Kristine Wyllys's Blog, page 3

SHE GEEKS: The 100.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a SHE GEEKS despite the fact that my life is basically SHE GEEKS. (Speaking of, I really need to get around to finishing up my Outlander recaps. How have I not posted anything about it since October? How is it already January? Shit.) Seriously. That’s all I do. Eat, sleep, write, and geek. I am Voldemort, ripping my soul into a million tiny pieces, except not through murder but fandoms.

I need help. No. Seriously. Send help.

But I started watching, which quickly...

Letters to the future.

Hey, you.

I just hung a calendar up on the wall, a brand new one for a brand new year. What’s it like over there in 2015? Got an agent? How about another book deal? Have you given up on life and are living in an actual cave now? Probably not. I bet WiFi would be a bitch to get in a cave.

It’s probably not been even a year since you sat down to type this letter to you out with that calendar next to you so full of potential. Man, pronouns are weird when you’re writing to yourself, aren’t they? Bu...

Boozy Streets and Kingdoms Possibly Coming: A Lane Announcement.

Here’s what no one told me about being published: sometimes you’re Harry Potter after he got the golden egg from the dragon, and sometimes you’re Harry after a run-in with a dementor.

Well, that’s not true. Someone did tell me. Once, a very long time ago, Dr. Seuss warned me that sometimes I’d play lonely games too. In fact, he told me all the things I could expect, but I never thought to apply them to what I’m doing now.

I’m beating around the bush. That’s not what I set out to do here.

Losing...

I am my mother after all.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. I am my mother after all.

I was a teenager when my mom handed me a little coin jar with those words inscribed across it. She’d been laughing, though “laughing” is too demure a word for what my mother does. She laughs loud, cackles, really, shakes the house’s foundation with the force of it. My mom laughs like she lives. Unrestrained. Uncontrolled. Unpredictable. And as I’d stretched my hand out to take it from her, I’d watched her closely, trying for the millionth...

Defending that effing elf.

He sees you when you’re sleeping,

He knows when you’re awake.

He’s all over Pinterest

And the bloggers have started a hate campaign.

I’m talking, of course, about The Elf. You know. That one.

Look, I get it. I really do. He’s kinda creepy, right? Those dead, staring eyes. That smirk that suggests he may or may not be watching you undress. He’s kinda a creeper. The whole idea behind him is kinda creepy, isn’t it? An elf that watches your every move and reports back to Santa like some tiny narc....

I can see you.

I can see you.

Black mothers, I can see you. I can see you standing there, clutching your children in fear to your chest. Eyeing a world all too willingly to villainize them based on the color of their skin. I can see your hunched shoulders, your faces lined with worry and stress. I can see the way you pull those babies into you, trying your hardest to wrap yourself around them like a human shield. I can see your sadness and your hopelessness when you realize you can’t. That you have to send t...

Back seat musings.

I’m currently sitting in the back seat of Betty’s truck, wedged next to two boychildren who are both stimming and scripting, even though only one needs to. I foolishly thought this would be a good idea, loading up both kids and making the trek out to Charlotte. It’s probably still a good idea, but right now my head is pounding, my stepmom hasn’t replied to my texts, and my brother is trying to talk to me from the front seat but this truck is so loud I can’t make out what’s he’s saying.

My dad...

I’m a feminist.

I’m a feminist.

I’m not anti-men. I’m not anti-marriage. I’m not anti-typical-gender-roles, anti-stay-at-home-mom. I’m anti-this-way-is-the-only-way. I’m anti-your-value-lies-in-your-ability-to-get-a-husband-and-make-babies. I’m anti-stay-in-the-kitchen-because-this-is-where-you-belong. I’m anti-you-don’t-get-a-choice.

I’m a feminist. I’m not anti-femininity. I’m not anti-masculinity. I’m not anti-chivalry, but I am anti-friendzone. I’m anti-you-thinking-holding-a-door-open-for-me-means-that-yo...

Don’t Date a Writer

Originally posted on alwayscoffee:

If you are looking for simple,

don’t date a writer. Don’t even

flirt with her. While you are talking,

she is considering

how you might look in a story,

or a poem,

or, possibly, in her bed. She analyzing

the metaphors in your smile,

the conjugated verbs

sprinkled in your laugh,

and the way your hands dance

in the air while you talk –

she is writing a story for those hands.

She will have bad days.

She will break dishes and cry

because failure feels like an adjective

for every...

Talking and listening.

I’ve been a special needs parent for seven years, but I’ve only known it, truly known it, without any doubt, for nearly four. Not quite four years that feel both like a blink and lifetimes. And in those four years, I’ve talked. I’ve talked so much, and yet I keep talking. About my son’s sleepwalking and accidents. I talk about how he’s started asking “why” like a toddler and even though it’s such a late milestone, there’s still such a thrill in hearing it. In my more honest moments, I confess...