no longer necessary in my own forthcoming death.

Taking a deep breath, I try to capture something besides the scent of dirt--no, I must go farther down...about six feet.

A faint hint of what I once was, of what I was going to become.

She's down there, dormant, motionless. Paralyzed.

The smell makes me dizzy with memories; memories of when I wasn't so afraid to express. Memories of when every idea in my head fell out onto paper so that I would never forget.

A tear falls from my eye...regret for the lost thoughts, the lost memories, the lost "Me".

Slowly, I take a finger and begin to burrow a small hole in the ground. A short hiss of air emits from the hole as if under pressure, and I breathe it in, hoping.

It was the scent of life.

I know that smell anywhere. She was still alive. I imagined her eyes wide open, patiently awaiting my return. I sat up, and began to dig with both hands, frantic. I wasn't sure how much time I had left, but I'd be damned if I spent another moment slowly deteriorating in this shell. I needed her, I needed her to fill me out, to give me color, to make me feel...whole.

As I dig deeper and deeper, it comes back to me--the ideas, the stories, the daydreams, the hopes. I am so close, so close. And even though the ground seems even harder to move, I Will keep Going. There's dirt in my hair, my nails, my mouth, between my toes. I'm beginning to feel sluggish, tired from the effort. But NOTHING will stop me. NOBODY will stop me.

Just a little bit farther. I can feel her getting closer to my hands. Just a little bit deeper, and she can breathe again...

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Windy City Enlightenment...Part Two

I had money when I got into town, I swear...

Where the hell did it go? *Looks around, checks wallet*

*sigh* It's my birthday and I'm broke, with no furniture. 

But damn, this city is pretty...

It's amazing the things you tell yourself you're capable of when you realize that things won't turn out the way you had planned it perfectly in your head. 

Here is Lesson One in my Windy City Enlightenment series:

~If you move to a city with no job and a "delayed" monetary cushion, act as if you have no money. And when you receive said cushion, keep acting that way. Chicago is expensive. And it eats up your money by attracting you with delicious pizzas and sandwiches and 7-day bus passes (that get lost) and bar-hopping to see Shane from 'The Real World'.

~That being said, don't treat the job search as if you have your pick of the litter. This is a big city, and there are tons of people who think they're perfect for the job you're applying for. So apply everywhere, apply often. And if you think you're "too good" for a job, chances are, you're not. So apply anyway. It'll probably get you out of a quick jam. 

Thus ends this episode of "Windy City Enlightenment". Tune in next time when we discuss...something else that hopefully has absolutely nothing to do with money.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~