Author Kristi DeMeester

Being a Mother Without a Good Mother

2015-05-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

This isn't going to be a clean post. I expect for it to be messy, without clean lines of syntax and imagery. I told myself I wouldn't agonize over finding exactly the right word. And I expect this will be hard. After all, it has all been hard.

Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm looking forward to the day spent with my husband and little guy. Just the three of us, enjoying our time together as a family. Living in the small moments that add up to a happy life. Not without its stress, of course, but a happy life nonetheless.

I keep asking the universe when I'm going to have an easy year. 2013, 2014, and now 2015 have all been marked by some major event that borders on, if not dipping fully into, traumatic. And now, the afternoon before Mother's Day, I find myself inundated not by thoughts about my own role as a mother, but about the role my own mother played in my life. The woman I haven't spoken to in almost a year and a half.

I could dedicate an entire book to the reasons why, so I won't do that here, but when I do think about my own definitions of motherhood, my own expectations of myself, how other people perceive me as a mom, my thoughts inevitability turn to the fear that has scarred my heart for the better part of my life.

After a terrible, terrible event, long hours of soul searching, and hours in therapy, I finally accepted that I did not have a good mom. And when I finally accepted it, took that knowledge inside of myself and swallowed that bitterness down, I was so ashamed and afraid. Ashamed for the years I had defended her and tip toed around the truth. Because it hurt too much to admit and face it. Afraid of the woman and mother I would become. How much can a girl without a father and now without a mother amount to when she starts her own family?

Every day I am wracked with self doubt. Am I paying enough attention? Am I responding in the right way? Am I letting myself become too frustrated? Too angry? Should I be doing more? Saying more? Giving more? Should I not do that? Should I not say that? Am I raising my voice too much? Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. Am I screwing it all up? Will he hate me? Will he grow up resenting me? Will he become an adult and have only memories of Mom being overbearing or irritating? Will he, one day, sit in front of a doctor and talk about all of the ways his mom messed him up, as I have done?

It is my greatest fear to become the mother my mother was. And I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't know if I'm a good mom. I hope that I am. There is no self assurance in knowing that once upon a time a woman did right by her daughter, and that now I will do the same. I fear that those old habits have leaked into me like quiet poison, and even now, some small moment from earlier in the day is a tell tale sign of my failure.

And I mourn. The loss of that little girl who thought everything was so normal. The loss of the person who was supposed to be the touchstone of my life. The loss of the naive young woman who denied the truth. I mourn all of it.

Somewhere else in this world, I know that she may read this and say that I've gone crazy. That I'm misremembering. That I'm brainwashed or lying or dramatic. And that may be what hurts most of all.

Years from now, I hope that the pain I feel now is nothing more than a faint memory of hurt. All I can do is hope for it.

A Review of The Children of Old Leech

2015-02-22T18:51:00.002-08:00

A wonderful, wonderful fellow writer was the first person to introduce me to Laird Barron. That weekend, I lost myself in his strange world, both horrified and fascinated by the mythos he’d created.

The Children of Old Leech succeeds in paying homage to Barron in all of the best ways. I had to read this book in small sips, delaying gratification so that I didn’t squander any of the pleasure. The worlds built in each story vary but that makes them no less terrifying. So many of the stories are incredibly told, but I’ve focused on only a few of my favorites.

“The Harrow” by Gemma Files takes us under the earth, into a place of darkness, a place of old holes filled with things we can never understand. Perhaps one of my favorite stories of this collection.

Orrin Grey’s “Walpurgisnacht” took us inside the shimmering line between that which is seen and that which isn’t and peers closely into the occult world that is just behind that veil. Loved it.

“Good Lord, Show Me The Way” by Molly Tanzer was one of those stories I simply did not want to end. In fact, at its conclusion, I stepped away from the book for a few days because I wanted to stay in that place she had built, the Church of the Broken Circle. Another one to number among my favorites.

T.E. Grau’s cosmic horror in “Love Songs from the Hydrogen Jukebox” was a tripping balls kind of experience that isn’t often replicated in the written word. One of the more specific connections to Old Leech. Fantastic.

It took me a minute to get into the non-tagged dialogue of Richard Gavin’s “The Old Pageant,” but when I did, this story blew me away. The inscription on Donna’s footboard had me shivering from the outset, but that ending. Wow.

Paul Tremblay consistently knocks it out of the water, and his Notes for “The Barn in the Wild” is no exception. Everything here coalesces, rises together to form a perfectly tight story.

Michael Griffin’s “Firedancing” was yet another story that bathed us in cosmic horror. Everything in the center of the earth opened and laid bare.

Daniel Mills’ “The Woman in the Wood” left me shivering. It’s a difficult thing to pull of period dialect in a subtle manner, and Mills hit the nail on the head. Not to mention some truly terrifying imagery. Rushed off to buy his collection immediately after reading this story.

I’d previously read “Brushdogs” in Stephen Graham Jones’ After the People Lights Have Gone Off. I loved it then, and I love it now. Jones may be one of the most talented writers I’ve read lately.

Overall, the collection is stellar. A few stories weren’t exactly my cup of tea, but this is due to personal taste not lack of talent. A worthy representation.

One Year: A Letter

2014-08-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

Jackson,

Over the coming years you will come to know something about your Mama. I am not crafty. I am not the chronicler of firsts that many mothers are. I am not the kind of mother who creates beautifully themed birthdays. I am not the mother who cut a lock of your baby hair to place carefully into a powder blue book that one day I'll show your wife as she carries my grandchild. As I think of all of the things that I am not, there is an anxiety that creeps upon me, slow and steady, and a tightness that spreads through my chest. I can't help but question, "Am I doing enough? Am I giving enough? Am I enough?"

One year ago, I had the same questions. Even now, after the passing of 365 days, those questions still linger. But when you reach for me in the night, calling "mamamamamamamama," the syllables tumbling one after the next, an unending stream of need, or when you break into a smile that is so full of joy that it makes my heart hurt, or when you call "YEE" when you are excited, or when you yell at the top of your lungs as you play with your trucks because you think this is the sound they make...all of these things, all of these small moments that make up a life, tell me that despite my numerous shortcomings that you are well, that this little thing we call a family is so full of love and happiness that it can't be anything but right.

In April, I started a list in my phone of the things I hoped for you. One day I'll tell you about what prompted that list, but I'll put them here now.

To see the best in people.
Optimism
Laughter
A sense of justice that doesn't bend
Honesty
Compassion when it's warranted
Tough love when it's needed and the courage to give it
Knowing you are good enough
Knowing we'll do everything in our power to not let you down
But if we do, it's because we are human and flawed. We hope you'll see this and be forgiving of us and yourself.
Saying the hard words and meaning them.
Integrity
Not being afraid or ashamed of your imagination
Approaching dogs cautiously
Cats too
Recognizing inner beauty
A sense of adventure with a healthy amount of fear and respect

Time, as it does, has a way of moving too quickly, and every day I'm amazed as I watch my baby morph into a sturdy, rough and tumble boy. Everything is a marvel, and I love to watch you take in the world around you. The intensity with which you examine everything, no corner goes undiscovered. Your favorite trick is seeing how fast Mama can fish that thing you shouldn't have in your mouth out of your mouth. And even though I'm sure it will drive me crazy, I hope you never lose that gleam of mischievousness. Your words are coming fast and furious now, and you've learned (although not quite mastered) "ma," "da," "doggy," "ball," "no," "uh-oh," and "whoa."

There is so much of this year that has been hard. So, so hard. Sobbing hysterically when you wouldn't latch. Sobbing hysterically because you cried for thirty-seven days straight (or so it seemed). Sobbing hysterically because you woke every thirty minutes for a month solid when you were four months old. Sobbing hysterically when I returned to work and left you with your wonderful, loving Grandma who spoils you far more than she should. Sobbing hysterically the first time I cut your nails and nicked your tiny finger. But there has been laughter, too. That time we were changing your diaper, and you pooped with so much force that it shot all over me, your father, the wall, and the carpet. The first time you smiled. The first time you laughed. The first time you crawled. The most wonderful part of my day is watching you and laughing.

And the best part? There is so much more to come. I'll be right here to watch and hold your hand until you decide to let go.

I love you forever,

Mama

A Review of James Newman's Ugly as Sin

2014-06-10T08:38:00.000-07:00

With a tale and voice that hearkens back to the glory days of the WWF and The Undertaker, James Newman’s Ugly As Sin is a gritty page turner that crawls under the skin and becomes that itch you scratch till it bleeds.

Nick Bullman has spent his youth cultivating celebrity. As a wrestling star known as “Widowmaker,” Nick has his share of wealth, fame, and plenty of breasts pumped full of plastic. But it’s a fateful meeting with two delusional, knife-wielding fans that alter the course of Nick’s life. Newman digs deep, finds the words and imagery that make the story burn, and the result is nothing less than pure nightmare fuel. The horror here lies in the very real possibilities of an event like this, and the curtain is never dropped. The reader is up front and center as witness while the men carve their madness into Nick’s face, leaving him a horribly disfigured monstrosity.

After the incident, Nick finds himself back in his hometown, Midnight, North Carolina, at the request of his estranged daughter, Melissa. While Nick was no doubt a terrible father in the past, he hopes that he can make steps toward something better, something good. In doing so, he agrees to help Melissa find Sophie, her daughter and Nick’s granddaughter that he has never met.

What follows is a galloping, blood-smeared good time. Newman has a unique talent for setting. Time and time again I felt as if I had stumbled into my own childhood in a small, white trash town. If Newman himself didn’t grow up in such a town, I’d be mightily surprised. If you’re like me, you’ll lose yourself so completely that you’ll inevitably feel as if you’ve stumbled down a rabbit hole somewhere and woken up right back where you were born.

Newman takes characters that are typically marginalized and lets us root for them. Leon, a tweaker and Widowmaker’s biggest fan, becomes a character that both surprises and breaks your heart. I admire a writer who is able to see the nuances of both good and evil in every character. Even Koko Puff, who is meant to be despicable, has clear motivations, and I appreciate that Newman doesn’t rely on used up tropes and stereotypes. But there is the despicable here, too, and in “Daddy,” Newman has crafted a character that genuinely sets the skin to crawling.

I didn’t expect to enjoy this book. I’ve never been a fan of wrestling, but it only took two pages to hook me. I’ve seen others call this book “white trash noir.” I’d have to wholeheartedly concur. But for Newman, “white trash” is anything but an insult. In fact, I’d call it high praise. I sincerely loved this book, and look forward to reading more from this highly talented author.

Dark Oddities: A Review of Shock Totem 8

2014-06-04T10:26:00.001-07:00

Eight issues in and Shock Totem proves once again, that when it comes to unnerving the ever-loving piss out of its readers, they definitely have the stuff. I admit that I have a slightly biased love for this particular publication given that my own work has appeared there, but in every issue the quality gets better and better. At the end of this reading, I sat back and whispered, “Goddamn.” Because I was jealous.

I’ve read quite a bit about—not to mention seen more times than I can count—Marnau’s Nosferatu. Modzelewski’s article taps the vein of the well-known vampire tale and examines this particular film’s influence on modern vampire culture.

John C. Foster’s “Highballing Through Gehenna” is Old West meets nuances of a pre-apocalyptic world where terrifying creatures roam uninhabited plains. An unassuming family man takes center stage as a train barrels toward uninsured safety. I’m glad I stuck this one out. Much like the steam engine at the heart of the story, it took a while to really get rolling, but once it did…

“We Share the Dark” by Carlie St. George blew me away. There are subtle emotions at play here, and the author uses a tightly controlled hand. What could have been just another ghost story becomes much, much more. The impact and resonance of loneliness and need for intimate connections hit hard. This may have been my favorite of the bunch.

Catherine Grant’s true horror tale “The Highland Lord Brought Low” is both terrifying and heart wrenching. Grant delivers the small moments that make you hold your breath, waiting for the big, crushing moment that doesn’t always come. It’s only when you reach the end of her tale that you realize those small moments are the ones that crush.

“The Barham Offramp Playhouse” by Cody Goodfellow reads like a fever dream. All too bright colors, too loud sounds, strange moments that hover on the precipice of reality and hallucination. While the ending is a perfect finale for the story, I had to wonder at the sudden name change from “Tim” to “Jake.” I stopped reading. I went back into the story three or four times, but still. No prior mention of a “Jake.” Maybe I’m thick, but it left me befuddled.

“Watchtower” by D.A. D’Amico is a tale of war and insanity.

“Death and the Maiden” by David Barber follows the legend of Dr. Frankenstein into the little known land of Ygor, the cliché hunchback and oft dismissed assistant. Barber avoids the pitfalls of fanfic and crafts a story that is emotionally satisfying. As a parent, this one made me shudder.

Harry Baker’s “Fat Betty” read hard and fast, and when I finished, I went back and read it again. Baker’s description of the aforementioned Black Betty is singularly horrifying. Particularly as she eats that chocolate bar.

The 2013 Flash Fiction Contest Winner Michael Wehunt took home the prize with his story “Stabat Mater.” I’ve participated in these contests for a couple of years now and never come close to Wehunt’s success despite sharing pages with him in Shock Totem. During this contest, I voted his story as my top pick. I haven’t heard from him in a while, but there hasn’t been a thing Michael has ever written that I didn’t love, and this story is no exception.

John Skipp’s “Depresso the Clown” is a disturbing reversal on the psychopathic clown story. The story closes the issue, and I don’t think there could have been a better send off. Sometimes, the monster isn’t any further than the mirror.

Among the fiction is poetry from WC Roberts, reviews designed to send you scrambling debit card in hand, John Boden and Simon Marshall Jones’ excellent feature “Bloodstain and Blue Suede Shoes,” and a conversation with one of my favorite authors Adam Cesare (check out Bone Meal Broth and Video Night).

This little ‘zine packs a lot of punch for little cost. Looking forward to many more tales from the amazing people over at Shock Totem.

Strange Bits: A Review of Jamais Vu

2014-05-21T17:57:00.005-07:00

In this second issue, Jamais Vu proves once more that when it comes to dark, unsettling pieces, they are second to none. That’s not to say that I finished the issue feeling wholly satiated, but for the duration of my reading, I was pleased to lose myself for long moments in worlds so artfully crafted that I felt genuine jealousy after reading. For what it’s worth, I’ll be offering comments on mostly the fiction and nonfiction pieces. I wish I could say something about the poetry, but I’m no poet, and I fear that I’d do the authors a disservice in attempting to review their works.

First, the artwork of Lydia Burris who has designed the cover of all four issues as a kind of puzzle to be put together. I can’t wait to collect all four. My only complaint was that I wanted to see her pieces in color, but I understand. The old budget and all that noise.

This issue opens with Steven Wolf’s post-apocalyptic tale “Valedictorian.” This may have been my favorite story. In a world that has come to an end, it’s the quiet, ingrained habits that keep us going. But deep inside those habits lurk deeper evils and, more importantly, the need to punish those who do wrong. The ending of this took my breath away. Beautifully done.

“The Long Lonely Empty Road” by Billie Sue Mosiman was a piece that I very much wanted to like. I really, really did. But what held me back was a voice telling me, “Haven’t you read this story before?” And I had. Stephen King’s “Big Driver” tells a very similar tale, and I’m sorry to say, that this story wanted to be “Big Driver” but didn’t quite have the chops.

There’s a section devoted to the sudden rise and interest in cryptid erotica, which I have to admit, I could have done without. I completely concur with Alexandra Christian in that my frustration over the poorly crafted salacious content detracts from those writers who are not in it for a quick buck at the behest of some dumb yokel dazzled by monster genitalia and the heaving bosom of some over-sexed damsel in distress.

The interview with Bobcat Goldthwait is delightful and chock full of moments that will both surprise and induce a chuckle.

After several pieces dealing with Bigfoot—including a review of The Legend of Boggy Creek and an interview with Sasquatch sculptor Jean St. John—I found myself frustrated to see, you guessed it, the first chapter of Brad Carter’s novel Big Man of Barlow concerning the big fuzzy guy himself. I mean, how much Bigfoot can one girl take? It’s like driving over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge without knowing how it works. Just when you think you’re off the damn bridge and finally in a tunnel, you emerge only to find yourself on the damn bridge again. But, I was glad I stuck it out because what followed was a touching story of Hank and Gus and the Big Man. By the end, I was wiping tears away. Carter’s characters are deftly rendered, and with the opportunity for such subject matter to veer quickly into the land of the cheesy, he manages to retain humanity and compassion. Bravo, Mr. Carter. Bravo.

The story I was most excited for, however, was Jack Ketchum’s “Oldies.” What I anticipated was the same breathless, gut-punched feeling I had the first time I read The Girl Next Door. What I came away with, however, was a feeling much, much different. I think that many people would be hesitant to call this story horror, but what Ketchum has done is taken us into the horrors of our own world, the terrifying possibilities and humiliation and confusion that face us all. At this point, I had to put the issue down. The story hit a little too close to home. And doesn’t that always mean the author has done his job well?

“Functionality” by Lucy Snyder is one of those stories that are competently told but I can never like. Because here be dealings with children, and maybe it’s because I’m a mom now, but I can’t handle these stories any more. Still, there’s competent writing here.

“Karmic Interventions” by William D. Carl was exactly the kind of twisted sense of humor I appreciate when an author can pull it off, and Carl pulled it off. A wry one, this.

Eric Beebe offers reviews of some of the strangest movies he’s seen, and by the end, I found myself wanting to shout at him through the pages, “Have you seen Dogtooth, Eric? Have youuu? Because I want to talk weird with somebody who gets it.” Eric gets it.

After James Newman’s review of We Are What We Are had me chomping at the bit to see it. By the way, Newman was the victim of an accident. If you’re interested in helping out a genuinely good guy and awesome writer, check out his benefit book auction.

Jeff Vandemeer’s Annihilation is a book I’ve had on my wish list for quite some time. After reading Paul Anderson’s review, I went ahead and bit the bullet. It’s sitting on my nightstand now like some delicious bit of juiciness.

There are other reviews and interviews throughout—one in particular with Jonathan Maberry whose fiction I adore.

The English teacher in me couldn’t help but notice a share of typos, but overall, Jamais Vu is a lovely mix of heavy hitters and newcomers who are bound to make a splash in the genre. Definitely looking forward to issues three and four, and if you haven’t bought your own copies yet, what the hell are you waiting for?

You Better Work

2013-11-08T10:13:00.000-08:00

This morning I had a breakdown at my desk. Five minutes before the final bell rang, I saw the email asking me to cover a fellow teacher’s class. As I was hooked up to a breast pump.

I panicked, terrified that a group of 9^th graders were sitting in a room unsupervised while I sat, the equivalent of a milked bovine, in my classroom with the door locked and the window covered.

I’m thankful that I have a job that affords me a place to pump in privacy. I cannot imagine making this decision to continue to feed my child with my body in a place where people are crammed into small cubicles, the only place of solace a restroom stall which doesn’t have handy access to electrical outlets. Granted, despite my “PLEASE do not disturb” sign, there are still students who take it upon themselves to knock, even pound on the door in the hopes that somehow their vehemence will magically open the door, summon me before them to tell them if there was homework or that YES there is a quiz today.

Since I’ve returned to work, I’ve felt myself pulled in a million directions as I’ve put off students asking to make up quizzes in the mornings and after school, as I’ve re-scheduled or shortened extra help sessions, as I’ve avoided the NINE parent requests for conferences. Because I have to pump. First thing when I arrive. Throughout the duration of my twenty-five minute lunch. Immediately after school before I rush out of the building to get back home to relieve my mother-in-law of what I know is a long day with my three-month-old.

And I feel guilty. Guilty because I have 156 students asking for my attention for eight to nine hours a day. Guilty because I have their parents requesting meetings because their child, for the first time ever, has a B and might not make it till the end of the school year, and I can’t meet before school. I have to pump. And I can’t meet after school. I have to pump and then leave. Guilty because I’m late for a meeting or can’t make a meeting AGAIN. Guilty because I haven’t yet responded to those sixteen emails that required my attention yesterday. And sometimes hungry as shit because I didn’t have time to eat my lunch because I was making lunch for my child and didn’t make it to the microwave before my fourth period came in.

Then there’s the more significant guilt. Guilt that my child is getting at least two bottles of formula a day because I’m gone for more feedings than I can pump milk. The deeper guilt that I’m not his primary caretaker during the week and the irrational thoughts that he is going to forget me, think that I’m not his mother.

And the problem is that I cannot stop feeling how incredibly WRONG this is. Every morning as I rush out the door, bottles and pump and ac adapter packed and ready for the day, there is an inherent wrongness in leaving him behind, in rushing off to essentially mother other people’s children as they walk on shaky legs toward adult hood. Especially while mine is still learning to hold his head up.

So as I rush around, apologizing incessantly, people get angry, see me as someone not doing her job well enough. I want to scream at them that they don’t understand, that I’m doing the best that I can, that I’m a sleep-deprived, caffeine driven fiend barely hanging on to each hour with the tips of my fingers, but they won’t listen, won’t care.

And it’s this guilt that I can’t settle. How can I look at my superiors, the parents of my students and say no? How can I get by without finding myself reprimanded, reminded that this is part of my JOB, and if I can’t make it work, then I don’t need to work? And more importantly, I feel terrible because, quite frankly, I can’t bring myself to CARE.

Yes, my child is more important. Yes, my decisions regarding how I’m going to care for my child are more important. No, I’m not going to drop what I’m doing for my child in favor of the other million tasks that must be taken care of during the day.

And so I pump and leave as soon as I can. I skip the meetings and avoid unnecessary conferences. There is guilt that shouldn’t be there from a society that doesn’t seem to understand or care that I’ve chosen to continue to breastfeed AND work.

I’m sad about it. Angry. Frustrated. But I’ll keep doing it. Because this is what I've decided as a mother.

Light

2013-11-03T12:45:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, I did the thing I've been telling myself I would do for the past four months.

What I didn't expect was how I would feel when I left. Pure. Expunged. Clean and holy as childrens' fingers clutching at their mother.

There was the fear that had hollowed me out, burrowed so deep I wonder sometimes if it will ever leave, if the demons who've taken resident will unhook their talons and quietly slink away. The great fear that perhaps I had messed up by taking the actions I recently have. The even greater fear that I was right to take those actions and what that meant about my life.

Yesterday, I finally saw a therapist.

I cannot say that I've found the road that will lead me absolutely to a place of healing and redemption, but coming out of the building into the cold fall morning, it was the first honest breath of air I have taken since July. Despite the hard, hard things that are ahead, there was a rightness to the words I'd shared that morning, an honesty that was like stretching after a long, long sleep.

And that honesty is the thing that has been chasing me my entire life. How incredibly difficult to finally admit, after twenty some odd years, that the thing that should be the one constant in your life is damaged, flawed beyond repair, a source of sadness and hurt that goes deeper than I've ever allowed myself to look. Because if there is poison there, how could it not have slowly seeped into me?

When the therapist said the word, I winced even though there is a part of me, a part I keep pushed deep, deep down, that knew she was right. "So I'd say she was abusive, too" she said, and I slowed, opened my mouth to backpedal, to quickly correct her assumption, but as she continued to speak, I found that there was nothing to correct, nothing more to say in defense, and so I was quiet, dazzled in the face of what was finally honest, what was finally truth despite my best attempts to hide it from myself.

In the coming weeks, there is hard work that must be done. But I'm not afraid, not confused, or bewildered, or sad, or hopeless any more. That power that she had is slowly diminishing. I can't say that I won't fall into that confusion or fear or sadness ever again, but for the first time in a long time, the blinders have been loosened, and I can see.

Gray Area- A Birth Story

2013-08-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

Jackson,

As I sit typing this, you are lying next to me having only just drifted off to sleep after an afternoon of feeding, changing, and fussing. Yes, there was some alert tummy time mixed in, but for the most part, you have been not much more than a tiny, howling creature for the better part of the afternoon. Despite my sleep deprived haze, I can’t help but look at you in absolute awe and love as I pick you up to feed or change you yet again. The dirty diapers, Jackson. I never would have imagined.

For such a long time, I was so sad. Sad because before there was you, there were two other babies who were not meant to be. For long hours and long days, I sat with the knowledge that for some reason my body was supremely broken, that I was less than the woman I was supposed to be. And then, two days before Christmas, I called your father because something just didn’t feel right. I’d felt that way before, and as I sat and waited for your father to come home, the exhilaration that I’d felt the first and then the second time I’d sat quietly waiting was replaced with dread. I couldn’t go through another loss, knew that if it were to happen again, that my grip on sanity would come slowly unfurled.

But then the wait was over, and your father and I looked in disbelief at the starkest second pink line we had seen yet. And I knew then that you were already telling me how strong you were, that you were already filling the hole that I’d carried with me for the year prior. And you ARE strong, Jackson. I know it when I watch you lift your head despite the rules that say you shouldn’t be able to sustain such an activity yet. I know it when you kick and punch with little arms as I try to change your diaper. I know it when you fight to get your arms beneath you and push up when on your tummy. Your father will tell you that you get your stubbornness from me, but I can tell you that you got the best of both of us, and I see it everyday as you fight to make yourself known.

And you are already forging ahead, doing things ahead of time and on your own schedule. Tonight, you are still technically five days away from what would have been your due date, but you are here and already two weeks old.

It was a routine 36 week checkup, and for the first time since your ultrasound, your father was able to go with me. I’d just gone back to work, was preparing for the first two weeks of school before a planned maternity leave, and I’d driven to the appointment from the school, rushed even, because I was running late (or as your father would put it, late to be early). All was normal as the nurse weighed me and slapped the blood pressure cuff on my arm, and I waited as the machine did its work. But the cuff didn’t release as soon as it had in the past, and it grew tighter and tighter before finally releasing. The tech frowned at the number. “Let’s try the other arm,” she said and switched the cuff. Before she did, I peeked at the reading. 166/80. I was confused. I’d always had stellar blood pressure. I focused on taking some deep breaths, forced myself to calm down, but when the machine released once more, the number had changed, but not for the better. 168/82.

“My blood pressure is high,” I told your father as we sat in the waiting room before seeing the midwife. I tried not to worry about it, tried to dismiss it as a fluke, a one time event that could be regulated by taking a few more deep breaths, maybe by going home and putting my feet up while guzzling water.

“I want to send you down to triage to monitor your pressure,” the midwife said after checking your heartbeat. “If it stays high, there’s a good possibility you’ll be having this baby very soon. And I don’t want to scare you, but it may even be as early as tonight.”

Your father and I looked at each other. Nothing was ready. We weren’t ready. There was no car seat installed yet, your nursery was almost but not quite finished, and there were an assortment of baby items left to purchase. Mentally, we weren’t prepared for you to be here just quite yet. I thought back to the faculty luncheon just the day prior where I had joked with colleagues that I wouldn’t mind if you came just a wee bit early. Now, facing the distinct possibility that you were going to make an early entrance, I was terrified. I’d had nine months to wrap my mind around the idea of being someone’s mother, but somehow I’d accepted that you would surely go past your due date and that I had three or four more weeks to prepare myself. Already you were telling us that when it came to your place in the world, we would need to stay on our toes, poised and ready for whatever curve ball you were going to hurl at us.

I’d asked the midwife if she could determine your position, and as she pressed against the hard round mound that for weeks I’d thought was your bum, she admitted, “I can’t tell if that’s his bottom or his head. Let’s get an ultrasound before you head down to triage.”

“This baby is breech,” the ultrasound tech said, and the daily struggle I’d been having concerning epidurals and natural childbirth were whisked away in the face of a c-section. Your father held my hand while I cried. This was not what I’d wanted. This was not the dream I’d had about your birth. How could I possibly want my child snatched from my body, removed three weeks before it was even time? How could I justify the interventions so frowned upon in the birthing community?

In triage, the nurses hooked me up to a blood pressure cuff, a heart monitor, and started an IV hep lock that would remain in my hand for the next week and a half. And I laid on that uncomfortable bed listening to your heart beat as the blood pressure cuff turned my arm purple, my fingers numb and tingling. I timed my breathing to your heart, desperately counted those beats between my breaths as the nurses flurried around me drawing vials of blood and my blood pressure climbed.

Thus began a week of gray area. My liver counts were just high enough to be concerned but not high enough to merit delivering you that night. My blood pressure was high but was slowly coming down. I was checked into the hospital for the weekend, diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension and pre-eclampsia.

Over the weekend, your father and I settled into that gray area as test after test came back with results that were not terrible but not ideal. “We aren’t quite sure what we want to do yet,” the doctors told us, and your father and I daydreamed about going home, getting out of that hospital with its terrible, lukewarm cafeteria cuisine and uncomfortable beds.

But there you were with your own plans, and as the doctors came in that Sunday and told us that I would remain in the hospital for the week to be delivered that Thursday, I knew that despite my fear and sadness over the best laid plans that often go awry, I was ready to meet you. And from deep within me, you were already telling me you were ready to meet me, too.

So the waiting began and your father scrambled to finish last minute things here at our home while I watched far too much Food Network and tried not to pass the time by peeling paint off of the walls. Bed rest, in theory, sounds lovely until it is imposed upon you, and you are the subject of scowls and tsking when you venture to do something as daring as go to the restroom.

On Wednesday night, your father satisfied a final request and brought me guacamole before I was no longer allowed to eat or drink. As midnight approached, we sat together quietly. He rubbed my back, and you kicked and punched vigorously as if to let us know that you were ready, that you were strong enough, that we were strong enough.

The next morning didn’t afford time to think as doctors and nurses scurried in and out with various bits of information and directives. My surgery was scheduled for noon, and as the hour approached, my anxiety and fear and excitement threatened to drown me. I was in overload and asked your father to see our well-meaning visitors out.

And then the nurses were wheeling me down the hallway to the OR, and your father waited in the hallway while the anesthesiologist prepped me for a spinal block. I was terrified and hated that your dad couldn’t be there with me, hated that as they wheeled me in a terrible Rhianna song was playing over the speakers, hated that the nurse I held on to as the needle entered my spine had on far too much mascara, hated that cold, antiseptic smell of the room.

Your father came in, and the doctor tried his best to distract me as the nurses put up the curtain. And then everything began, a blurred, rushed ticking of seconds as I squeezed your father’s hand, and the pressure as the doctor took you from me, the sound of your first cries echoing throughout that cold room, and my heart hurting with the need to touch you, to feel your skin against mine.

And then you were there. My hands trembling from the magnesium coursing through my blood stream as I touched your tiny hands, your hair, and you reached back for me already acknowledging that even though this wasn’t what I wanted, that you were there, and you were everything that I needed.

The first 24 hours are a medication-induced haze. The magnesium they’d given me left me incoherent, a babbling, uncontrolled imitation of myself, and I hated that in those first few hours I was less than myself, but despite the obstacles placed before us, you thrived.

And now, as the scar on my body is healing, the scar on my heart is gone. One day, you’ll read this and think I’m weird and sappy and be embarrassed of your crazy mother, but right now, as you sleep, I know that you gave me strength when I most needed it.

I love you forever,

Mama

Scarred

2012-06-12T17:53:00.001-07:00

In looking back at what I wrote concerning my first miscarriage, I find myself reaching for the comfort and solace in words once more, only this time, there is no beauty in these words. Instead I find a rawness, a coldness that cannot be removed by searching for the perfect arrangement of words. I wish I could.

I expected to be sad. What I did not expect was the irrationally powerful anger and overwhelming bitterness. Certainly I experienced something similar last summer when I lost my first pregnancy, but we were so hopeful this time, so intent that this time it would work. I cannot speak for my husband, but I wanted to trust the numbers, wanted to believe that while miscarriage is common in the first pregnancy, that 85% of women will go on to have a successful, healthy second pregnancy. I am not one of these women.

We stared at that second pink line for several minutes, both of us disbelieving in that moment that what we both wanted had finally happened again. We wondered if we should tell our families. We laughed, we talked about how good we felt this time, how much faith we had in this pregnancy. We told our families. The day after we made the announcement, I began bleeding.

Along with the anger, what is most disturbing is that despite my grief, most of what I felt was a dullness, and even more frightening the acceptance that I somehow knew this was bound to happen. I had the thought that I had become used to this, and the idea numbed me. The next day I found myself laughing and immediately felt ashamed. How could I laugh? How could I possibly find joy in anything given what had just happened? Some people might say that laughter is a part of healing, but it chafed at me regardless.

And the anger. It’s the beast in my belly, threatening to consume and drown. I see other women with their babies, their families clear faced and smiling; I see other women with swollen bellies, their skin stretched tight and eyes peaceful, happy with the life inside of them. These women are my close friends, my acquaintances, and every social nicety says I’m supposed to be happy for them, excited for the additions to their families. But I’m not. I want to throw back my head and howl. I want to curse. I want to tell them it isn’t fair. I want to ask them to take down their pictures, to not mention how wonderful it is to be pregnant or to have a baby. Don’t they understand? Their happiness cuts through me, and the wound is open and ragged. We’re supposed to coo over babies, marvel over pregnant women and their swollen ankles. I’m the monster who wishes they would disappear. And when I have these thoughts, I’m even more ashamed. My body is broken, and my capability to feel happiness for others even more so.

Tonight as I was running, Ben Harper’s “Amen Omen” began to play, and while I have always loved the song, I had to stop it for the fear that I would begin sobbing right there in the park amongst the other joggers. It goes

What started as a whisper,

Slowly turned in to a scream.

Searching for an answer

Where the question is unseen.

I don't know where you came from

And I dont know where you've gone.

Old friends become old strangers

Between the darkness and the dawn

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I still hear you saying

"All of life is chance,

And is sweetest,is sweetest when at a glance"

But I live,

I live a hundred lifetimes in a day.

But I die a little

In every breath that I take.

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I listen to a whisper,

Slowly drift away.

Silence is a loudest,

Parting word you never say.

I put I put your world

Into my veins

Now a voiceless sympathy

Is all that remains.

There are parts of me that will never be the same. There is a sense of faith and hope that has died, and while I wish I could say that I can trust in some higher power, that that force knows what is best, I find no solace in that. The only thing I know is that time may heal that which is broken, but, oh, how the scars remain.

Another one!

2012-04-06T11:10:00.002-07:00

My story "Black Water" is up over at Flashquake. READ IT NOW.

New Story Up

2012-03-27T09:57:00.000-07:00

My flash piece "Locks" is up over at Fear and Trembling magazine. Lyn Perry was kind enough to publish it, and I'd say it's a heck of a speculative magazine! Check it out!

A New Year

2012-01-14T07:03:00.000-08:00

The past few weeks have been a strange combination of highs and lows. The highs? A pub and very first SALE at Fear and Trembling magazine. A lovely personal rejection note from Corvus that was so genuine and kind that it was almost as good as a pub. My review of Elyssa East's Dogtown merited an incredibly nice note from the author herself. You can find the review here, and while you are there, take some time to read through the other contributors. It's really a beautiful magazine.

The lows? Form rejections from Bete Noire, and One Buck Horror.

Still waiting to hear about the potential life of "Hole" from Electric Spec and Niteblade. Everyday Fiction is still ruminating over "Black Water" after 76 days, but I'm being patient. I really like EF, and I'm hoping that the longer the story is out the more likely they will actually publish it.

I haven't been writing every day like I said I would, but I did manage to push out a flash piece that I REALLY love and is currently entered in a contest over at Shock Totem. With all of that said, there's this novel that I need to get back to working on. Hopefully when I finish it, the round of Nano queries will be out, and mine will be in the fresh batch.

This is totally my year, ya'll. I don't care what the universe says.

A Noob's Guide to the Gym

2012-01-08T07:29:00.000-08:00

Okay. I get it. And don't get me wrong, I can appreciate ANYONE's New Year's Resolution to get in shape and take better care of him/herself. In fact I applaud you. Trust me, the past year has seen massive swings back in forth in my own exercise routine.

So, no, I have no inherent beef with anyone who takes it upon himself to go out and purchase a gym membership, but there are RULES, people.

1. If I'm on the treadmill, and there are plenty of treadmills available, please do not select the treadmill directly next to me. It's not that I have personal space issues; it's just that if I don't have to be splattered with your sweat, I'd rather not.

2. For that matter, if you are running on the treadmill, please do so at a reasonable speed or a speed that you can actually maintain. If you have to hold onto the machine, or if it sounds like an elephant is skipping across the treadmill, you are doing it wrong. Your sneakers shouldn't be scraping against the belt because you can't keep up the pace. It's distracting. Not to mention, I'll make fun of you as soon as one of us leaves. Slow it down, people.

3. I understand that I can re-start the machine by simply plugging the heart monitor back into the machine, but what you need to understand is that by the time I've made it to the gym, I'm at the lowest possible denominator of mental capacity. There are probably rocks with higher levels of brain activity. So when I get to the machine and press Quick Start, I expect the machine to start...quickly. And if it doesn't, I'm all

Seriously. I understand that all I have to do is plug the cord back in, but please understand that it would make things SO MUCH SIMPLER if you would just do it for me.

4. WIPE DOWN THE MACHINES. The gym has these wonderful stations with paper towels and disinfectant. They put it there for a reason. No one wants to touch or be surrounded by your dirty human juice. There's no reason for you to be so dismissive/lazy that you can't haul yourself to the station and back to wipe down the machine you've just spent thirty oozing minutes on.

5. When in the weight area, there's an order to things. If I'm in the middle of my reps, please don't HOVER by the machine like a dog that's waiting to piss. I get it. You want the machine next, but NO, it's not going to make me go any faster. Go do something else until I'm finished.

6. Slamming the weights and/or grunting, shouting, cursing, or all of the above does not make you look hard. It makes you look like a total douche nozzle. Sometimes you might need to make a little noise to get out that last rep, but trust me, the ladies aren't impressed by your neolithic grunting.

7. It's fine to fill up your protein shake bottle at the water fountain, but if there is a line of twenty very thirsty people behind you, please step aside. Your Muscle Milk can wait.

8. Ladies, standing around the machinery in full make up, immaculately styled hair, and the tightest yoga pants known to man while flirting with the personal trainers isn't cute. The gym is for working out, not for finding someone to take you to Applebees on Friday night. That appletini and then banging it out in his mom's basement better be worth it.

9. If you can afford a gym membership, but you can't afford a pair of sweat pants, you need to seriously re-evaluate your priorities. Blue jeans are for Casual Fridays, not the gym.

10. WHY ARE YOU RUNNING BAREFOOT?? There is a distinct possibility that whatever foot fungus that's hiding between your sweaty toes will somehow eat through my sneakers and infect me. Put on some damn shoes.

Please, noobs. Get your act together and let's make the gym a pleasurable experience for everyone.

Tiny Creepies

2012-01-03T08:51:00.000-08:00

Working on a new piece of flash fiction for Shock Totem. The topic is AMAZINGLY CREEPY. Seriously shit your pants kind of stuff, and I'm in that first draft stage where you vacillate between the excitement of a kid jacked up on Mountain Dew and the promise of Santa bringing a new X Box, and the despair that every writer hits during the first draft stage.

Right now I both love and hate what I've done, and I'm scared about relying on my own judgement before submitting this piece. Usually, I try to have some other writer whom I greatly respect lay eyes on it before submitting, but the deadline is the 7th, and I don't really want to put that kind of pressure on a fellow writer.

But I'm glad it's flash. I love the nature of flash fiction, the smallness of it. The potential for making every word burn.

It's bitchin stuff.

Finding a Home for Hole

2012-01-01T10:45:00.000-08:00

"Hole," or as I more affectionately know it "Bree's Story" is still without a home. I've gotten a fresh rejection from Bete Noire today, and I'm not going to lie, this one stung. As a magazine that claims to pride itself on providing personal rejections, it hurt to open my email and see the same old form rejection that every other publication sends. Oh well. I like the magazine very much and will try again in the future.

So the grand total comes to three with rejections from Clarkesworld and Shimmer, my dream publications. I'm waiting on One Buck Horror, Electric Spec, and Niteblade. All of them have slim publication rates, but of all of the stories I've written, I'm most proud of this one and figured I may as well shoot for the big suckers.

Still waiting to hear back from Everyday Fiction about "Black Water," and it's been out for 56 days. I know, I know, wahh, wahh, wahh, waiting to hear back is hard, but really it is.

My goal for today is to finally install Word on my Mac so that I can get back to working on Find Me Here. My goal is to have the first draft finished by February.

Happy Writing!

Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-Legged Beasties

2011-11-27T15:26:00.000-08:00

In my heart every day is Halloween. My husband will never understand my obsession with all things macabre, but I'm drawn to it. For a long time, I felt the need to hide my love for horror films and books, ashamed that amongst my more literary minded colleagues, my interests were amateurish. I feared they would flog me with Keats, snicker at me from behind their copies of Ulysses, and preach about the greater joys of reading Chaucer in one's spare time.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't as if I've sequestered myself into one small area of all literary-dom with no intent of ever venturing outside, but this girl can't deny that she loves to be scared. Thank God for Henry James, and Bram Stoker, for Edgar Allen Poe and Shirley Jackson, for H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King.

And so for years, I've been rather quiet about loving all things that go bump in the night. Most certainly I never shared my penchant for the Gothic with my writer colleagues, and I most certainly did not write any speculative fiction for submission to any of my critique groups or writing workshops.

Then I started to get bored. Started even to dislike what I was writing. I stumbled across Shimmer Magazine by complete chance and began reading. When I was finished, my flesh crawled. It was exactly the feeling that I had been missing.

Slowly, I began to seek out a network of writers and magazines--writers and magazines who are producing NOW--and started researching. Check out Aaron Polson if you have some time and are a fan of the genre. After many hours devoted to wrapping up my Capstone, I'm letting myself say it loud and say it proud. I'm writing horror, dammit.

On Miscarriage

2011-10-07T13:32:00.000-07:00

We were on our way to a wedding when it happened. The doctor's had told us that bleeding was common, that I was still very early and not to worry. I told myself that I wouldn't write about it. Ever since it happened, I swore up and down that I wouldn't; swore that I wouldn't even mention it outside of family and a small circle of friends who make up my support system.

I feel like I've done a good job, feel that I've managed to overcome it. Maybe not forget that it happened altogether, but there are days that go by where I don't think about it, and that is a small blessing in itself. Because when I do think about it, I'm back in the July heat in that squalid South Carolina bathroom, back in that backwoods urgent care facility while a doctor pokes and prods at the rawest part of me and tells me "You're fine. There's nothing there."

And then there are days like today. Where all of sudden it's there again in all of its nightmarish ferocity, threatening to tear me open from the inside out. It was a simple mistake, I'm sure. They probably just forgot to remove my name from a mailing list.

From my doctor this morning came a reminder email to schedule my 6 month ultrasound. As of Halloween, I would have known the sex of the baby I lost in July. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've continued to keep count of the days until deadlines like this. Halloween for the sex; February for my due date. Of course, this counting had become largely subconscious, like blinking or breathing, but largely, I'd let myself start to heal.

Seeing this reminder of the child I lost ripped through me like a cold wind. Had it lived, I'd have been showing by now. Maybe even picked out a name, started decorating a nursery. The email, however good the intentions were, left me reelilng and violently angry.

Miscarriage is common amongst first and early pregnancy, and while I may feel that my story is unique, that no other woman could have possibly experienced the type of grief that I had, it simply isn't true. Because there are so many other women who have shared my pain. I wanted my doctor to understand being part of a larger statistic doesn't invalidate this hurt, shouldn't allow such callousness on his office's part. I wish I could say this is the first time they've made such a mistake, but it isn't. During a follow up visit, I was asked how far along I was despite my chart that clearly indicated that the pregnancy had ended.

I was afraid, ashamed even, of people knowing, of their questioning why I would share such intimate information. But now, I feel a need to not hide it in the dark any more. It happened. It cannot be taken back. Not for me and not for thousands of other women.

I cannot forget. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do to distract myself the memory is ever present, an indelible part of me that cannot be removed as easily as deletion from a mailing list.

And even though it hurt, I realized I don't want to forget. Not completely.

Grocery Guilt

2011-07-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

Publix is my favorite grocery store. Maybe because it smells like bread all of the time. Maybe because it's the freshest produce I can find since Acworth has never heard of Whole Foods. Whatever the reason, I love doing my grocery shopping there. Except for one thing.

Normally I'm not a buggy shopper, (and yes, I call it a buggy, not a cart. I live in the South, dammit), but it's hard to fit one of those giant packages of toilet paper in one of those itty, bitty baskets, so today, I had a buggy.

I have a certain tactic to checking out with a buggy. I'll scout the checkers, looking for the one that doesn't have a bagger. You see, Publix has a policy that I'm convinced is tatooed across the backs of every employee. CARRYOUT SERVICE IS REQUIRED FOR BUGGY SHOPPERS.

So when I have a buggy, I pray that I can pay for my items and get out of the store without someone chirping, "Can I help you to your car?"

Now don't get me wrong, it's a wonderful service, but it makes me more uncomfortable than watching a dog get friendly with a stranger's leg.

If I say yes, I cannot abide the awkward silences or mundane conversations about the weather that surely come along with carryout service. Not to mention the inordinate amount of guilt I feel watching some poor soul chuck 50 pounds of groceries into my trunk in 100 degree Georgia heat.

Even worse is when I say no. Then I feel like I may as well have just murdered their kitten. Like I'm the only thing that's getting them through their work day, and since I said no, what, really, is the point in living any more?

You aren't supposed to tip them, but I always feel compelled to give them something. A hug would be too much, a handshake too formal. Last time, I gave a friendly punch on the shoulder and a "Thanks, dude." I don't think the nice, 55 year-old gentleman who helped me to my car appreciated the gesture.

So today, when I wheeled my buggy through a bagger free line, I almost cried with happiness at the possibility of getting out of there without the following interchange.

"Help you to your car?"

"Oh, no thanks. I'm good." *CRINGE*

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. Thanks though!" **DOUBLE CRINGE**

OH GOD THE FEELINGS OF GUILT AND SHAME!!!

I was almost scot-free, was rolling on out through the automatic doors, when an employee stopped me, placed a hand on my buggy, and asked the question.

And in my head, I was all "NO, NO, NO. Do not ask me that. I'll have to be honest with you and break your heart. WHY do you have to make me feel like a complete asshole?"

I politely refused, and she looked at my like I was crazy.

And then it dawned on me. Maybe I AM the crazy one. After all, who doesn't want the task of unloading one's groceries foisted off onto some other poor, hapless soul?

Maybe I'm just that one anti-social moron who thinks it's odd and squirmy. Am I so much a part of the self-service generation that I have forgotten--nay, even delegated to the purgatory of awkardness--the luxury of full service??!

Once upon a time, there were people waiting to pump our gas, wash our cars, answer our questions over the telephone when we had them.

All of which got me thinking about technology and the world we live in. I've always been one of those people who would rather deal with a machine. If I can look it up on the internet instead of actually interacting with another person, you can count me in. It's one of those weird nueroses I have. You know, the fear that someone may think you're stupid after conversating with you for less than five minutes?

Anyway, I've recently actually needed to speak with a living, breathing, flesh and blood person, and all I've gotten was a machine. The absolute anger and frustration over not being able to get in touch with anyone was enough to have me running around my house like a hamster in one of those freaking balls that are supposed to get them some exercise. Whoever heard of a hamster exercising anyway?

So maybe next time, I'll slow down a little and let the nice bagger take my groceries for me. Maybe I'll even try a little conversation.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time I call my doctor's office, someone will answer. But I doubt it.

An Impasse

2011-06-11T14:31:00.000-07:00

I truly envy those people who can sit at their computers, let their fingers fly over their keyboards, and even freaking smile while they clatter out some new plot developement on whatever manuscript on which they are currently working.

I am not one of those writers. Every time I reach the end of a page, and my cursor shifts to the next, I want to shout, dance, writhe around on the floor in the kind of supreme ecstasy reserved for defloration rituals in primitive tribes. Quite frankly, when I reach the end of a page, I'm drained, tired, and feeling rather ho-hum about what I've just written.

But then there are times when I'm humming along, lost for just the briefest of moments in that world, and I'm not writing anymore, but actually seeing what's happening unfold before me, and I want to cry at how wonderful it all is and jump up and kiss the first person I see, even if it is the zit-infested barrista telling me my coffee is up. Because those moments--the dream as John Gardner calls it--are so few and far between for me that I sometimes wonder if I'm kidding myself.

I'm coming to the belief that writers are the ultimate narcissists. We put our words, our blood to paper. We hoard them, pick away at them until they are perfect before we thrust them before the world. "See? See what I've done?" we ask.

And then we wait in agony for not just anyone, but someone with some effing power to tell us, "Yes. We love it. Yes. We will publish it." The ultimate validation, the end result of all that longing for someone to just tell us that they like us, that we are good.

For the briefest of moments, it is enough to keep us going, and then the darkness falls down around us again because we are once more faced with the blinking cursor on the blank page and the thought, What if I can't do it again? What if they made a mistake, and I'm terrible?

And oh, god, it becomes so hard to keep going, to lose yourself in the pleasure of writing because the vanity and the pride and all of those terrible things the Bible warns you about begin to sing a terrible chorus of failure in your head, and you are wondering as the words begin to stutter out of you if they are any good, and who will love them, or, even worse, who will roll their eyes and shudder before tossing what you've spent months of your life working on into the nearest waste basket.

And every writing teacher, or instructional writing text you've ever read preaches to not let that critic get in the way, but it is always the critic to whom you write, always her voice that keeps you from writing the next sentence, which you know without a doubt, will be the most atrocious string of words ever committed to paper.

When you are a perfectionist, the hardest thing to do is let down that wall and just do it.

There is a light

2011-05-19T18:41:00.000-07:00

There's a light at the end of the tunnel; however, every time I hear the phrase "there's a light," my mind automatically goes to Rocky Horror Picture Show and the light over at the Frankenstein place, and then eventually I'm singing Janet's part in "Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me" and thinking how weird it is that Rocky went on to be that guy in Coach.

The previous paragraph is fairly representative of the state of my mind over the past few weeks. After a year of working and worrying over the yearbook, the distribution/dedication ceremony came and went, and it feels strange to come home at night with no major event to plan. Not that I'm saying that I'm ready to start all over--trust me, I'll very much enjoy my break--but after so many months of insanity, I'm not sure I remember how to function normally. There are still things to take care of (grading, money issues, etc...), but the bulk of the work is done, and I couldn't be prouder of what my staff accomplished this year.

I'm in a holding pattern for grad school right now and am waiting for the summer semester to begin. My Capstone is officially underway, and while I should have spent the past few months outlining my novel, I've only managed to write three quarters of the second draft of a short story. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that by this December, I should have the majority of a novel written. It's daunting to think of the amount of work to be accomplished within the coming months, but while I have major butterflies in my tummy, there's a larger part of me that's fairly panting after the opportunity to get this thing started.

Looks like I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo's Summer Camp as a method of motivation and support. If you've never heard of NaNo, and you're an aspiring writer, you should check it out.

Now, I'm off to read the newest novel I downloaded to my brand new Kindle.

Under Pressure

2011-02-22T16:56:00.000-08:00

When I was little, a go-to staple in our house was chicken and dumplings. There were no cutting corners according to my mother, so she would haul out the pressure cooker in preparation of cooking the chicken to just the right degree of fall apart when it hits your fork. She would keep that pressure cooker going all day; the silver and black knob at the top destined to start its rattling and hissing at any given second, indicating the time to pull the chicken for shredding and drop the dumplings for stewing in the broth. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

But I'm not here to talk about food. All around me, there are babies. Babies galore. Friends, acquaintances, people I just met in line at Dunkin' Donuts have all had the their lives graced by the blessed presence of an infant. In perfect honesty, I'm the odd woman out.

While I feel, nor do I wish to impart, any pressure to get a little one cooking inside of me, there is a distinct feeling of being inside of that pressure cooker my momma loved. Only instead of dumplings, the desired product is an equally squishable baby.  There are far too many people out there who will tell me that I'm still a baby myself and that I ought to learn more of the world before bringing more life into it, but as thirty marches ever closer, I find myself sweating in the presence of what I can only describe is baby fever.

I want kids. My husband wants kids.  Some may call us equally matched on that front, but as the "right time" comes for scores of other couples, I can't help but feel the proverbial clock ticking, and it's not such a distant clock anymore.  I'm watching people younger than me by significant leaps announce the sex of their babies as I type this, and in the face of the pressure, I'm sweating. Just like those dumplings my momma dumped inside of that bath of broth so many years ago.

Have I accomplished all I wanted to accomplish by this time in my life?  Can we afford this?  How will this change me? Change us?

It's exhilirating.  It's scary.  The realm of emotions coursing through me right now is hard to describe.  There hasn't been much else in life that has been so confusing, frightening, and exciting simultaneously. Unless you count the first time I rode a roller coaster.  What a terrible comparison. That alone shows my ignorance.

Right now I'm deep inside that pressure cooker, and David Bowie and Queen are crooning in my ear.  It's hot in here.

An Insight Into The Shining

2011-01-12T08:10:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to understand Jack Torrance's--you know "All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy, The Shining, etc...--little side trip to crazy town. Excessive amounts of snow will do that to a person.

On Sunday night, 6 inches of snow fell. In Georgia. Where the most snow we ever see is a powder sugar like dusting of flurries that are gone the next day. And we all ooh and ahh over how pretty it is, and the neighborhood kids go out and destroy the beauty while trying take pack together the saddest little snowman you have ever seen.

But Snowmageddon 2011 was different. We knew it was coming. It was all the local weather stations could talk about for a week in advance. Justin and I ventured out to Wal-Mart on Saturday, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Have you ever been charged by a veritable wildebeest of a woman because she thinks you are grabbing the very last package of powdered donuts, when actually you are grabbing a loaf of Sara Lee's 45 Calories and Delightful Multigrain Bread? The vision still haunts me.

Anyway, we have been stuck in the house for the past four days, and there is no end/thaw in sight. If I don't get out of this house soon, there is guaranteed to be an absolute storm of hormonal shouting, crying, and whining. If I have to eat ONE more sandwich, I might have a little come to Jesus up at Hillshire Farms. Of course they would put just the right amount of meat in the container that guarantees if I don't consume it in three-four days, it WILL go bad, and I'll curse myself for wasting money. You remember that massive comissary in The Shining? I feel like that's the only type of food I have in my house. That of the canned and frozen variety. I DESIRE FRESH VEGETABLES!! And a hamburger from Five Guys.

Thank GOD there was enough coffee and creamer and Sweet N' Low to get us through.

All in all, I'm feeling rather dour. My students are almost a week behind, and while sleeping in is great, making up for lost time is not so great. Every time I look at the vast expanse of white outside of my window, I feel like crying. This Georgia girl is not equipped to handle the winter months. Period. Actual accumulated snow and ice-coated roads that stick around for a few days are another story. Peaches don't thrive in ice, ya'll.

Let's not even get started on my motivation. I started out strong. I finished a short story and submitted it to Glimmer Train. Hooray! But after a winter walk with my husband, a fantastic new story idea came to me, and instead of rushing right into the house and getting to work, I've done everything but work on it. Maybe today?? Doubtful.

Oh. My. God. I just looked out the window. It's snowing again. Thank goodness we don't keep an axe in the house. And if I start seeing creepy little twin girls, I promise to call someone.

Eating Like a Lady

2010-12-27T08:41:00.000-08:00

It's almost the New Year, and ya'll know what that means. Time to turn over a new leaf and swear up and down that I'm going to do all of the things that I was supposed to do this year. Namely, that means taking care of my body.

I used to be so good about this. Anal retentive in fact. In early college, my glory days, I worked out like a maniac and got myself down to a size THREE. I'll repeat that for posterity. A SIZE THREE. And guess how many pictures I have of that period of my life. O. Because my mother never got that film developed, and who knows where it is now.

Eventually, time to work out grew thinner (no pun intended), and I still maintained a decent exercise and eating routine, but when I started working, the spread began. And then when I started grad school it got almost unmanageable.

So when I was flipping through some old photos and ran across this one, I almost spit out my coffee.

This photo was taken almost four years ago, and this was not the thinnest I've ever been, but when I saw it, my jaw hit the floor. I cannot believe that I was ever this person, and then I realized that I need to make more of an effort towards physical health not only for personal reasons but also so that when Justin and I eventually do start a family, my body will be a temple of health for a baby.

So I've been thinking about eating habits and observing the plates of women around me, and a thought struck me. I need to get back to eating like a lady. Avoiding portions intended for lumberjacks or construction workers. Asking myself as I load my plate, "Would a LADY eat this? Would a LADY eat this MUCH of this?"

This may seem horribly stereotypical to envision a delicate Southern Belle complete with hat and gloves, but it just may be the ticket to retrieving my body from the dumpster to which I've relegated it.

In Which I Ride a Freight Train to Hell

2010-12-13T19:50:00.000-08:00

I'm worried that any type of following I may have gathered has drifted off into the great unknown.

It's that time of year, folks, and for the past month, I've found myself choking on insane amounts of paper, whether that be in terms of grading or in grad school work. Even though the end is in sight and the light at the proverbial end of the tunnel looms, this train just isn't moving quickly enough for my tastes.

I'm certain that once the semester has reached its end and I have time to reflect on my year, I'll have much to give thanks for, but for the moment, I want to bury my head in the sand and either scream or sleep for the next week and a half.

I graded ten essays tonight to bring today's grand total to fifteen. I should feel proud, but when I consider that I have two more class sets of analytical essays, a class set of definition essays, a class set of definition essay timed writings, a class set of personal narratives, three class sets of poetry anthology projects, one class set of a cumulative portfolio, and four sets of final exams to grade, my brain gives this weird little flutter, and I begin to wonder if I've just had a slight anuerism.

I'm having nightmares about human-sized green ink pens chasing me through a cemetery in which staplers and calculators burst through cracked earth in some type of zombie blossoming. I wish I was kidding.

This is the part where I praise my wonderful husband for the vast amounts of help he has given me in the past three weeks as I've ran around the house babbling about where I left that one sheet of paper with the marks on it? You know... the one with the red ink that says something about the due date of a manuscript? To which he has cleaned house, helped me retrieve and wrap a bridal shower gift, helped me clean out my car, and brought me lunch. So sweetie, thank you for the Subway and the dishes.

Needless to say, my own work has fallen to the wayside, and now I have two short stories floating in my head (one of which is halfway finished) and the novel to complete as well. I'm wondering exactly how much writing one can fit into a week and a half long period. I can imagine that it's not enough.

In incredibly exciting news, my article, which was published in Free Inquiry magazine is out! You can read it here. Wow. That's my name up there.

And on a final note, a rant towards Atlanta. My dear city, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE CULTURALLY RELEVANT!! YOU KNOW.... HIP AND ALL THAT JAZZ!! HOW IS IT REMOTELY POSSIBLE THAT YOU ARE NOT INCLUDED IN THE LINE UP FOR LIMITED RELEASE FILMS THAT I'M DYING TO SEE???? Could we do something about that?

Missed you guys. Promise I'll be better. Promise.