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

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Lost


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.

Home in a Hurricane


I’ve returned from my lazy travels. It was a cruise ship, the best thing to call it is lazy.
The sights were amazing, we got 1km away from Hubert Glacier. It was a spectacular sight, and all I could think was, “Now, remember every detail so you can have a reference to write about glaciers.” My brain never stopped making writing references. Got some sea sickness when the boat was rocking ridiculous amounts through a storm on our way back and although I wanted nothing more than the spinning of my brain and stomach to stop I couldn’t help but think, “Now I have a proper reference to write about sea sickness.”

I could tell you about each port, each souvenir store, each meal, how the locals were kind, and on and on as everyone does about their vacations, but I wont bore you. Yes, I had a lovely vacation with my mom and my g-mom. Yes, I indulged in the gluttonous Gomorra that is a cruise ship, and yes, I watched the ridiculous shows and a cappella groups. I did it all. There is nothing else to say.

I had intended to go on about the horrible wastefulness that is a cruise ship, the spending, the food, the alcoholism, the sheer sinfulness of it all (ironically with it’s own chaplain). But, I’ve decided not to delve into the hateful things in humanity.

Coming soon…
I managed to finish Seeing and within the next 12 hours you will have a review of that amazing piece of literature. I started reading We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, which I also plan to finish in the next 24 hours so that will also be coming up.

And now, here is the hurricane that I road in on, or rather the one that settled in my bedroom…

My step-dad’s cat decided to spend some time in my suitcase. He was a little late to become a stow-away, but I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t have the heart to break his spirit.