Some Wayward Thoughts

Unfortunately, NaNoWriMo was not a success. Although, it was my first attempt during a month that just got a little bit too crazy so I feel like I get a pass on this one. There’s always next time!

I haven’t been writing much lately, my life has been all sorts of surprises, excitements, disappointments, heart aches, and warm fuzzies this past few weeks. I need to find some time to hammer out some chapters, I’m thinking a library hunker-down is in order this week.

Updates? The insanity that’s hit me full force? Well, as I was getting heavily into planning my wanderlust experiences a new force came into my life, subtly then all at once. Needless to say it’s taking up a lot of my time, which I am more than willing to give. For lack of a better name, since for some reason it’s incredibly hard for me to come up with one, we’ll just call him Flynn Rider. Just insert all those cliches you know I’m thinking and you’ll understand what’s going on there with Flynn Rider. It’s one of those insane things that you don’t ever think actually exist.

Apart from this lovely and whimsical development, I’ve been dealing with a hurricane of tangled negativity. The brash speed with which this hit was unbelievable and frankly, nearly unbearable.  I’m still recovering from the emotional beating.

I’ve had excessive amounts of emotional changes from both ends of the spectrum hit me all at once. It’s something that has caused my mind to be a little bit scattered and blind-sided to say the least. But, all these things I experience are something I need both to grow as a person and a writer. What is good literature without experience? It’s just not good.

I’m hoping that this week I’ll be working on some scene setting exercises, which I will share with you. Just little excerpts to set a mood, tone, etc. I feel like I’m a little out of practice with the poetic-type prose. I haven’t written any of my bleak, post-modern short stories and I feel as if I may be over due.

My thoughts seem to be scattering to the winds yet again, dancing away with the dust.

Well, keep reading, dear reader and do love the skin you’re in, it’s the only one you get.



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.

Friday’s Misadventure

So, ladies and gentlemen, I had myself a almost movie misadventure last night.

I was headed off downtown with my dear friend (who will be known from here on in as Chickadee) to watch her younger brother preform in an artistic show case for youth held by Art Quake. I’m all dolled up, wearing a comfortable yet cute cotton black dress and these lovely wedge heals that I had purchased weeks before but I did not have the chance to wear them until last night. I felt very feminine and lovely, which is rare for me.

So, we set out down the hill from Chickadee’s house to the skytrain. Now, I’m not much one for walking in heals, but I managed with only a few mis-steps that caused a slight tumble, and only ever on my right leg (the one with my bad ankle, go figure). As we approach the skytrain I hear the heal of my shoe dragging on the the ground, but I’m not dragging my feet, I’m lifting them with a little more vigour than normal to keep up with Chickadee and avoid a face plant. I look down, and my heal IS dragging on the ground because low and behold the wedge part of my show has detached at the heal from the part wrapped around my foot! 

This kind of thing NEVER happens in real life?! At least, that was my first thought. I felt like a girl in a really bad chick flick! I was waiting for a random modern-day prince charming to come out of the wood work and carry me to the nearest shoe repair, pay for the repairs and then take me out for a drink. But, no such luck.

So, Chickadee and I have a bit of a giggle over the absurdity of this shoe-dilemma. I shuffle onto the skytrain and as we need to transfer trains, at the transfer station there is a Shopper’s Drug Mart. Salvation! I shuffle on in and we buy some krazy-glue. This has to work right! I tell the cashier what it’s for and almost ominously she says, “That’s probably not going to work.” Chickadee and I dismiss her and continue back into the skytrain station and glue my shoe back together. Success! I may have glued it on a little crooked, but hey, I saved my cute shoes. So, we get on our second train and I am relieved that I wont have to worry about my shoe any longer!

Or, so I thought. As we’re making out way to the venue for the show, I trip and feel utterly stupid for not being able to walk in heals (because all women should be able to right?). But oh no, it wasn’t me. The shoe whose heal only came off has now lost the entire wedge bottom! I curse, and sit myself down in the middle of the downtown sidewalk, in a dress and begin to glue my shoe back together again.

I’m fed up. Now, begins the emergency shop for shoes. This I have never had to do. Shoe shopping was always because I wanted shoes, not because I needed shoes. I feel so terrible for detouring out night, and that Chickadee has to be dragged along on this ridiculous errand.

Luckily, it’s summertime and shoe stores are open late. We walk into the first shoe store and I go through 4 pairs before I find the ones that are to be the salvation of my night. I figured if I have to buy shoes, they may as well be ones I’ll wear again and that match my dress. (Yes, I’m girly some of the time, sorry gentlemen readers.)

This, is the end of my misadventure. But it was an interesting experience. This things always seem like something that would only happen in a bad comedy. Well folks, it’s apparently a real life occurrence! Surprisingly, I got through all of this with a good sense of humour about the whole thing. I think that that is, in part, due to Chickadee who is good company and never gets upset over life.

The morals of my misadventure? Expect the unexpected. Art imitates life. A good friend goes a long way. Shoes today, gone tomorrow.

Hats off to my cliches.

Antlers of a Dilemma

So, here’s the sich: My tutoring job pays me decent wage, but I get 8 hours a week. Not nearly enough to support me in my endeavour to become an adult and move into an apartment.

Since the company I work for does not proceed with tutoring over the students’ summer vacations I plan to get another serving job to increase my income and support my lifestyle. If this second serving job were to work out, I plan not to go back to the tutoring company. Seems all fine and dandy does it not?

Well, unfortunately it would appear that my students have become accustomed to me. Why? Beats the hell outta me. I personally think I’m a terrible tutor. Let’s be honest here, when I’m not in the mood I deal with my tutoring sections by telling my student to write an essay on whatever topic I pull out of my… head and then proceed to go over it with them when they’ve finished. What do I do while they sweat and stress over this random essay topic? Why, I study my own homework, or read. I give them my attention when they ask for it, but mainly I’m in my own world. I’m not a very good tutor, or so I have led myself to believe.

Turns out, my ESL student is adamant that I tutor him over the summer, and that I continue to tutor him when the new school year arrives. Seriously, Kid? I know that I’ve been your tutor for two years, but how have you not yet realized that I have NO idea what I’m doing? He even recommended me to a friend, who I also tutor now. Today, another student surprised me, she also asked me to tutor her over the summer. WHAT IS HAPPENING? Did they conspire? As soon as I decided I want out, they’re trying to pull me back in! What the hell am I doing right?

What’s a girl to do? I need that time to work at a job that will allow me to pay my rent, also if I were to tutor them by what miracle would I get any of my own work done? It seems like a simple answer, “Just say no.” It works with drugs, and forest fires, why not with telling kids I wont teach them? Unfortunately, I have a  weak heart and feel obligated to these kids. Who else is going to tell them that what they’re doing is actually quite pointless and will in no way help them when they get to college or university? For my own sanity’s sake (what little is left anyways), I need to say no. I need to tell them, “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve got my own shit to deal with.” But it feels so cold! I feel like I’m shoving the baby bird out of the nest right after it’s hatched, so long birdy, have a nice fall, try not to die at the bottom.

Of course, I realize I’m exaggerating  and that these kids will just find another tutor. But do I really have an obligation to these kids, (keep in mind, that “kids” in this context means high school students)? Or am I just filling myself with needless guilt (which I tend to do)? It does seem like I’ve already made up my mind to say no, but I guess what I’m looking for is reassurance that I’m not hanging these kids out to dry to benefit myself.

If you think you have an answer for me, go ahead, lay it on me. I’ve always appreciated the advice of strangers, they’re never biased in my favour.

(I apologize for the enormous amount of cliches you just endured, it happens when I’m in a pickle.)