Of all the Things I've lost...

...I miss my discipline with writing the most.

I'm beginning to think that I (along with 90% of the writers in the world) am a sadist. Who else would do this to themselves? I tease myself with the NaNoWriMo challenge (which I failed in every way possible) which came to a sudden halt with that latest batch of shit-luck, and now that things are looking up (I'm not homeless, my temp job is now a permanent job with benefits), I'm all vermischt about the holidays (One of my coworkers uses many Yiddish phrases; I've been picking it up).

Today I wrote for about an hour, then got distracted by music. But I NEED music to write. Especially because there is something loud in the apartment, and I think it's the fridge. The hum actually keeps me up at night. The wine could possibly be exacerbating this issue, but you just don't tell a writer to give up her muse (seriously, it's been helping).

I've come up with this crazy hare-brained goal of actually having something worth reading by the end of spring. For me, that's like, late May.

Which means I have 5 months to write this novel(la): including numerous rewrites, a couple pair of eyes not belonging to me, sleepless nights, crying, self-injury and lots and lots of wine.

So glad I got this pay raise.

Here's to the 22nd attempt at keeping up the blog, and keeping up the writing.

I swear, the only constant going for me right now is knitting.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 3:

(aka "Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go, Let it Go...")

Okay, so let me start this off by saying:

I'm kinda homeless.

Well--in between apartments, I suppose. Because of this, I had to put all of my belongings into storage until things were figured out. I spent ALL of Saturday with a friend packing up my things and getting them to a storage facility.

It's in these moments that you reevaluate your worth in possessions. What do my things say about me? Why do I have this item? What would it mean if I threw it away?

I don't know how it happened, but I managed to practically fill an 8x8 storage space with all of my belongings. Of course, I could barely fit it all into my studio, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But really, what is all this shit?

Toward the end of the storage journey, I found myself on the elevator with 5 bags thrown over me, and all I could think of was Erykah Badu's fantastic lyrics:

"Bag lady, you gon' hurt yo back...Draggin all dem bags like that. I guess nobody ever told you, all you must hold onto, is you, is you, is you...."

I know it was more metaphorical than literal, but there's something to be said about those of us who cannot easily let go of our belongings. How do we look at life? Do we let situations roll off our backs, or do we hang onto them, like the sweater that doesn't fit us anymore and has a hole, but we can't bear to throw out? And for me personally, does this reflect my current situation?

I used to save love notes shared between me and my exes. At first, I rationalized it as my enjoyment of the written word; a way to document expression between two people in love. But after some time, I began to notice that I would look at these letters and this wave of nostalgia would wash over me...with a pinch of regret, or maybe anger at having been so stupid to be in love with that person. How could I not have seen the writing on the wall? or Why didn't I follow my instincts? This lack of ability to let go of the past would prevent me from growing in relationships because I was too busy hanging onto these experiences; these people.

Perhaps when I am able to move my belongings back into an abode, I will seriously consider what I take with me. I know that I have things strictly for sentimental value, which isn't bad. I keep my sister's jacket, and I wear her ring every day. These things I don't personally see as a hindrance. But the love letters, or maybe an item of clothing kept from an ex, a sign of a mistake made, or an unwelcome gift could keep you from moving on. Sometimes constant reminders of the past can trap you in that mindset.

I think it may be time to do some cleaning out. I'd like to make some room for my future.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

NaNoWriMo UhOhMoFo

That's right, kiddies. NaNoWriMo starts in 4 Minutes, I've got a notebook and pen in my lap, all of my notes and plot points around me, and I'm ready to go.

And a little scared shitless.

What if I can't keep up?

What if I run out of steam?

What if I get distracted by trivial things?

Oh yeah, that's right--I won't.

I'm registered on the site. If any of you are doing it too, let me know. We can do a write-in together. I'll give you one hint about my screenname: It begins with 'Pusher', and ends with 'ofPens'. I mean, what else am I going to use? It's tattooed on my body, and is hella motivational.

So, this blog will probably begin to be more active with updates about the masochistic joy I get out of literary expression.

And now it's midnight. Gotta jet.

~Pusher.Of.Pens.~

Hey!

Hey guys.

You know that thing you've been wanting to do? You know, that thing that you always plan on doing but something usually comes up and keeps you from being able to do that thing?

Well, no more excuses. No time like the present. Do it.

It's all about action. We can sit around here thinking about it, but it's not going to get us anywhere. You know, like the disgruntled music/movie snobs that use their displaced anger to make others feel unimportant and small because they don't have the talent/drive/mental capacity to do it themselves. Those people sit around and think. And brood. And as for quality of life?

Shot to shit by copious amounts of drinking/cocaine and prescription pill abuse.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right--Get up and do something. Or else you'll become a loser. In life.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files 2:

NO ESCAPE. (Or, 'I Remind Me of You')

I saw my mother this morning as I was getting ready for an interview. Not physically (She’s in Michigan, or Philadelphia, or something), but in everything I did. I was running around in my nylons and a blouse, putting on lipliner and drinking coffee. As I finished applying my lipstick in the mirror, there she was staring back at me. I did a double-take. Did I just encounter a Freaky Friday moment? I don’t remember eating Chinese food the last time my mom was in town. Oh wait, no, it’s me. I’m just TURNING INTO MY MOTHER.

Perhaps part of it was the fact that I actually had nylons on-- nylons are one of those items of clothing that are on the borderline of being both vintage and timeless; It’s like my friend and I joked: nothing makes a twenty-something feel dated like a pair of nylons (Unless she’s Amy Post’s protégée.)-- but there was no denying how much of her I saw in myself.

This wasn’t the first time I saw her, though. One time before, I saw her hand reach down to pet Gretchen--long thin fingers, veins pronounced under brown skin. I stared at my hand for a moment. So did Gretchen, but I think it was more out of impatience. My hand looked so foreign and so familiar at the same time.

You know, I can’t tell you how many times I or one of my girlfriends has said, “I will not become my mother/father when I grow up!” We spend so much time rebelling against everything our parents represent, that we don’t realize that their habits and words during our formative and teenage years stick with us. It’s an unplanned tradition of sorts, and reminds me of a fine (although offbeat) wine. It sits deep in our psyche, untouched, until it’s ready to come out in that perfect situation... be it a commonly used phrase, a mannerism or strange habit. Then, there you are, face to face with THEM, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.

Personally, I was relieved to see my mother. I spent most of my life being told I was a carbon copy of my father in looks, habits, talent, even facial contortions. To see my mother in the mirror makes me feel a little like I have finally ‘become a woman’. At 25, no less.

Every aspect of my getting ready reminded me of mornings--Sunday mornings, especially-- when I would watch my mother get ready for church. She would run around half-dressed, coffee in hand, the wonderful scent of White Diamonds perfume and deodorant flooding my nose as she whisked back and forth, fixing her hair, fixing my hair, putting on her jewelry, waking up my father....

I wonder if that’s what the kids see on Sunday mornings with her now. I wonder if the girls will see that in themselves later in life. Will it be as comforting for them as it is for me? Will I come out in them in some way? I know I’m just a big sister, but still... I can't help but hope I make that kind of impression on someone if I end up not having kids.

If nothing else, that is one hell of a way to haunt someone for the rest of their lives.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

The QLC (Quarter-Life Crisis) Files:

One is the Loneliest (and most Freeing) Number.

Independence. Everyone at some point crave independence--and why wouldn’t they? We spend (normally) 16-20 years of our lives depending on our guardians for food and shelter, at the very least. And then suddenly we’re doing it all--Working a job, paying bills, complaining or drooling over pesky/hot neighbors, creating a social life on a tiny budget, and eating food that isn’t our Mom’s.

For some, this moment doesn’t come at all. I know women who got married straight out of school and into a life of codependence. That’s great, but this post will not relate to you in any way. Go on--click on another tab. You’re not allowed to continue.

I don’t know about anyone else, but there aren’t any classes in high school or college that can ever really prepare you for Living on Your Own. It’s part of the Core Curriculum at the School of Hard Knocks, however, and you’d better ace it right away.

I didn’t get my first apartment by myself until last June, just before my 24th birthday. Before that, I lived with friends over a couple of Summers, then my parents, then a fiance, then back with the parents, then my best friend for a year. I was so excited to finally have a place of my own, I assumed that all of the mistakes I made in my past living situations would make this time so much easier. Who would’ve thought that there were more mistakes to be made?

First of all, location was at the top of my list for both the right and wrong reasons. Sure, my place is sinfully close to the El and CTA, there are two grocery stores, a coffee shop, a 24 hour drug store, and numerous cheap eats within two blocks of me. And to top it all off, it’s right by the water. But I chose it because it was also near my then-boyfriend (who i broke up with at the end of July), fit my budget (kinda) and the building accepted me readily. I didn’t look anywhere else; things had become strained living with my best friend, and I wanted out before we started hating each other. So I took it, optimistic that this would be a great decision.

I quickly learned that acceptance isn’t always a good thing, and convenience does not equal safety. About 5 months in, I noticed a pattern of interesting characters milling in and out of the building, and they sure as hell weren’t high on life. I rode the elevator with a woman asking me for money to get her something to eat. I watched a cockroach crawl from my open window into my apartment.

After doing a little research, I also learned that a woman was murdered in my apartment about 5 years ago--strangled to death. Hello, deadbolt lock. I now understand your presence. There’s a blog based out of Edgewater that gives the local news, be it crime, events, local businesses, and the like. I read recent stories of crimes happening a block away from me, or on my street, a mere 3 hours before I arrived home.

Did I mention that I am living on my own? I mean, my cat Gretchen is my darling little huntress in her own right, but that’s usually for predators smaller than a bottle of nail polish.

So what did I do? I had recently started seeing another guy, and found myself staying at his place half of the week. It made my commute to work longer, and I traveled twice as much, just to go home, feed Gretchen, pack clothes and go back to his place.

This is no way to live. It got to the point that when I did stay alone (and now I am single again so that is a lot more often), I was incredibly uncomfortable. I wasn’t happy with my apartment; it didn’t feel like mine, and while I got over the original fear for my safety while at home, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. When you get your own place, you want to make it a refuge that you return to after a long day (or night). You kick back in your undies on your cheap/free sofa/futon, do whatever makes you feel good, and fall asleep knowing that this is all yours. That’s living the dream in your early to mid twenties, isn’t it?

So I did what any broke kid stuck in an 18-month lease could do: I rearranged and reconfigured. Dear readers, this is something that I think people forget about when they find themselves stuck in a rut: To make a change on a smaller level. Here’s what I did:

~~I Mixed it up a Bit: I felt like the current set up in my studio made it seem smaller, so I arranged it to accentuate that I had a long, narrow apartment that really can’t be cut up into sections, and I keep my closet/bathroom doors open. Now the room flows easily.

~~I put more Things on the wall: A fan, posters I snagged from random events, concert tickets, hell--post its and scraps of paper of things I don’t want to forget. My niece sent me a painting of a lion, and as soon as I buy a frame, it’s going up on my wall too.

~~I Added a little Green: I got the cheapest and easiest plants to care for--a bamboo plant, and a Pothos plant (you know the ones; they’re just green mid-size leaves that grow in abundance on long green vines. Cut off a piece and put it in a wine/liquor bottle filled with water; they don’t even need dirt to keep growing.)

~~I Feed the Senses: I Burn a candle or incense as soon as I get home. I put on some music AS SOON AS I GET HOME. This quells the quiet of being alone.

~~I try to have People over: This makes me a little more conscious of my living space. I make sure I can accommodate my guests’ needs (be it as simple as a glass of water and a place to sit, and a comfortable room temp). Also, getting compliments on my place, like, ‘Oh wow, this is So You,’ make me feel like my personality is coming through, and that makes for a home worthy to chill in.

This makes my apartment more bearable. No need to go Martha Stewart on the place, just put some of yourself into it. But make sure you’re getting out, too. Go hang with friends doing what you love to do; just don’t forget about your own lair--because you can’t get used to it and love it without being there to make it yours.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

'Things I Caught on the Train' (PIlot)

Dear Obnoxious Train Rider,
I am writing you to send my condolences to your poor friend whose boyfriend tried to sleep with her cousin. When I heard the horrible offense (along with the other 12 train passengers) I could not believe my ears. To think, after that huge party at your house where your buddy was able to supply a "fuckload of coke," and you got the bangin DJ "from L.A.", it would end in such disaster. Even worse, that cousin, who was "clearly asking for it," should have controlled herself and not followed him into the bathroom where he proceeded to finish off those last two lines.
Tell me, OTR, do you think your friend will really take him back? After hearing you so adamantly exclaim, "Leave his Druggie Ass alone and Find Someone Else" numerous times, I highly doubt she will ever consider "touching that MotherFucker Again."
I think I speak on behalf of train riders everywhere when I say that I truly hope this situation gets resolved quickly. I would hate to later hear about another mad loft party disaster.


Sincerely,
~Polite Observer~

"I Want to Get Away, I Wanna Fly Away..."

"Yeah...yeah...yeah..."

Lenny Kravitz has been stuck in my head since about 3:00 yesterday. It seemed the perfect theme song on my last day of work.

LAST DAY OF WORK!!!!

Guys, I'm UNEMPLOYED. And could not be happier. This is usually the part where people freak out about making money, and what happens next, but... I'm just not worried.

Update: It's been confirmed. I am.

I'm a resourceful gal, and will be able to find/do something to keep me afloat.

This is the part of my life where I stop wasting my time trying to please anyone for a paycheck. This is the part where I stop compromising my values, and bring humanity back into my life, instead of dwindling myself down to a number. I mean, really, look at the way it's set up: Anything that identifies us involves numbers. Social Security Numbers, Account numbers, Case Numbers, Reference numbers, Credit Scores. My job got to the point where when I would receive a spreadsheet of credit card account holders to garnish, the names were completely omitted.

We may as well put a barcode on the back of everyone's necks. It saves plastic and paper, I'm sure.

I do not doubt that there is some beauty to the Universal aspect of the numeric system, and it is a great way to keep track of things, but let's not forget that Hearts beat, Blood flows, and Brains buzz beneath those numbers. If we lose that, we lose everything.

Hm, I didn't expect to go there... "What I was trying to get at" was how excited I am to be able to pursue my other projects wholeheartedly. What am I without my passions? I am working on musical collaborations, writing numerous stories at once, creating wearable items, and petting my kitty.

MY KITTY, GRETCHEN.
You've seen her before. Haven't you?

She's my little angel.

I need to modify my lifestyle to allow me more time to do the things that make me who I am. And not only am I trying to create, but I intend to go back to school and finish that Bachelor's I started 6 years ago. And I can tell you that working a 9-5, barely writing/creating and trying to fit in a class here and there is not going to help me succeed. I am going to find a job that is more fluid with my sensibilities. Or maybe I won't find a job. Or may be I'll just have a bunch of different jobs. Who knows?

All I know, is that my happiness comes first. End of Story.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

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.~

Happy Memorial Day--uh, Evening!

I missed yesterday, I know, I know, I'm sorry. I was in the burbs without the 'net.

But if you'd like to see the progress of my knitting adventures, Click here!

In other news, I've started writing a melodrama. In script form. I've never completed a single script (or anything else for that matter), but I am determined as hell to finish this one. I already have the entire plot figured out, in three acts. It's not really good, it would remind you a little bit of a soap opera and Basic Instinct, but I need to do something lighthearted, and not as deep as what I normally write. I think if I start with something small like this, it will spur me to finish the projects that really matter to me. I began the script yesterday, and my first goal is to have Act One's script done by Friday. Not a bad goal, considering I don't have much of a life, and it's not a novel.

So let's see how that goes!!

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Oh Paper, How I love theee.

That's Me. If I were Anne Hathaway playing Jane Austen, at least.

I never start a story on my laptop.

Seriously, never. It's so... bulky, electronic, and... dry.

I had begun watching 'Becoming Jane' today, and some of my favorite scenes have absolutely nothing to do with that Hot Dude from Limerick. It's when Jane is alone. For example:

-The opening scene of the film; it's early morning, and Jane is writing alone at a desk in a nightgown and shawl. It's so quiet; just the sound of a faucet dripping, snoozing piglets, her family sleeping. She plucks some notes out on the piano for inspiration, thinking. Then she finds the words, writes them down, reads over it, and in a little fit of accomplishment, plays a happy tune on the piano, waking the entire household (including the Pigs) and startling the maid.

-She just overheard Hot Dude from Limerick consider her work juvenile (after falling asleep during her open letter to her newly engaged sister), and runs upstairs to tear apart the pages she wrote. She then pulls out a trunk from under the bed, and opens it, reading over other pieces of her work-- it's filled with single pages of her writing, ink, quills, and all other literary paraphernalia. I love this one. It makes me think of my approach to writing, and the disorganization that comes with it.

To be completely honest, most of my writing is scattered about on sheets of paper of various sizes, shoved between notebooks and textbooks on my bookshelves and in drawers. Even the notebooks I have that are devoted to writing are paper-clipped and dog-eared like I just have no place to put my things.

But I love it. I love picking up an old journal and going through it for inspiration. I find stories I had completely forgotten about. It's like finding an old friend. And we become reacquainted, but with new knowledge and experiences to draw from, the friendship evolves into something else. Something better, perhaps? Or maybe something that would never come to fruition. And I enjoy seeing my handwriting on the pages. I change it, consciously, from time to time, just to play with lettering. And I love the way it feels between my fingers--the new paper, the old paper, the high quality versus low quality, the thin and thick, the recycled--the crinkling sound a melody in my ears as I leaf through my imagination.

Oh, and the look of the new sheet of paper. It is so intimidating, yet so inviting. I want whatever I write to be magnificent, but I want there to be imperfections as well. I'll doodle on it just to break it in.

I don't transfer stories to computer until I'm sure it is something I would like to seriously pursue, or eventually post online somewhere. Only then do I open my laptop. Even if I have more ideas for the story, I still begin on paper before transferring to a word document.

It's so difficult to think freely when you have a word processor correcting your misspellings and underlining your grammatical errors. The bright light is disturbing, I have to keep my hands on Home Row. My thoughts flow so well from my left hand to the pen to the paper, and the sound is much more soothing than the click-clacking of keys (which I enjoy as well, but only when blogging--which happens to be the only time I don't use paper).

Which brings me to pens. Oh... pens.

I'll save that for another post.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

P.S. I just started knitting! Check out my other blog for the amazing adventure... there's pics!

Day 2!

Movie Review:

Okay, show of hands: Who actually saw the movie D.E.B.S.? Better yet, who here has heard of the movie?

That’s what I thought.

D.E.B.S., a satirical romance comedy based around a group of trained, hot, post-high school super-spies, is one of those off-the-radar, pseudo-cult films. To be truly honest, unless you like gay romance plots, or Michael Clarke Duncan, you probably wouldn’t have run into it.

The story takes place in a secret school that trains young women to be kickass spies. It’s like Charlie’s Angels in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms (Yes, they go on missions in these outfits too. Don’t ask me where they hide the guns.). On a surveillance mission gone awry, the star pupil of the school runs into one of the most dangerous criminals of the time, and the two hit it off... sorta. The story takes off from there with a little bit of cat of mouse, a dose of self-realization, and a teeny bit of acceptance. All to a pretty cool soundtrack. Especially this song.

When you look at the big picture, the film is totally cheesy and unrealistic, and for the most part, this is intentional. The reason I enjoy this film so much is because it reminds me (and other women, I’m sure) of my youth, when I had my imaginary spy missions, and foes to defeat. The romance aspect is cute, as well: a girl finding something out about herself, and risking everything for happiness.

LGBT film fans, put the movie on the shelf with Better Than Chocolate, Saving Face, The Incredibly True Adventure of 2 Girls in Love. It’s good for the days you want some lighthearted fun with your lesbian romance; it doesn’t all have to be about overcoming will-crushing adversity.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Day/Blog Post #1

All right, so I ran into an unexpected 'no internet access for a few days' snag there, but things are back to normal! So today is officially Day one of my 30 Day Writing Challenge. Here's the first post I wrote up, but couldn't get on here:

About two months ago, I had a major panic attack. Since then, I have been having trouble sleeping. While I have managed to get the other panicky symptoms under relative control, this one seems to be a lingering black cloud over my head. I find myself too tense to just lay down at bedtime and drift off to sleep. My mind constantly races over various worries, like:

-What was that rumbling sound? (I live right next to the train)

-Why is Gretchen meowing? Does she know something I don’t?

-My breathing seems louder...am I sick?

-My hip hurts sleeping on this couch. Do I have a bone disease?

-Why is that train so loud? (I live right next to the train)

-What if a plane hits my building?

-What if I don’t wake up?

-I just took a deep breath. Why?

-Is that a cancerous bump/mole/scratch/itch?

-Did I lock the door?

-Will this place burn down?

-Why am I thinking these things? Am I foreshadowing a huge disaster/cataclysm?

So, to offset that, I turn on the TV to cartoons and read webcomics until my eyes can no longer stay open. This is normally around 2 or 3 a.m., and then I have to get up around 6:15 for work. I feel like a zombie, I’m out of sorts all day, and the same thing happens when I get home. Rinse and repeat.

I read somewhere that the lights from computer screens trick your brain into staying awake so, ultimately, that doesn’t help me fall asleep. The television doesn’t really affect me, but I wonder if the depth of my sleep is influenced by the constant (although quite low) audio. I’ll have to look that up.

I mean, I love the idea of unwinding after work with a good show and a good comic (or six), but not to the point where I share a bed (read: couch) with my laptop. So I would like to try out a few different remedies for more successful sleep--and hopefully, sleep that begins Before Midnight.

Note: Keep in mind, there are nights where I get good sleep-- with my boyfriend. Normally, when I stay with him, I can fall asleep to some music, or nod off while we watch a show, and be fine. But we don’t live together; and “a good night’s sleep” is not good enough reason to convince my guy to consider cohabitation.

So my goal here is: Good sleep, by myself, without the aid of numerous electronic appliances running all night (My electricity is included in rent, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be aware of my energy consumption).

A few remedies I am considering:

~Chamomile Tea

~Meditation Before Bed

~Carby Dinner (Think pasta)

~Reading a book (one you hold in your hands, with pages)

~Listening to music (Better than the visual stimulation)

The hardest part of this whole thing will be actually getting myself to try these. The last thing I want to do is trigger some kind of discomfort by straying from my normal routine. Let's see what happens.

But tell me: What are your pre-bedtime habits? Are they good? Bad? Have any ideas to help me get better sleep?

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

'Get off your lazy ass and put your pen to paper' Writing Challenge!

Actually, I don't even have to get off my lazy ass to do this.

I'm starting something of a Writing Challenge to jump-start my inspiration--or rather, keep the momentum going. Recently, I began writing again (after about 3 months of nothing.), and I'm so excited about it, I'm afraid I'll lose steam.

Well, I intend to prevent that from happening. I bet writing is in the Top Ten list of 'Things Most People fail to Stick with'. Right with Exercise, Healthy eating and Underwater Basket-weaving.

I started this blog a while ago, and would really love to put it to readable, enjoyable use. I need to get back into the habit of writing every day, even if it's about nothing at all. So I'll start this challenge off small.

30 Day Challenge:

-Create a writing 'ritual' to do before each writing session.

-Write a portion of my story every day

-Update this blog every day.

This is very open-ended. No word minimums (yet), and the blog can be about whatever I want it to be. The ritual is just my own little thing. I want to create a safe place for my writing, be it through the revamping of my current desk space, a little meditation beforehand, boiling the bones of a pigeon...

Before I truly begin this, today I will create a tentative outline of the story I started (by the seat of my pants), to try and prevent any possible dead ends. But consider this blog as Day One of the Challenge.

Anyone wanna join in? You can do this one, or any challenge you come up with, but at least we can hold each other accountable.

So ready for this.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

BLOG REVAMP!

Yay! Changes coming soon! Nothing big, but you might see more words up here... and stuff. And I have a Twitter account now! I have no idea why I got that!

Coming soon:

Cheesy fight scenes

Really good movies/books

Really bad artwork

He-Man/She-Ra Reflections.

Stay tuned, dear reader. Because I know there's only one of you out there.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~