Sometimes, Versatility can be a Hindrance.

Before you claw at my face in your post-modernist knee-jerk reaction and accuse me of not being an advocate of progressive thought, hear me out.

Have you ever thought, perhaps, just for a teeny second, that things would be easier if you didn't have so many choices? I mean, think about it. We can easily spend 10 minutes in the toothpaste aisle deciding between a gel or a paste, one with whitener with extra fluoride, or one that whitens and tastes like baking soda, one that is green, or white, spearmint, wintermint, and some random berry flavor, and either a plastic tube, or a pump. All for a two minute job in the morning and evening.

Or what about body wash? Toothbrushes? (Soft, medium, hard bristles? Ergonomic grip for those with carpal tunnel?) Razors? Canned vegetables? *sigh* Don't get me started.

But I'm not talking about the usually daunting task of grocery shopping for the overly cerebral (like me), I'm actually only referring to my own abilities. Here's what I mean:

I started out going to UofM auditioning for Musical Theatre. When that didn't pan out, I thought about Journalism. I left the school, and considered becoming a Paralegal, and a Private Investigator. I joined bands to become a Rock Star. I began reading up on Technology and considered a career in IT. I began teaching myself a programming language and messed around with computers. I considered the CIA for 3 years in high school. I decided on becoming a writer about 2 years ago, all the while looking up Interior Design and Event Planning. I thought about Culinary School as well, and am strongly considering getting a Masters in Library Science.

And now, here I am, reconsidering again. For... (drumroll please)... Advertising. You know, copywriting, mostly, but being the brainchild behind the successful implementation of a brand or cause in general. (It didn't come out of nowhere, Advertising has always been a possibility with me, I just didn't think I could cut it)

Now, I know everyone goes through these phases of looking at the possibilities, but aren't those desires supposed to fade away when you hone in on something that you know works for you? I mean, even just a little bit?

I was reading up on brain dominance, and remembered the quiz I took on FB that said that I had a balanced brain (Now, it is by no means a reliable source to cite, but, well, this is a blog. So biased writing calls for unreliable sources.). Now this sounds great, right? It means, I have the ability to solve problems using both hemispheres of my brain making me that much more creative during the process. However, it can make me quite indecisive, especially in the realm of choosing a career, because I am good at so many things...or at least, have a strong interest in so many things. It makes total sense!

So my problem is this: I really really want to be an author/singer/musician/private investigator/librarian/computer genius/scientist/dancer/copywriter. And anthropologist. And none of these wants have lessened, or died down for another to shine in any way. And for me to feel truly happy, I want/need all or most of these things to be happening in my life, because I have a constant feeling of missing out on something if they aren't.

How the hell do I combine those into my SuperCareer? That's what I need. A SuperCareer. Does anybody else have this problem? Is anyone else as crazy as I am? I know you are. Show yourself.

*shakes head*

Like I said, a Hindrance.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Either the wine and coffee helped me grow cajones...

Or I just genuinely have more confidence in my writing.

Whatever the reason, I applied to a CopyWriting gig today. I had to supply a couple of samples as well as do a write-up in the style they are hiring for, which just so happens to be a little up my alley. So maybe they'll see that and love me and hire me. Full-time with benefits? I'll take it.

Aside from that, I've been writing a little bit every day so far, and this is a huge deal for me. Usually I go on binges, and then stop for a month or more. No more Literary Bulimia. Time to treat my creative ink-well with respect. That being said, here's one of my Flash Fiction pieces I submitted to be considered:

"Panties"

As we ran from the cops, it occurred to me that I had left my panties in the back seat of my girlfriend’s ’92 Taurus. The wind and our running kept lifting up my skirt, revealing freshly shaved parts, chilled to the core. I struggled, purse falling from my shoulder, to hold my skirt down with my right hand, while she dragged me with my left. We quickly turned left into an alley, ducking behind a garbage can next to a dumpster. It smelled of old cabbage and dog shit. The two cops chasing after us careened around the corner, stopping. They looked around in the dark with their oversized flashlights, not moving from their spots.

“You saw them come down here, right?” The chubby one asked the other chubby one. I couldn’t tell the difference between them; they were both stereotypical white male policemen that had grown comfortable in their not-so-dangerous line of work and probably couldn’t even pursue a one-legged crack addict for longer than three blocks.

“Yeah. Maybe they’re hiding in the dumpster,” Chubby Cop Number Two said, stepping forward. I gasped, and she clasped a hand over my mouth. Number One stopped Number Two. He seemed to be the leader.

“Is it really worth it? They were just foolin around in the back seat anyway,” he replied, then turned around, walking away. Number Two looked down the alley for a second, then followed him back.

We stayed quiet for a few more minutes, then stood up. Following my girlfriend to the street, she checked the street signs, then the road.

“Let’s get a drink. I think you deserve one,” she said, giving my butt a firm smack. As we walked down the sidewalk, I continued to hold my skirt down.

“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked, seriously wishing I had remembered to grab my panties.

“Sure it is. You’ve still got it, right?” I nodded, holding my purse tighter to me.

We stopped at a bar that had a rainbow flag flying high above its neon lit sign, “The Druid Pub”. Walking in, the place was filled with smoke, chatter and same-sex canoodling. We took a seat at the counter, and she ordered two Stellas. The bartender, a jock-type with pink hair and a lip piercing nodded, disappeared, and reappeared with our drinks. She passed him a 20, smiling, while I took a sip.

“Hey, Carrie, I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, putting a hand on my thigh. I could feel her inch farther up and I smirked, leaning in.

“What, running from the cops or put--” I was suddenly interrupted by a large Italian man in drag yelling,

“Hey bitches! Did ya miss me?” The bar erupted into applause and cheers, while Gloria Estefan’s song “Conga” began playing over the speakers. The drag queen started dancing (mostly three-step turning) around the room lip-synching the words while men and women held out cash for him to collect as the song played. We watched him and three others do the same thing with different songs, and then she tapped me, saying it was time to go.

We caught a cab ride headed to our destination, and on the ride there, she began kissing me and stroking my legs.

“Baby, you have been turning me on all night, knowing you’re not wearing any panties,” she breathed into my ear. I felt a hand graze past my spot, sending a chill up my spine. I kissed her back eagerly, slipping my hand into her pants. The cab ride slammed to a halt.

“We’re here.” the driver struggled to say it nicely as she passed him his fare with an extra five dollars and we slid out of the back seat. As we walked up to the dingy apartment building decorated with glass bits and cigarette butts, she paused, holding my elbow.

“Why don’t you just give it to me here?”

“Right here?” I asked, feeling my muscles clench. She looked around mockingly.

“There’s nobody here. Come on,” I sighed, handing her my purse. Slowly, I squatted, pulling the piece of rubber I left hanging out of my womanhood. Thanks to our minor session in the car, it was much easier to remove than the last time. I handed over the condom filled with two ounces of marijuana. If only my mother knew.

“You might want to wipe that off a little,” I said.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

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.~