Writing again - sort of

Excerpt from untitled WIP:






I kissed him goodbye, took a deep breath, and went ahead, so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I preceded him out of the room, heard him walk away, with no more words to say.

I couldn’t watch as he parted the curtain and walked out of my life. Those brief moments spent together were some of the most exciting I’d ever experienced, and my heart broke to think that I would never see him again.

He lived the life I wished I could. No strings, no responsibilities except for himself. On days when life gets too rough, I know I’ll spend time wishing I could be that lucky, wishing I was with him.

He touched my life in the way he touched my body: with passion, flair, laughter and spontaneity. In the 24 hour period we were acquainted, I’d been more relaxed in my skin than I have been in 20 years. I found myself moving more freely, laughing with abandon, flirting with not a care in the world. I danced, I sang, I loved. I was free from all chains, all reality.

In 24 hours, I managed to fall in love; not with a man (completely, the jury is still out on that, as fucked as that sounds), but with life and it’s possibilities.  Yes, he was the catalyst for that. I knew it wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, and I didn’t let myself think about it, because I know I’ll never feel that free again.

He made me long, he made me want, in ways I haven’t for a long time. He made me bleed love and life, and then injected me with it just as quickly as a junkie shoots heroine. He himself is a drug – quick acting, and just as addictive.

And just as painful to quit. Because I’m sure I will never see him again.

Do I regret our short acquaintance? Never. This was a time to live with no doubt, and no lies. It was the most honest I’ve ever been with someone, with the people around me. No reason to hold back, no reason to regret.
 

I will never claim to know him in any way. We barely spoke of anything of any importance. We barely knew each others names.

And even as my name and face fade from his memory the further away he gets, his will never fade from mine.

As Prince wrote – life is just a party, and parties aren’t meant to last.

Neither were we.

I hope to see him again. I hope that it’s before I’m too old to enjoy another night like the one we had. I hope, at some point, he looks back and remembers, even vaguely, our night, and it makes him smile.
 

Because I’ll never forget.

Beginnings...or is this the end?

Remember when I said I was doing this? 

Well, I’ve finally done it.

Six years ago, I started on a journey to earn my certificate in Publishing, and ten crazy, mind-bending, incredibly educational classes later, I’m FINISHED!!

Just don’t ask me exactly what I learned. It was a harrowing experience, to say the least.

Not only was I dealing with being one of the oldest in my classes – sometimes even being older than the teachers – but in the six years it took me to do this, I lost my father, my grandfather, my surrogate grandparents, had my grandmother in the hospital several times, took care of my mom as she tried to put herself back together after my dad’s death, lost two friends to suicide, and three to cancer. My best friend was diagnosed with Parkinsons, and my father-in-law with dementia. And in all of that, fighting my internal battles with (self-diagnosed) depression, weight issues, lack of confidence and increasing self-doubt, questioning after every assignment if I was even smart enough to deserve to be there, and wondering whether or not my marriage was going to fall apart.

It’s a lot for anyone to have on their plate.

The fact I managed to graduate at all is a miracle. But I did it. Now, the question I face is the same one that graduates all over the world face once that piece of paper is in their hands – what do I do now?

My original thought was to open my own boutique e-pub house, which is why I began this in the first place; to become a writer/editor extraordinaire like my idols Alison Tyler, Sommer Marsden and Dayle Dermatis. But then, after a few courses, I realised something -  I hate editing. 

I have no patience for proper sentence structure, or the Chicago Rules of Style. I don’t care if a participle is dangling, and I could care less if I end a sentence on a preposition. The way I write is the way the language sounds to me. It’s musical and flows, and sometimes choppy and crude to fit the situation my characters are in. If I had to tear someone’s writing apart and ruin their vision because they forgot an adverb? I just couldn’t. So, no editing for me.

I found myself loving the marketing and PR classes the most. Maybe that’s where I fit in. But right now I just need to get my foot in the door.

I figure if I could start as a receptionist and work my way up, maybe that would help. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally find time to write. I'm sure you can tell from this blog - how sparse it is - that I haven't been following my bliss very well. 

Truth is, writers block has me in a tight grip - has for a long time now. The voices have stopped talking to me, and it seems like any form of inspiration deserted me a long time ago. I'm a dry well. I've never been so lacking for ideas in my life. And, though I've lamented it on this blog several times, the last six months have found me with no desire to write.

And that scares me more than not knowing what to do with my certificate. 

Even this post lacks the creativity and the wit (self proclaimed wit anyway) that I'm used to in my posts. Completely lacks organisation as well. Scattered pictures and derailed trains of thought litter my posts regularly, but this one seems a little more ... empty than usual. 

Maybe because I'm writing for the sake of putting something out there. Or maybe because I suspect I've been a talent-less hack all these years and the truth is just catching up to me now.

Wow, so we started with good news and are ending on a depressing note. 

And THAT my friends, is the story of my life.