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.~