Kenya D. Williamson's Blog

Drive or Drivel?

I've been spending a lot of time wondering exactly what I have to offer visitors to this blog. I'd love for this space to always be creative and informative – for readers to leave with knowledge or inspiration that spurs them on to further success, wealth, happiness or self-discovery. Alas, for better or worse, I've embraced this place is mostly my playground and a source of entertainment. -- At least, I hope it is the latter for you. (Please don't burst my bubble. That stuff is really tough to get out of my eyelashes.) 
I present my latest short story, "Drive." I hope you like it. (Sorry, Anthony's not in this one.)
"Drive"
Instantly, as Jimmy touched his trembling foot to the pedal, he knew it was far too late to turn back. His journey had begun. His lust for the road subdued his intermittent fear of the future. Images of murderous hitchhikers emerging from his mother's frightening tales of misfortune disappeared. Echoes of piercing, insufficient cries for help escaped earshot — despite their repetition and paraphrasing. 
The warnings were designed as a safeguard for the fairly naïve son Kate worried would endanger himself. But, his biggest threat, thus far, had stemmed from sleeping in his own soiled sheets. He'd learned the laws of the land. He always surrendered the right of way when it was warranted. He signaled before every turn. And over time, he'd grown especially proud of his expanding experience with parallel parking. He'd yet to scratch his paint. 
Still, the young traveler's knuckles stiffened at the sight of an unexpected pothole. He tightened his grip and grimaced — anticipating damage far more reaching than any spare could fix. Jimmy was much too anxious to even look behind him. Aghast, he pictured flashing police car lights. An angry cop would ticket and arrest him — lock him up, impound his vehicle and toss the key. Possibly for speeding.
Despite his vast knowledge of dos and don'ts, Jimmy had no proper license. And his mother knew it. He wondered why she'd even let him leave. Surely, she'd recognized the call to explore had overpowered his capacity to resist, he believed. His response to obvious temptation needed to be tested, he suspected. He was clearly failing. But, undaunted, he decided to proceed.
Abruptly, Jimmy slammed on his brake — stopping only inches from a passing couple with no crosswalk. "Stupid pedestrians," he muttered beneath his breath. He sounded just like his dad, he thought, and donned a twisted grin. Memories of his father's shaking fist and the car's horn blasting inattentive plodders made the unexpected encounter almost enjoyable. "Look where you're going," he yelled. He didn't want the walkers to realize that he'd been easily rattled.
"I'll just go down to the corner and get some gas," he announced to no one in particular. He had no willing passenger. But, when he eventually arrived at the station's location, the ground was occupied — by a fair queen and her massive castle. The grumpy monarch calmly bid him adieu before ordering sizeable guards to chase the traitorous trespasser who'd rather drive than work for her.
"Dinner!" Jimmy's mom shouted out his bedroom window.
He wasn't allowed to pass the edge of the parking lot. And the loyal servants were forbidden a voyage which included invading Mr. Connor's decorated porch by the base of the concrete steps. A formal declaration of war would have been required. Jimmy stuck out his tongue.
"Wait till recess," Tommy said.
As he picked up his plastic bike, Jimmy hoped his schoolmate's memory remained short during the glorious day. Then, he'd brave the roads again with wavering confidence. — All first grade royalty and commoners alike were condemned to separate homes or the protection of an ancient peacekeeping escort after dark. 
So there.

Checked Out

I was talking to my mom yesterday. And she was encouraging me to write something new — specifically something different from what I normally write. (How's that for a vote of confidence?) But, with unfinished projects already on my plate, I wasn't really looking forward to adding anything else. Then, I started writing. And what you see below is the result. I'm not quite sure it's what she had in mind.

"Checked Out"

I never did like him. Well, I liked him. But, I'd never let him know it. Otherwise, he'd get that smirk — that knowing, "I knew you wanted me" look. The look that made me want to punch his smug, little face. That beautiful, masculine, chiseled face. High cheekbones any woman would envy. Eyelashes that were thick and curled. Lips which put me into a permanent, internal state of pucker. Oh, how I hated him. With his "I didn't even try to look good" snug tee shirts and blue jeans which were never tight, but never baggy enough to make you question if there was something good going on inside them. You knew. And he knew you knew. That's why I punched him. Okay, I only decked him in my mind — before I undressed him.
Don't get me wrong. Anthony was conscious in my fantasy. My strike barely left a mark. He looked at me with passion. I could've sworn I saw his nostrils flare. He drew me into his arms. He peered deeply into my eyes — and saw who I was. He loved the real me. He wondered how he could've gone all that time without realizing I was the one. Silly boy.
He caressed the small of my back with his left hand and lightly stroked my cheek with his right. His lips parted slightly without his knowledge — willing him to satisfy their thirst for mine. I waited. I knew in a few seconds he wouldn't be able to deny their request. I closed my eyes and tilted my head a little to the right. Then I woke up. My head was still tilted. He's coy and likes to toy with my emotions. 
Who does he think he's fooling with that seemingly effortless laugh and superficial familiarity with the fluctuating price of produce and the unpredictable weather? He flashes a smile, a wink. He dips his head and looks up with those big, green, bottomless moons. Probably green with envy of all the people who didn't get by based on surface appearances. People who had to work to become breadwinners. People with substance and character. People who have stories to tell that don't involve designer labels or chichi restaurants. But, he keeps coming back again and again — to taunt me or because he needs someone who's a tiny bit sincere. Who could blame him?
You're not all that, I told him — in my mind. Sure, you're rich and gorgeous. You're charming and friendly. You even have a healthy diet and obviously take somewhat good care of yourself. But, you'll never have me. Chew on that, playboy. With that, I handed Anthony his paper and plastic — and slid his platinum card across the counter. What? The customers' credit card reader was out of order. At least, that's what the Post-it I'd scribbled earlier said.
"Have a great day. I'll see you soon," I mumbled. Removing the note, I continued with my day. The shopper behind him smiled — showcasing a piece of something black in her front teeth. Way to make an effort.
"You're fired," my manager said at the end of my shift. He'd been writing me up for months — just looking for any excuse to spend more time with me. But, he can never come between me and Anthony. Jealousy's an ugly thing. I hope, one day, he gets the help he clearly needs.

Jogging Your Mammaries (or Memories)

It's been a while since I was here. And after sustaining another treadmill/bra-related injury, I started thinking… lousy underwire, chafing, brush burns, boobs, mammaries, memories… You're with me, right? I'm so glad we think alike. (Note to self: owning more than two sports bras at a time decreases frequency of doing workout laundry and likelihood of scars ruining my future centerfolds.)
I was honored to be asked to do a guest post on Kate Evangelista's Reads, Reviews, Recommends this week. After applying some much-needed Neosporin and a Band-Aid, I started wondering what I should write about. She said the post could be about anything – my writing process, books, etc. So, while I considered the many things I had to say on those topics, I was pleasantly surprised by my memories – not mammaries. (As long as I've had them, the latter – despite valiant efforts – don't surprise me much.)
I don't really use my memories for writing. People have asked if my fiction is autobiographical rather than imagined. It's not. But, I do use memories of feelings – from being in similar situations – if that applies. So, all my friends should rest assured. I won't be telling your business to the public – unless you really do me wrong. Then watch out!
I climb inside my characters and improvise – utilizing my fine acting skills (you'd better not be laughing) plus a little empathy. (Don't try this at home. If you do, please record it and post it on YouTube.)
Like everyone, I have memories I'd rather forget. But, I also have good ones. (See: ones that don't make me wince or involve wardrobe malfunctions.) I'd run from the bad – like from cellulite on my treadmill – but then I probably wouldn't be able to access the emotional depths for all the tragic, heartening and fun stuff I like to write. (Second note to self: similar to mammaries, memories don't defy gravity. Buy a memory push-up bra – sans aforementioned underwire.)
I get to laugh at my own expense or encourage and entertain someone else when I have the courage to make myself and my characters vulnerable. When my muse runs free, she exposes something about me. (But, there's always that stupid staple in the middle.) My sense of humor, heartbreak, hope, frustration and faith in our ability to make our lives better ask for terrycloth robes. (They're shy, but relatively low-maintenance.) It's a small price to pay – looking at the benefits. Instead of running away, I run to the feeling and wring it for everything I can get.
Now, if only I could find some good support – and Band-Aids that actually come in my flesh tone…
- When you're done here, please check out my guest post on Reads, Reviews, Recommends. I had a lot of fun writing it. (And it even starts with a shower scene.) I'll see you over there!

Stay Tooned

At four o'clock this morning – after hours of hoping Blogger had resolved its maintenance issues – I decided to reward myself with a little TV time. This AM's lineup?  Batman Beyond and Daria. I've always loved cartoons. One of my animator friends thinks I know more about them than he does. (Or maybe he's just trying to be nice.)
From the original Transformers to Looney Tunes to a few new shows, I can barely contain my childlike enthusiasm. I've always been a sucker for colorful or shiny things. Some of my favorite animated films – Finding Nemo (Dory drove my mother crazy.), The Incredibles , The Iron Giant , Tangled – make me feel as much as their live-action counterparts (and sometimes more). 
Lately, I've been watching a lot of sports in my free time. But, my Sixers are out. And my Flyers are also done for the season. There's always the French Open. But, that won't start for almost two weeks. I'll have to prepare for the schedule by staying up really late. (Okay, there we go. Done. On to the next challenge.)
Cartoons transport me to a place where the impossible's possible. Good usually conquers evil. Characters survive fatal falls and explosions. And laughter is almost guaranteed – depending on the show or film, of course. (See: Animal Farm or Watership Down for non-laughing examples. Don't let the box covers fool you.)
I resist the urge to quote all the lines and sing the songs. No matter how much fun it would be for me, I know how annoying that would probably be for my company. Luckily, I have none this morning. Along with the part of my brain that registers embarrassment and dictates acceptable/mature behavior, they're both nowhere in sight.
I've only been a toon once. (Check under Voice-overs.) And it was glorious – hearing my voice come from a little girl who looked nothing like me. Finally, my inner nine-year-old was released. And her cartwheels invited praise instead of inducing impatience and nausea. I'll have to do it again. (Note to self: next time, demand the character look just like me and also do somersaults.)
So, in a way I wish real life were more like the animated world – safe, where everyone gets along or problems can be easily cleared up with laughter or a sigh of appreciation for whatever heartwarming message was shared. (I'm talking Pixar not anime. Drama - jokes/fun - peril/adventure - resolution/more fun. Give or take. Not that those stories are ever predictable.)
I love happy endings. (Not the TV show or the kind that can land you in jail.) I tend to write them – realistically, in my opinion – when I can. But, I guess all's not truly hunky-dory in a world where an artist can suddenly drop an anvil on your head for kicks. 
Luckily, the recovery time seems pretty quick. And when I can get the script in advance, I won't waste time flat-ironing my hair.

Mamma Mia!

I write a lot – in my fiction and scripts – about my imaginary families. Both good and bad. The mean-spirited, loving and loyal… the manipulative and jealous, the helpful and supportive. They come in all shapes, sizes, temperaments and motivations (and occasionally more than one gender).
I think when my brothers told me I was adopted, I started dreaming about the people they'd hoodwinked at the hospital when I'd been switched at birth – the poor, disappointed couple. If I hadn't looked so much like my mother when she was a kid, I would've happily believed them – and later switched places with the impostor who'd unknowingly stolen my throne.
It wasn't always this way, but I talk to my mom every week. I've forgiven many spit-covered thumbs outstretched to remove crafty smudges only mothers can see – while I squirmed and screamed. (Okay, I screamed on the inside.) If I didn't want a hot comb in an angry woman's hands come the next straightening day, it was best not to ruffle the self-proclaimed stylist-for-a-day's feathers. I'm sure those burnt ears were merely accidents.
No matter what I suffered, my mother tolerated months of "the sun will come out tomorrow" and whatever other musical lyrics were stuck in my head that day – or year. She didn't complain during a decade of violin practice – that I remember. I was going to be a concert violinist like my grandfather! There's nothing like fingernails clipped to the skin and flat, calloused fingertips for a hand modeling career. It was either that or a professional baton twirler. (Sorry about the furniture.)
Growing up, I blamed my mom for a lot of things – including my so-called "thunder thighs." And today, I'd gladly accuse her of genetically twisting my sense of humor and sleep habits. But, judging by the awkward silences which assault my ears when I'm cracking jokes on the phone, I don't think we always land on the same funny page. And she's usually waking up before I go to bed. (Maybe I will ask her to release my long-form birth certificate.)
So, instead of pointing a finger, I give thanks and sing a song (not one from Annie). I try to make her smile and give me an unsolicited "you're too funny." I have no idea what it would be like to be a mother. The joy. The pressure. The love. The worries. The long, thankless nights of rearranging my child's genetic code until he/she turned out just right.
...I usually black out during the imaginary delivery.
Happy Mother's Day!

Royal Flushed?

While awaiting the coverage of the royal wedding… well, I was awake (as usual) and the TV was on… I fought a minor urge to watch the big to-do. Fortunately, the compulsion was fleeting.
The thought of sitting still for hours – while feeling like I should be multitasking – though appealing, is a bit like telling a 3-year-old not to touch anything in a giant toy or candy store. Sheer delight mixes with horror and increasing frustration as little, greedy eyes dance with the possibilities – of serious injury or severe obesity. (I did mention the stores were for giants, right?)
Instead of heading to a pub or giggling with girlfriends (because that's what we do), I found myself writing and catching up on old episodes clogging my DVR. (I need a tiny plunger.) I was looking forward to The Mentalist. I've been a fan of I've been so distracted with busywork and the occasional shiny object lately. So, I refused to give in to the curiosity of wondering what Kate's dress would look like live – as she sashayed (with an updo, I assume) down the aisle. I wish the happy couple well. I can only hope a few spectators with disposable cameras took a photo or two. Maybe Barbara Walters will post some online after The View.
Me? I'd rather solve a crime with the CBI and pretend I'd easily identified the guilty party before Act Two. Forty-four minutes scribbling random thoughts, fast-forwarding through commercials, checking email, playing video games, restoring TV justice (I didn't get my giant toy or candy. I need to right some wrongs!) and fanning growing delusions of investigative grandeur…

How could that be wrong? It's all-American! Okay, well the lead actor of the show's Australian. But, isn't that close enough? I'm just trying to be practical, after all…
All those hats at the royal wedding could've sent me into sensory overload. (The first documented case of hat rage?) Plus, I have a much better chance of becoming a fake detective than a princess.

Hey, Boo Boo!

After 13 hours of sleep (yes, you read that correctly), I'm wondering if somehow my body's started hibernating as a not-so-subtle form of protest – a work stoppage. It showed my brain who was boss without a picket sign or a union rep. My alarm went off. And, following a brief groan (perhaps a grunt?), my hand reached over and simply silenced the offender. A few moments later, I'd rolled back over – feeling more drained than guilty.
"Take that, brain," my body boasted, having taken the reins of decision-making and given itself an extra day of paid vacation.
"But," my brain feebly objected, "we have things to do. You can't just lie there. I'll fire you. Don't think I won't just because we're related." (Picture Niles vs Frasier. Despite both characters having juicy brains, I see Frasier as the body.)
(Insert maniacal body laugh here.)
This wasn't the first time these two had gone at it. Typically, I sit on the sidelines – pompoms in hand – unsure which team to root for. I just wish they'd get it over with (or get a room). I haven't the heart to tell them I'm not impressed – or that they share the same parents. Maybe I should've chosen a different show.
My brain usually wins the battle. "You see how you moved your leg? I told you to do that. And don't forget it!...Wait, can bodies remember?" (Even brains have trouble thinking sometimes.)
But, every once in a while, my body triumphs. Even without a cornerman, it eventually recognizes it's the only one in a fist fight with limbs to swing. (A little uncoordinated. But, who's counting?)
Maybe my mom was right. And I was just fighting off a cold. (I knew those sani-wipes at the grocery store didn't really work.) My best friends/brothers/mortal enemies were only pummeling an intruder – and knew I needed to reboot. 
We all need a break at times. If we don't choose to take one, sometimes the choice is made for us. Now, if I could just figure out where those two moved my cave… and where all these colored, hard-boiled eggs came from.

The Heat Is On

The weather's gone back and forth a lot lately. One day it's 88 degrees. The next, it's 70, 60 or (dare I say?) in the 50s. Brrr! Now, I'm not complaining. Change is good, right? There's not a huge difference between the seasons in Los Angeles. Fall foliage is usually green... or brown. But, when I look at the world's weather, I know how lucky we are. (Please remind me I wrote this the next time I hop on the 405 freeway on a rainy Friday afternoon.)

Personally, I like change -- not the jingly kind you find in your pocket or at the bottom of your purse. Although, that kind's pretty good -- come laundry and parking time. Not every meter here accepts Visa and MasterCard. ("Everywhere you want to be" except where it'll keep you from getting a ticket. Just my luck.)

And I love a good challenge -- writing when you haven't had enough sleep to remember why you walked into the other room or when it's so warm and sunny outside you smile when you hear children playing outside -- while secretly hoping their parents call them in. (Don't they have gadgets to play with?)

Now, before you get upset, I love kids. And, of course, I want them to play outside -- just not right below my window. I have work to do. And if they didn't bring enough fun for everyone... I always wanted to surprise that teacher by bringing several packs of gum to school. (The gum brand name: "Bite Me.")

Having heat in this town is definitely a good thing. I plan to set my thermostat on 80 -- then lock it or snap off the lever forever. I'd set the temperature higher, but my vanity and lack of desire to frequent the drugstore would likely prevent it.

...I prefer moderation over dehydration and ashy skin.

Napping

No, I'm not talking about my hair on a humid day. I'm talking about a good, old-fashioned nap! Like we took when we were kids – sprawled out on the floor (or a mat, if the daycare owners actually cared). 
Today, I took one of those. So, what's the big deal? I don't know. But, I needed it. I'd finished my taxes. Taken out the garbage. Checked the mail (and my email). Blah, blah, blah… I guess I don't need to justify my body's yearning for unconsciousness before 3 in the morning. But, I woke up renewed – not to be confused with a sudden state of undress.
I joke about sleep deprivation. But, being exhausted and groggy on a regular basis stinks. All those who sleep like babies, take my word for it. Fellow yawners, you have my sympathy. But, don't mistake that as an invitation for grouchiness. I try never to use my powers of depletion for evil.
Now, birds aren't suddenly landing on my finger. I'm not singing. Yet. And rodents aren't dancing around my living room in some choreographed number. They're fighting over cheese, as usual. They're like those smart rats in The Secret of NIMH . So cute.
I love who I am. But, I also love sleep – boiled, fried, baked, grilled, mashed, whipped – however you can make it. Yum! I'd ask for seconds, but I don't want you to think I'm greedy. So, I'll push the plate away. The only kind I'm not partial to is probably rocky road...
The airbag always leaves such a lousy aftertaste.

Freebie Friday

At the risk of disappointing you, I won't be swapping identities today with one of those people who sprays you with unwanted perfume or cologne. Free is one of my favorite F-words. Fun. Fabulous. Fantastic. Fricassee. Fungi... I'll stop there. I might get too excited. (Plus, you must be riveted.)

Like my Facebook author page before midnight Thursday (April 14th) and you'll be automatically entered to win a FREE signed copy of Depth of Focus: A Novel ! Two runners-up will win copies of the ebook for the device of their choice. (Just for clicking "like?" You'd do that for free, right?)

Winners will be notified by yours truly next Friday afternoon. (That's 4/15. Three more Fs!) Check out an excerpt on my site, Scribd, Goodreads or Smashwords to make sure it's worth the click.

With that out of the way, I can get back to other words. Now, what other ones start with W?