Gotta Get Caught Up!

So my dear readers, last week I kind of screwed the pooch with my writing goal. I wrote nothing, nada, not a word.

Granted, it was my birthday and I was out drinking the last year away… And when I say drinking I mean going out to dinner and having three drinks. I’m a wild woman, let me tell you!

Anyways, I got distracted and nothing got done. Also, I’ve been swept up in the sudo-reality of Master Chef on youtude. It’s addicting, don’t judge.

But, today because I live in beautiful BC, I got to experience the “Family Day” holiday. Yes, we have a holiday for celebrating families, a week earlier than the rest of Canada, might I add. So, I decided to use this glorious extra day that the government has so kindly bestowed upon me to catch up on my writing.

4,528 words written! Three weeks of writing goals blasted through! Oh yeah!

I did have some troubles with procrastination today, but I powered through it. I also had a seat thief.File_000

Every time I got up to get tea or use the washroom she stole my chair! Oh well, her cuteness let her get away with it.

I’m quite proud of my progress today. I got to write about a prison break, it was interesting to see how I would break out. Luckily, our captures were lazy prison builders.

I’m happy to share my writer’s triumph with you all!

Lots more to go!

Similar Posts:
Writing Progress February 1 – 7, 2016
writing progress 2-3-16
January gone


Life and All The Names

I’m still here, albeit in a lesser sense, but I’m still here.

I’ve had a rough couple of months. I’ve been over worked, emotionally strained, more stressed than I’ve ever been, hit bottom, and slowly began to  find myself again.

My little girl, my beautiful kitten had a genetic defect, which didn’t affect her until she grew to a certain size. Being a manx my little Lux had manx syndrome and lost nerve control at the end of her spine and all the corresponding sphincters. My landlords got angry, my vet bills got expensive (even though the vet did nothing for her and I did all the research). In the end I had to put my little girl down at nine months old. I couldn’t bare to watch her in so much pain. I live with pain every day and I couldn’t put her through that. She now resides next to my first cat Cleo, who lived a good 17 years. She lies under a bed of evening primrose.

The stress and grief have kept me from writing and reading. I couldn’t think of anything else. I’m still grieving, even though it’s been almost a month since I lost her. But things are getting easier. Today, I actually feel a little bit more like me.

So I chose today to finally finish reading All The Names by José Saramago. I’ve loved every novel of his that I’ve read. All The Names, however is the only one that has left me with a complete and utter sense of the spectacular beauty that lies in the most ordinary people. Blindness and Seeingwhile masterfully written, open your eyes but make you weep for humanity. The Cave makes you cringe at the horrible way our lives are dictated by the cold fist of capitalism. All The Names just gave me an incredible sense of the complexities and subtitles of the human condition.

The story is almost disappointingly simple. Senor José, a clerk at the Central Registry, has a hobby of collecting the life information of celebrities from the news papers, but when he accidentally takes the registry card of an unknown woman he sets out to find her. He doesn’t do much besides research. There is absolutely no action whatsoever, unless you consider walking and bus taking action. But Saramago’s style is so captivating that you don’t even realizes there isn’t any action. There were so many passages in this novel that I fell in love with. Here’s on of my favourites:

“As for the metaphysical thoughts, my dear Sir, allow me to say that any brain is capable of producing them, it’s just that we cannot always find the words.”

Of course, naming the main character after one’s self gives rise to a plethora of questions and gives new meaning to the character. But the depth in which his thoughts were written and the conversations that Senor José has with himself reflect so well the inner workings of a person who spends nearly all his time alone that you forget that you’re not reading about yourself. I’m kind of a major loner myself these days and to know that other minds work so tirelessly to explain things to themselves gives me a sense of comfort.

The only thing I didn’t much care for in this novel was the way it was translated. This happens whenever I read a book by Saramago or Marquez. The grammars of our languages are so different. While the translator did a great job, I’m just not fond of reading dialogue between people all in one sentence or having about 30 clauses in one sentence separated by commas. But, that’s really more of a taste issue.

I highly recommend that you read All The Names. By the end you wont help but have a soft smile creep onto your face.


Today I was thinking about my living situation and how much I enjoy living on my own, essentially alone. I did, after a need for cuddles, get myself a kitten, but still I live alone. I am so used to being alone, I like it. i’ve also been single for longer than I’d care to admit, but again it doesn’t really bother me. Yes, I get an urge now and again to go out and find a date, but hey I’m human we all have needs. 

Then I started thinking about my mom and how she reacted when I moved out. I felt like I broke her heart. But when I think about it her reaction was understandable. My mom has never once in her entire life lived alone. She grew up with her parents, in the house her grandparents grew up in. Her uncle moved next door when he grew up. She went a few towns over to school, but she had a roommate, or many. My mom married at the age of 21. My dad moved in with my mom and her parents then after having my brother they immigrated to Canada. Once here they ended up meeting many other Czech immigrants so when my dad was off finding work and my mom was home with two little kids she still had people she could talk to who lived near by. 

My parents separated when I turned 16, but after my dad moved out my brother and I were still living with my mom. Then the Governor came into the picture (my step-dad but the name has no connection with The Walking Dead). He moved in with us, surprisingly. My mom didn’t tell me he had officially moved in and I had to call and ask her why all his plants and his cat were suddenly in our house. 

Even though my brother and I are now moved out my mom still lives with the Governor. She has never lived alone in her whole life. She has no idea what it’s like and neither does my brother. My brother has travelled many places on his own but he always makes friends and meets people. He currently lives with a roommate. The only person in my immediate family who’s lived on his own is my dad. He moved out and lives on his own out in the middle of nearly no where. But then again, his girlfriend is frequently there so he’s not alone all that often. 

It’s really just me in the family that craves that aloneness. I live in my head most of the time anyways so living alone just makes sense for me I guess. I can imagine living with roommates and the fun that it could entail, but I think I’m really more of a loner these days. I love my friends and I love seeing them but it’s rare when I do with my busy schedule. This makes me think that I might be very selfish. I’m so into myself that I don’t spend enough time with other people… but I always think the worst of myself. 

Is it odd that I’m so comfortable being alone? I like to just sit and listen to music and think, or read, or write. Am I half way to wearing a trench coat and skulking around the neighbourhood park? Isn’t that way loners do? 

I’d love some feedback on my black sheep behaviour. 


Similar posts:

How to live with letters: Loneliness vs lonership

Nothing Fun Ever Happens in Canada: A year of self-knowledge

nohablogarcia: reclaiming my(introverted)self


I’m at a loss, loss of thought. Does anyone else experience this? I’m sure they do.

But today, I feel at a loss. I’ve lost my outward me, my essence, my drive.

What am I doing? Am I even doing anything? Suddenly life is going through the motions and I have not created a thing. Inspiration, imagination, creativity, strength, worth: they’re lost. Where did I lose them?

This is my fault. Why? I’ve domesticated myself. Not in a 50’s house wife making her husband meatloaf kind of way, that I will never be morally able to accomplish. Besides, you need to have at the very least a relationship to consider cooking for something that resembles a significant other. No, no I’m still just me in my world. I have added no one.

Well, that’s not entirely true. My domestication comes from the life of the being I am now responsible for. I have in my hands the life of a kitten who is entirely mine. Her name is Lux. She and I share my basement suit. I call her my little girl, she probably calls me Pink-Thing-With-The-Food. I pride myself on the belief that my cat is NOT people.

But I digress. I haven’t written anything. Where’s my authorial voice? I don’t remember leaving it at the pub or the hair dresser or in class. Last time I wrote anything was about a month ago. A month?! And I call myself a writer. I should be scoffed at.

Oh look, the clock struck midnight. I’m officially twenty-three, but that’s not really true. If we’re going by exacts I’ll be twenty-three at the stroke of about 6:30am. Don’t wish me a pleasant new age just yet.

Where are my words? I feel like I’ve left them in the back pocket of my jeans, only I can’t remember which jeans. I can’t wash any of them because if I do I may ruin my words. But, they’re lost in a mountain of unwashed jeans, with thousands of pockets to search and I just don’t have the energy to look through them all.

Maybe my words will find me. They’ll scurry up to my door like a lost dog that’s just remembered where home is. They’ll saunter up, proud of their accomplishments, proud that they finally remember where they’re favourite bowl of food is filled. They’ll wag their tails and lick my hands and tangle around my legs in joy that they’ve finally found that person that gives them the best scratch behind the ears.

Or maybe, just maybe my words are waiting for me. Waiting for the time that I’m ready to see them. They’re there, in the shadows, lurking, watching, waiting. I’m not ready to see them yet, I’m not ready to feel enough, to be enough to use them. I haven’t thought of them lately, I haven’t tried to find them. I’m not ready to use them.

Either way, I feel like I’ve lost something. Do I grieve? Do I morn? or do I just go on? Son of a bitch, I almost rhymed. Good writers don’t rhyme. You see, you see how empty these words are? These aren’t mine. Mine aren’t with me.

I’m at a loss, but they’ll be found or come back or show themselves. Just you wait, just you wait.