Morgan Elektra's Blog, page 6
March 5, 2017
The End of the Beginning
This evening, I typed the final words on the follow-up story to A Single Heartbeat, called (at least for the time being… it’s a working title and may change) A Kiss of Brimstone.
Well, okay, not the FINAL words.
Just the final words of the first draft. It clocks in at about 24,000 words, and it definitely meets the ‘rough’ criteria for a rough draft. But that’s okay. What’s on paper now is the major beats of the story I wanted to tell.
I know there are going to be several revisions. It’s in the hands of my incredibly talented beta team now. (I call them Beta Team Voltron, because separately they’re great, but together they’re super powerful.)
When I start a story, there’s this sense of excitement. It’s all sparklers and tingles. The middle is usually a slog. It’s sitting down to write even when I feel about as inspired as a piece of cardboard (and the words coming out reflect it).
But the end is such a crazy mix of emotions.
There’s some of that joy and elation I start with. The “YAY I’M DONE WOOHOO I FINISHED A THING!!” There’s some of the slog, too. The “Oh thank god that’s done with.”
Also, there’s this sense of… let down. Or, sadness maybe. All the time I’ve spent working on it, and it’s finished. Even though there are other things I can work on next, and I know I’ll be coming back to this story even, in rewrites, I’m still a little bummed not to be writing it for the first time. I will miss this story, at this stage. I don’t know if that makes any sense to anyone else, but it’s the way I feel.
To celebrate finishing the (very) rough draft, and to hold on to that feeling of working on A Kiss of Brimstone a little longer, I thought I would share a short excerpt with you here. I hope you enjoy it!
(I want to stress, again, that this is the rough draft. I have done literally ZERO editing, so there may be typos and everything you’re about to read is subject to change.)
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The modern age has become a surprising haven for the creatures of superstition. For humans, they exist only between the pages of a book or on a screen. Even the evidence of their eyes and ears is often discounted as trickery, either of the mind, or some new technological marvel.
Across the globe in busy city streets, beings of legend find it easy to get lost in a teeming crowd. To be one more unquestioned oddity, worth hardly more than a few strange looks.
Their world lives alongside the world of humans, in its shadowed places. It is populated by myth and magic. Vampires, werewolves, witches… And more.
Everything humans whisper about while huddled in their homes on stormy nights. Beasts seen so rarely they are often believed by even the eldest vampires alive to have been conjured purely from the tangle of the human psyche.
But they, too, thrive in the city’s vibrant dark.
***
Andras crouched on the building’s ledge, the tips of his black talons digging into the crumbling grey concrete. He kept his wings flared for balance, the gleaming raven feathers blending into the night sky above him. The muscles of his shoulders and thighs burned from holding still for so long, but he didn’t so much as twitch.
Music drifted up to him from the street below, the thundering bass line vibrating in his bones. Cars, buses, and taxis whizzed by, horns honking, brakes screeching. A Yemeni man yelled for someone to “look out!” Someone cursed back in Italian. A woman’s high pitched laughter cut through the warm evening air. Andras found the near-constant noise of the city refreshing after the piercing silence in Kimah.
He tilted his face up to the sky, the ends of his hair brushing the bare skin of his back, and inhaled. He could scent fried food, exhaust, refuse, and dye from a textile factory on the cross street with each breath.
The acrid, burnt hair stench of his quarry’s soul was easily discernible, even mixed in with the city’s myriad scents.
A grim smile teased the corner of Andras’ mouth. It had been an age since he’d hunted on his own. He had underlings now to ferry the souls of the newly departed, and no one had escaped the Silent City in a century.
Until Richard Boone.
At first, Andras had sent his third best legion, unconcerned with one rogue soul. But the narcissistic CEO had led them on a merry chase. They’d lost him in Shanghai when he hijacked the body of a financier and disappeared.
He sent his best men next. His first and oldest legion, made up of his most loyal comrades. They had fought through the Dark Ages together.
But Boone had somehow eluded them as well, leaving a trail of destruction and death in his wake.
Andras would not allow him to evade capture for another day.
In the packed club below, Richard Boone’s soul squatted within a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man with a bright smile and a mind full of blood-soaked thoughts. Unlike the other humans he’d possessed since his escape, whose souls had fought the presence of an interloper, Boone had found a kindred spirit in Dan Spencer. Left unchecked, the pair could wreak untold havoc.
It was too bad for Boone that his vessel’s name was already on Andras’ list.
He flicked out his long tongue, tasting the late spring air. Lust, greed, passion, desperation, sorrow, and love all flavored the breeze, firing Andras’ blood and filling his mouth with saliva. He flexed his fingers and shifted on the ledge, the muscles of his thighs bunching. Excitement crackled along his spine as he waited for Dan Spencer and his wayward passenger to emerge into the night.
Despite the fact that he rarely left Kimah anymore, Andras was familiar with the club in his sights. Several of the demons in his First Legion frequented Sang in their humanoid forms. He had contemplated doing the same, following Spencer into the vampire-owned venue. But there were too many humans present. He couldn’t risk it.
Instead, he perched on the roof of the building across the street, watching the entrance. The line in front was long, snaking around the corner. Spencer had strolled inside over half an hour ago. Andras suspected he too was hunting. Boone’s vile presence inside him had pushed him to action.
Andras didn’t think he would have to wait much longer. But he had been born millennia ago and battle tested in the fires of civilization’s creation. In Kimah, he had risen to the rank of Marquis. He was no stranger to patience. Especially in service of a goal.
Tonight, he would harvest souls.
February 25, 2017
Voices Carry
One of the things people often ask writers is, ‘Where do you get your ideas?’
Harlan Ellison famously responded to the question with the answer, ‘Schenectady’. Which is hilariously snarky, but I totally get the inclination. Because the idea of trying to explain to another person where these things come from feels absurd and daunting.
But I’m going to try and give you a little glimpse into my process… At least in regards to this latest story I’m working on. Because why not?
Here’s the thing. The real, weird, gooey truth is… sometimes I don’t even get ideas. What I get is a visit from a voice. Not a literal voice. Not exactly.
It’s a voice like an inner voice, only it’s not mine. It’s not me.
Other authors have talked about how the characters they write are part of them. One of my favorite authors, Diana Gabaldon, tells a cheeky story about having tea with a group of fans and listening to them all talk about Black Jack Randall. Black Jack is the villain of her novel Outlander, and these fans were expressing all their feelings for how dastardly and terrible BJR was. And Gabaldon quips about how they don’t even realize that they are sitting across the table from him.
I don’t feel that way. In truth, I often feel more like a scribe than a storyteller. I listen to the voices telling me their stories and I write them down. I might be the one crafting the words, painting the picture, but the characters are the ones dictating what goes on paper.
That’s how I sometimes end up in the midst of a story learning things about my characters that I didn’t know before. For example, I’m currently working on a story tentatively titled ‘A Kiss of Brimstone‘. It takes place in the same world as ‘A Single Heartbeat‘, between Ben and Andras.
When I started, I had a vague idea of the story outline. I knew Ben was a vampire hunter, like Will. And I knew Andras was demon.
Now, since I’m not a religious person, I knew I would to need to figure out how exactly Andras fit into the world I had already envisioned. It meant I had to go carefully in the beginning, during the setup. The story began with Andras. And, slowly, Andras began to whisper to me.
Last night, while I was writing, one of the things that I learned was that Andras, my sexy demon lord, is demisexual. It wasn’t something I planned. I didn’t go into writing the story thinking, “I’m going to write a demisexual demon protagonist.”
Yet, as soon as the words took shape on the page, they felt right. Like a truth revealed.
So it’s as simple and as odd as that. Maybe it sounds crazy. I know it feels crazy sometimes. But good crazy. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
And because it’s been stuck in my head since I began planning this blog…
February 19, 2017
Shaving My Face Actually Makes Me Feel Super Fucking Feminine: A PCOS-inspired Rant
***WARNING: This blog post is going to deal with some touchy topics. Things like chronic illness, infertility, menstruation, body image, gender expressions, and societal expectations. If any of those things squick you, turn back now. Oh, also, bad language.***
I have this vague recollection from elementary school, circa maybe fifth grade?, of being really upset that I hadn’t gotten my period yet. Several of my friends had started, and I wanted to be a part of that club. Like monthly bleeding from my vagina would somehow make me a sophisticated woman instead of an awkward little girl.
Like a lot of the notions I had when I was a kid (see my previous blog post), I had no real clue about… well, anything.
Periods are not fucking fun.
[image error]No, it’s cool. I’ve got a wad of cotton. We’ll be fine.
The first time I got my period, I was thirteen.One night, I felt awful-nauseated and like everything hurt and I wanted to cry-and I was upset because I was in chorus and I didn’t want to miss the assembly at school the next day. The next day, it started.
I was both excited and embarrassed by my newfound womanhood. I got a bit of a thrill the first few times I got to say, “Ugh. I’ve got my period.”
Then, the reality of it set in. I often bled for 7 to 9 days.
Let me say that again.
Seven to nine days.
More than a week. On the reg. And I’m not talking about dainty spotting that can be handled by a thin little panty liner you barely even feel. More than half of those days were crampy, miserable, feel like you’re going to cry all the time, heavy flow blood baths.
But see, I figured that was just normal. Despite the times I would look at my friends and go, “Ugh. Period.” and share a knowing eye-roll, we didn’t really talk about it.
The period portion of sex ed was maybe five minutes long. There was mention of “sloughing off uterine lining” and a cartoon of some drops of blood.
No one was like, “Holy fuck, everything makes me cry but I also want to punch everyone. And I’ve been bleeding for six days and there are like CHUNKS of things in my underwear and WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK IS GOING ON?!“
Talking about stuff like that was gross and unfeminine. Even though we were all going through it. Or something like it anyway. So I had no real frame of reference. When cramps made me curl into a ball in bed and cry my eyes out, I just figured that was how things were going to be every month for the next forty or so years.
Washing blood out of my underwear with the bathroom door locked so no one in my family would walk in was the new normal.
On top of that, I got fun new body hair! And because of my familial background (we’re sort of Heinz 57’s on both sides) I did not get wispy, downy blond fuzz. No, we are rather swarthy. So, while dealing with mood swings that made me feel insane, cramps, and rivers of blood, I also had to worry about shaving my legs and underarms. And Nairing my upper lip and between my brows (because, swarthy, remember?)
Welcome to Womanhood!
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As miserable as it was, I was still excited about it. Because I was really looking forward to kids. Even at 13. My older sister had given birth to my nephew when I was 11, and I loved taking care of him. Snot, spit up, poopy diapers. None of it phased me. I was already excited about being a mom, and if I had to put up with some bullshit to get there, well, I was okay with that.
All through high school, I dealt with miserable menses and just chalked it up to the cost of being female.
When I went away to college, the situation got worse. Sometimes I would skip months for no reason. After the first few times, I even stopped having “OMG am I pregnant?” freak outs. (I still tested each time but always got a negative.)
And then I skipped 3 months in a row. I got so worried that I actually mentioned it to a friend, and she had just convinced me to go to the Student Health Center when The Period arrived.
It gets capitals because it was the worst one I had ever had. (Up to that point.)
I was in agony. There was a lot of blood and it was thicker and way darker than usual. I was sure I was dying. Rotting from the inside.
But when I went to ER – the first time in my life I had ever done that – they treated me like I was making a big deal out of nothing. They told me it was just a bad period. To go home and take some aspirin. So that’s what I did.
This went on for years. Until 2005.
By that point, my period was often irregular. I’d skip months. Spot for two weeks. Bleed for a week. Skip another month. There was no cycle to my cycle. And the facial hair situation had gotten embarrassing. Now, it wasn’t just my lip and between my brows. It was my chin and my fucking cheeks. I was becoming the bearded lady. And I had no idea why.
I was also gaining weight, even though I was watching what I ate and even going to a gym 5 days a week. And I was beyond exhausted all the time. I kept nearly falling asleep at the wheel while driving to and from work.
It was the exhaustion that finally drove me to go back to the doctor.
This time, I was lucky. My doctor diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) immediately .
(From The Mayo Clinic: Polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) is a common endocrine system disorder among women of reproductive age. Women with PCOS may have enlarged ovaries that contain small collections of fluid — called follicles — located in each ovary as seen during an ultrasound exam.
Infrequent or prolonged menstrual periods, excess hair growth, acne, and obesity can all occur in women with polycystic ovary syndrome.)
They don’t really know what causes PCOS, but it’s characterized by an excess of androgens in your system. Androgens are “male” hormones. Hence the excess hair growth and problems with ovulation and menstruation.
As happy as I was to have a name for what was going on, that explanation cut pretty deep. I already felt gross, and hearing that my body was too masculine only made it worse. (Not that my doctor said that, but it’s what I heard.)
It turns out I also suffer from hypothyroid, which exacerbated the PCOS. Or vice versa. It’s a bit of a chicken or egg situation there.
My doc hooked me up with a really amazing OB/GYN with a string of letters after his name. The gyno was from South Africa, and a really nice man, which was good… because when he made it clear how difficult it was probably going to be for me to ever conceive, I started to cry.
Now, instead of just feeling gross, I also felt like a failure as a woman. I couldn’t even get knocked up right. Both my fiance (now husband) and the docs were upbeat and supportive. My family was wonderful. But I felt useless and shitty and horrible.
(Side note: This is why articles like the recent NY Post one criticizing Beyonce entitled ‘Having a baby isn’t a miracle and doesn’t make you a goddess‘ piss me right the fuck off. And why I’m not going to link to it and give its author any more hits.
Because, look bitch, for some of us, just getting pregnant IS a fucking miracle. And considering how prevalent PCOS is, probably a lot more than you’d think. So shut your fucking privileged gob.)
We tried, for about a year, to get pregnant. It didn’t happen. Based on my tests, my very lovely OB/GYN said it was unlikely to without medical intervention. And we couldn’t afford upwards of $20,000 a pop to attempt in vitro.
That was a really hard year. Not only did I have to come to terms with the likelihood that I would never give birth, but some preliminary test results indicated that the cells of my uterine lining might be cancerous… which meant that there was even a conversation about whether I would be able to keep my uterus at all. And as much as it caused me pain, the thought of a hysterectomy at 25 made me weep for days.
I’m ashamed to admit how much of my concept of my femininity and womanhood was wrapped up in the presence and function of my uterus and ovaries.
What purpose did I have, I thought more than once, if I wasn’t going to become a mother?
Typing it out like that makes me cringe. Because intellectually, I think that’s total bullshit. All I can say is that I had had an idea of what my life was going to be for so long that I had a really hard time coming to terms with the fact that reality had different plans.
Reality was that I had to take several prescription drugs to make my body function in a fairly normal fashion. Reality was that there is no real cure for PCOS. The symptoms can be treated or alleviated in various ways, but for most sufferers (like me) it’s something we have to deal with every day for the rest of forever.
One of the ways to alleviate or lessen the severity of symptoms is to lose weight. The Catch-22 of that is that having PCOS and hypothyroid makes it extremely difficult for me to do that. My body just doesn’t process things the way it’s supposed to.
At one point, when I was lamenting my lack of weight loss despite the gym membership I actually used, my Eastern European doctor told me, “You would have to work out perhaps 2 to 3 hours a day, 7 days a week, and strictly monitor your diet, to lose a significant enough amount of weight to make a difference.”
I think he was trying to cheer me up, but it was very disheartening.
When society sees someone who is overweight, the automatic assumption always seems to be that they’re lazy and have no self-control.
“Put down the donuts!” “Maybe go for a walk once in awhile, fatty!”
I felt like people who didn’t even know me were looking and me and judging me constantly.
And it felt completely unfair. They didn’t know that I worked out every day and agonized over every meal. How many of them do that? And yet they assume I am somehow worth less, that I brought my condition on myself.
I internalized a lot of that, and it made me feel even shittier. I was miserable most of the time. And as someone who hides and eats my feelings, this was not a healthy way to exist. But I didn’t know what else to do. When my husband and I moved from Georgia to NY, I lost my health insurance and there was no way I could afford any pricy medical interventions (some women with PCOS have great success with gastric bypass) on my own.
So I did the best I could, and hid how much I hated my body. I would wax my facial hair (swarthy, remember?) while locked in the bathroom to hide from my family. Just like when I used to wash the blood out of my underwear.
Oh, and the waxing? I hated that too. Going to a salon to have a stranger do it was humiliating. You want me to make small talk while you yank out hair that is a source of my shame? Really?
Doing it at home at least afforded me some privacy. Though, the downside is that for waxing to be effective, the hair has to be at least a quarter inch long. Which probably doesn’t sound all that long, unless you’re a woman and that hair is on your face.
Then it seems really long. NOTICEABLY long.
Not to mention, waxing is painful. Afterwards, my skin would feel raw, and I would often break out. And I felt like it was still noticeable. The pinkness of it even a day later screamed “BEARDED LADY!” to me.
But I didn’t want to shave. Just the idea of shaving my face made my insides twist. Because, again, shaving my face felt like such a masculine thing. I didn’t want to give up yet another aspect of my femininity. I didn’t want to feel like more of a failure as a woman.
(Though I never told anyone that’s how I felt. I barely admitted it to myself. Writing it out like this is fucking hard. I hate to admit it. It seems so fucking stupid and wrong-headed and yet it felt so important. So true. So very much a part of me.)
So, for years, I waxed and hated myself and said nothing.
Recently, to save money when my husband was out of work, I decided to stop buying the wax strips I used for my face. I couldn’t justify the cost when there were easier and cheaper ways to deal with the same problem. Like shaving.
I can’t really say I made the decision because I’m more enlightened now, although I’d like to be. But I do think I’m in a much better place when it comes to how I feel about my body than I’ve been at any time over the last decade. Maybe even since I went through puberty.
A few months ago, I shaved my face for the first time. I did it in the shower, with the razor and soap I use for my legs and underarms. It was weird, and awkward, and my hands shook. I even cried a little.
But then I had this memory from when I was very small. Maybe six at most. Before I had a concept of what it meant to be a man or a woman.
I would stand beside my father in the bathroom of the house I grew up in, right in front of the big mirror. He would put shaving cream on my face, just like it was on his. And then, while he shaved, I would take the lid of my white plastic Tinkerbelle soap case and “shave” the cream off along with him. And I loved it. I was super excited to shave with my dad. It was fun and silly and messy and great. I love that memory, and I loved that time with my father.
And then another weird thing happened. After shaving, I exfoliated my face to avoid bumps. I didn’t never really done that before, the exfoliating, because of how I felt about my appearance. Why bother when I was gross? It would be pointless.
When I got out of the shower, I used some aftershave conditioning gel, because the skin wasn’t used to being shaved and it had been awhile since I’d waxed.
It was more gentle care than I’d taken of my skin in years. And my skin was soft and clear and awesome.
So that’s how I am sitting here now, typing all this out, telling you all this story… about how shaving my face made me feel more feminine. More beautiful. More content in my own skin.
Not that I think my road is easy from here on out. I’m sure there will be many more ups and downs. But I’m so tired of hating myself for not meeting standards I assume other people have of me. Or that I have of myself. And I feel like a big step in getting passed that, dealing with it, is admitting to them to begin with.
So that I can officially say “fuck off” to them.
Fuck off to the idea that there is any one thing that makes you feminine, or a “real” woman. Fuck off to the notion that there is any “right” way to be a woman, or any one thing that defines womanhood.
And a seriously big fuck off to not talking about all the messiness and heartbreak of being human.
On April 30th, I will turn 36. I’ll have been “officially” a woman for 23 of those years. And I wasted so much time. I’d like to be done with that now.
If you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening. This wasn’t easy for me to write, but I feel a lot better for having done it. And if this resonates with anyone out there, I hope you are in or get to a place where you can love yourself too. You’re fucking beautiful.
~xxxM
[image error]Fresh out of the shower. No makeup. No filters. Just me.
February 17, 2017
The Reality of Dreams
[image error]No, I am not THIS old. But an IBM Selectric doesn’t look as cool.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew I would have to work with an editor, and probably an agent and publicist too (because of course I would be famous enough to need one), but I didn’t really have any concept of what being an author really entailed. I figured the biggest part of it was writing, and then like occasionally showing up for an interview or book-signing or something.
Of course, even back then that probably wasn’t very realistic. But my childlike imaginings are even farther off base for the world of publishing today.
The biggest part of being an author is still writing. That’s a fundamental. But there’s so much more required, even for people who do get picked up by the Big Four (or three, or however many there are now that things have merged and been bought and split off.) If you’re with a small press, or a self-published author, there’s even more involved.
I have a folder full of short stories I’ve written over the last few years. “Oh,” I thought, “I’ll start sending those out to online and print magazines. Maybe I can find some of them a home.”
No big deal. They were just sitting around gathering metaphorical dust anyway. If they got rejected, it was no skin off my nose. If they got accepted, yay!
It seemed like an easy concept. Polish the stories up, find a listing of magazines looking for submissions, and ship ’em off. No sweat.
Oh, how wrong I was.
The editing process isn’t really all that painful. I know there are writers who hate that stage of the process, but I’m not one of them. I enjoy honing a story. So that wasn’t a problem.
No, it’s the figuring out where to send what that takes way more time than I anticipated. And then the waiting to hear back. Which, depending on the publication, can take up to 6 months.
Patience is something I struggle with, and the only reason it doesn’t drive me batty in this instance is that enough time passes that I kind of just put it to the back of my mind and forget about it.
Then, let’s say for arguments’ sake that you get something accepted. Yay! I can’t even begin to tell you the level of excitement and pleasure I felt when I got the email from Kris at MLR Press saying they wanted ‘A Single Heartbeat’. I’m sure there are non-writing comparatives, but I can’t think of any. A couple who has been trying to have kids finding out they’re pregnant, maybe? Something like that.
But that acceptance is only the beginning.
The people at MLR are awesome, and the turnaround from the time I got the acceptance to when ‘A Single Heartbeat’ went on sale was like 2 months all together. Which is fast. But even still there were stages to go through. Editing, proofing, cover design, etc.
Once it came out, it was time for promo and marketing. I’ve been writing to review sites and blogs to see if they want to review it. Making up teaser images like the one below (which I’m pretty proud of, btw).
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Then there’s engaging on social media like Twitter and Facebook and Goodreads. And writing blogs like this one. To build a fanbase.
Those are the things that are hardest for me, honestly. I’m a bit of an introvert. Being behind a computer screen makes it a little easier, but it’s still something I have to remind myself to do.
It’s a lot of work. Way more work than I ever imagined it being back when I was a little girl romanticizing my future as a ‘PROFESSIONAL AUTHOR’ at my dining room table. But all that said, it really feels worth it. Even as hard as it is sometimes to put myself out there, when someone reads something I’ve written and enjoys it, it’s worth it big time.
So the reality of my childhood dream is very different than how I imagined. It’s harder. A lot harder. And occasionally depressing (rejections are never fun.)
But I’m glad I stuck with it. And you better believe I plan on working more and harder. Because this is more than what I do. It’s who I am. An author.
~xxxM
February 14, 2017
Nevertheless
Recently, I’ve had a thing rattling around in my head. Yesterday, I finally sat down and got it out on paper. It’s raw, and so am I.
I don’t really have anything else to say about it. I hope it speaks for itself…
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Old blood stained the feathers she wove into her hair. They brushed the skin of her neck as she stood. Black mud caked her copper skin to the knees as tears cut tracks through the paint on her face. But she kept dancing.
Beneath her feet, the deck canted. The sea bucked, an unbroken mare, the ship its rider. She hugged her babies close, pressed kisses to their hair. Eyes closed, she remembered the baked earth and sweet grass scent of their homeland, and continued singing.
Fat raindrops pattered against the brim of her hat. When the wind shifted, they struck her face, colder than the spit of a man passing by. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. When they took her away by force, put her behind prison walls, pressed the plastic feeding tube to her cracked lips, she turned her head away. Even strapped to a chair, she stood immovable.
Sweat prickled along her brow and in the creases of her elbows where they were locked with women on either side of her. Their skin wasn’t quite the same hue, but in the eyes of men across from them, they were all too dark. The police had guns, dogs, water hoses. But she had sisters, and a heart, and a will. She went on chanting.
The sharp ammonia smell of urine stung her eyes as she changed the cloth of her daughter’s diaper. Freshly swaddled, she held the girl on her lap, stirring the rogan josh with one hand and turning the pages of the little book with the other. Her voice was quiet, her lips forming the letters against the child’s ear. Outside, the men argued while she pressed on, teaching them both the shapes and sounds of power.
Seltzer splashed across her arm and the front of her pants when her drink was knocked from her hand. She couldn’t hear his words over the thumping music, but she could read them in the twisted snarl on his face and the redness of his cheeks. The beautiful woman at her side quivered, fear in her eyes. Fierce, bright delight filled her the moment her date stepped closer instead of pulling away. As his fist flew, she held tight to her partner’s hand and refused to let go.
Classmates sneered at her worn Chucks and baggy jeans, the backwards baseball cap she wore over her cropped hair. Guys shoulder-checked her in shop class, and spat on her when she went hard in gym. They didn’t notice her flirting, called her a dyke, wanted her to be less than herself. The principal issued a dress code for the dance, but she showed up in a sharp suit anyway.
Her mascara ran beneath the shower’s warm spray. She scrubbed the makeup from her face, wishing she could remove the skin beneath that often didn’t feel like hers, or wash away their words so easily. What they saw, what the mirror showed her, didn’t match the way she felt. Inside, she knew the truth. No matter what they said. Dry again, she lifted the eyeshadow brush in her hand and painted on a stripe of color, revealing her true self.
Chill air reddened her cheeks and the sound of the crowd was a rushing river around her. Some people were already calling them sore losers. Cry-babies. Snowflakes. If that was true, she felt like they were in the middle of a blizzard. She tugged her hat further down over her ears, hoisted her sign, and kept marching.
Around her, old men coughed, their faces pinched. The wood of the lectern was smooth and cool under her hands. Her eyes followed the neat black type on the page before as she spoke another woman’s words from another time and lamented their continuing need.
She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.
February 12, 2017
Work In Progress
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I have a confession… I’m not very good at this. The whole ‘maintaining a blog’ thing. But now that I am an actual published author, I figured I’d give it the ol’ college try. Like a professional. In case there is anyone out there who cares.
Sorry, that’s a little bit woeful of me. It’s been a day.
Hopefully you’ve found your way here because you liked something I wrote and wanted more. If not, hello! You might want to mosey over to my ‘About’ page before you dive right into my ramblings. If you did read something of mine and came here looking for more, you’ve come to the right place. I will be posting at least once a week. About random things I’m enjoying, my life, my cat (she’s really cute), and of course about upcoming projects, contests, and events. Or, that’s the plan anyway. As you can no doubt tell, the site is still a work in progress. Kind of like me.
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Things may change around a bit in the weeks and months to come as I get the hang of working with WordPress and find my footing. Please bear with me.
Alright, it is 5:30 am here in the southeast and I am going to sleep. Tomorrow, the Mister and I are going on an Unscheduled Adventure. We’re just going to get in the car and drive. It’s something we do once a week (as long as we’re both in town) and it’s great for relaxation and inspiration.
I could use a little of both. I hope you get some too.
Sleep sweet, my lovelies!
~xxxM
