Belle and Sebastian - The boy with the arab strap - Live @ Alcatraz, Mi...

I wanted to share some good jams that take me back with you guys. Enjoy!

The List

1. Develop a more solid understanding of English grammar to outwit potential dates.
2. Write more, like a lot more.
3. Start running. (This is the only weight or health oriented goals on the list.)
4. Read more and watch Netflix less.
5. Move to LA.
6. Save 2,000 by the end of the year.
7. Go to therapy and work out emotional baggage.
8. Learn how to network with fellow writers (Just make more friends who happen to write and/or can get you into some sort of publication).
9. Buy your own copy of Writer's Market and stop utilizing the public library's copy.
10. No online dating, for at least a year(because you've never actually met a boyfriend via OKC, Tinder or Facebook).
11. Start smiling more and reject Rested Bitch Face syndrome.
12. Spend more time with Granny.
13. Join a gym and stick to it for at least a year.(So, I lied I have two health and/or weight related goals.)
14. Attempt to learn something new, such as: Spanish or Playing the guitar...
15. Stop looking up ex-boyfriends via google(Yep!).
16. Submit to jobs, you're really not qualify for(You'll never know).
17. Try to tackle Middlemarch.
18. Visit either Las Vegas or San Franscisco.
19. Buy more clothes and let go of the excuse that you'll do it once you've lost weight.
20. Be happier this year than you were in 2014.

The Undoing of Lisa, a story.

I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering during Dr. Steward’s lecture. I could explain away my rudeness, but I will not. I really don’t need to either--since your eyes were also wandering as well.  I digress. I love the way you became self conscious about our eyes meeting, pausing briefly, and then pretending as if we didn’t share a moment. We did. Wasn’t it beautiful.?Two lost, bored souls in a sea of disinterested coeds trying to hide their cellphones, or decipher Dr. Steward’s klingon handwriting. Never mind, them-I was thinking about you, the rest of the lecture. It funny how you can take a class, as larger as Econ 101, and never notice someone. I should have noticed you. I should have; yet, I didn’t. 

I was expecting you to wait for me by the entry of the lecture hall, but you didn’t. I will not lie, I was actually a little heart broken. In fact, I was so heart broken that I refused to make eye contact with you for weeks, but I knew your eyes were lingering, over my hair, and when the first ray of spring light pierced the Midwestern sky, I started to leave my coat at home, hoping you would noticed my figure, and break our armistice. But, you didn’t. This drove me mad. A midterm came and passed and still no contact with you. I would move about in the cold, dimly lit cylinder shaped lecture hall, trying my best to catch a glimpse of your smile, or a raised eyebrow. I did, but I also had to admit, it really no longer mattered. I had met a nice, tall, brown eyed Sophomore from Purdue, who would occasionally, stop by on his way to his hometown for midnight sex and lukewarm conversation. We were causal, but I could feel the tide changing, he would stay longer, longer after sex. He wanted to have breakfast and cuddle. I avoid the subject of “us” for only so long. I guessed that I was counting on you, to notice me, to love me, even if it was from afar. 

And one day, a real gloomy day, I was lost in my thoughts, in preparing for my next lecture, in counting the last bucks I had stashed away for tomorrow’s nightcaps, it was then, you reached out and grasped the tenderest part of my arm, so firmly, as if we were already lovers. 

 “If I were to wait for you, any longer, we’ll never get married on time.” You said. 

I pivoted on the balls of feet, the same way, I do when I am dancing on stage. My hair briefly slapped your chest, and the “offended bitch” look melted off my face into a pleasant surprise. 

 “I didn’t know we're on a timetable.” I said, trying my best to mask my excitement. 

 “Well, now that we’re talking, maybe, we could get our train back on track, no?” You said, in such a smooth baritone ladled with Minnesotan notes. 

 “Maybe.” I said, as the excitement leaked out of me, and latched onto to you. 

As the entire class, slipped by, we pretend that we had no where to go, that I wasn’t pressed for time, and you didn’t have a paper due at two. I can no longer remember who decided it was best to play hooky. I just remember the warm sun heating every particle in my right arm as it hung outside of your old pickup, on the way to local spot, that “we” just needed to be. 

You singed along to Bruce on the radio and I listened as I heard the finest rendition of “Born in The USA,” in B flat. The seats in your old pickup were covered with silver duck tape, and pieces of dingy, yellow form poked out of the few patches of leather that were still attached. You placed your bronzed hand on a spot next your thigh, and glanced over at me, winking and still singing. I continue to feel heat, but not on my arm. I started into the open road and the beautiful azure sky, as I slid my hand across jagged pieces of leather to you. Your grasp was moist, slightly hard from your calluses, but very loving. 

I remembering that day, right now, as if I could squeeze the life out of it, and back into you. I am not sure how I am supposed to act now. I am not sure about anything except, that moment, when we first laid eyes on each other. I haven’t been cognitive during this whole ordeal. I’ve just nodded when your mother or sisters or aunts suggest something.

“Wouldn’t it be nice, to have his viewing in the living room, like Grandfather’s?” Your mother said. 

I said nothing. I couldn’t help but look at my hands, and my wedding band. 

 “Lisa, Lisa, sweetie, do you hear me?” Your mother said. She wore her worry on her face, along the creases next her thin lips, which she tried in vain to fill with foundation. Your sister,Lindsay, just shook her head and talked over me. 

“Shucks, I thought having her involved would be a good idea.”

“Quiet, she just lost her husband. Show some sympathy, I raised you with it.” Your mother said as she placed her soft, wrinkly hand over my own. 

I really did appreciate it and them at that moment. However, I just wasn’t sure about how to display your corpse. Your corpse--you were supposed to never be a corpse, James. Now, I am discussing about whether not it is proper to display it in our house next to your beloved baby grand, how obscene! 

But, now you’re here in a simple casket that I had to fight your oldest brother over. God, you have too many siblings. Why couldn’t you’ve been like the rest of us, and come from a family of 2.5 kids! And your siblings had a shit ton of kids! When will this tradition end? I can’t even think for some brat running amuck in my parlor. I cannot sleep for one of your sympathetic sisters, peaking in my bedroom door, asking me “Do you wanna talk?” with your accent. It is driving me mad. It really is. Almost, more than smelling your scent on my pillow. Last night, I was so mad at you that I punched all the pillows.

 I did. I punched every stupid pillow on our bed. I specifically told you, “ Don’t sleep with my pillow, James! You slob in your sleep.” Yet, you did it anyway and now I am stuck with two pillows that reek of your scent, a mixture of sandelwood, cider chips and musk.Now, that you’re dead, I couldn’t bring myself to wash 'em. 

 I briefly thought about sticking your pillows in your casket, but I didn’t, for fear, one of your nosey sisters would see me and think I’ve gone mad. 

But, I have gone mad. I’ve heard your footsteps in the hallway last night. It’s true. I knew you were going to come through the door and smile, that same smile, like when you first greeted me, outside of Econ 101. I was filled with anticipation and I was up until two, partially because I was frighten and partially, because I was excited again, like when you first touched me. 

Now, I am touching you, but it’s not the same. I was never in love with the body propelling you through time and into my sphere. I was in love with your energy. I was in love with your sense of wonder, and good manners. I was in love with the way you held me during the night and how you would sing in a rich, buttery tone as you made eggs for us. 

As I hold your hand, all I can feel is stiffness, death. When I look around this house, that is all I see as well. I see myself turning red, as I am screaming at you. I see your eyes as you tried to plead with me, as you try your best to keep your woman. I am sorry James. I am truly sorry for all the things that I said, before you walked out of our house and drove into on coming traffic. I don’t believe in a higher power, this you know;yet, I can’t help but feel that I am paying for a crime. I was left behind to live out my days without you.

That’s hell, don’t you think? I spent twenty years before meeting you, searching for something. I was lucky that I just so happen to take a class I didn’t really need. I was so lucky for so long. I have been lucky for seventeen years. But, luck like all things in this universe, must come to end. I was going to kiss your lips one last time, but I was interrupted by Lindsay’s youngest, who yelled out, “Gross,” as my lips were a few inches from yours. I placed my hands on the side of your smooth casket and yelled with all of my frustration, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”  

The young boy looked at me with his blank face and too close blue eyes and began yelling for his mother. He said, “Aunt Lisa is going psycho.” 

I was. I truly was. Your service was over by two. I asked your family in a polite tone to leave my house by five. They were gone by three thirty. Every last one of them gave me a dirty look. But, that was fine with me, especially, since I gave one equally dirty back. As your tribe drove off, I sat down at our piano, and played an elementary rendition of “Born in The USA,” as I sobbed into my red wine. 

Your train has left the station and I missed it. 

A Prayer For Age And Wisdom

When I grow up, I want to become Joni Mitchell.

When I grow up, I want to speak freely, eloquently and articulately, like Ms. Mitchell. 

When I am older and my looks are as important as they used to be, I want my words to be the most truthful things about me. 

When I am in my seventies, I want to look back on my life with pride at my accomplishments, and awe at the way I maneuvered out of life's obstacles. 

When I am grow older, older and then old, I want to become my most beautiful me. I want to become the me, I could never had been at twenty-seven or even forty. 

Society tells me I am at my zenith when I have just ripen, but I think they're misguided. 

I will be more sweet, more delicious, more fulfilling with the softness of age. 

I need to hang on the tree a little while longer, soaking up the sun and all its glory. 

Ripening to my best, much like the Canadian mystic, Joni. 

The New Year, Society's Savior?

As the year comes to a close, I find myself plagued by a year of indiscretions which haunt me like the lingering film of last Sunday's meatloaf layered over a new ceramic casserole. Nevertheless, I try to make the best of my present and hopefully, positively influence my future by learning from yesterday’s mistakes. I also feel that this clarity that I am feeling at this moment in time, isn’t a personal revelation; instead, a shared feeling that is sensed this time of year by many.

But atlas, here comes the New Year! Yes, the New Year, our savior! Saving poor saps like myself from another month of promises not kept, behaviors that refused to be modified, etecra. Like many of my fellow millennials, inherently, I am inherently skeptical and I’ve always been, as long as I can remember. Some of my family, friends and colleagues even think I am a pessimist. I disagree with them, of course, but for the sake of the argument, let’s say that I am. Well, if the New Year isn’t some sort of savior from our horrible habits, toxic relationships and general destructiveness that we humans inflict on ourselves, than what is it? Is it just another chronological occurrence or logical sequence in our time keeping, maybe? Well, yes, it is. Yet, the New Year as well as the shit loads of resolutions that follow it, can, in fact, make us better. 

So, as the year draws to a close, I am going to make a detail list of goals I wish to achieve, behaviors I wish to change and how I would like my life to look in a year from now. Now, I know  people are reading this and are thinking to themselves, “And her point is,” my point is to be held accountable to myself by publicly acknowledging things I wish to change and my attempt to change them. Therefore, when 2015 comes to a end, I will not be in the same predicament that I am in now. So, as I sit at my computer, among my family whom are celebrating Christmas with laughter, cheer and ubiquitous amounts of alcohol, I contemplate how I can be a better cousin, aunt, sister and daughter for them, by first being the woman I want to be for myself. 

Joni's Little Green

I have been obsessed with this song for the past week. It's amazing all the things you discover via endless maundering on Wikipedia. Well enjoy!

Franken-novel's Revenge

So, I will tell you a story about a novel. The novel, my novel, is a beastly thing and the thought of working on it frightens me, well it did for the last six months; yet, the novel, well at least the first draft of my novel, is also my reason for existing. I cannot explain it any clearer than that.
I began crafting my manuscript in the Fall of 2013. I pounded out 40,000 words that were loosely connected and somewhat comprehensible, but mostly importantly,every last word sucked. Yet, I didn't stop there, I began to sic my novel on various unsuspected friends, colleagues and even professors, who all  gave me lukewarm responses about my Franken-novel. I was defeated. My ego suffered completely and I tossed the manuscript in a drawer under my bed.



 To be honest, I believed I had something in that novel worth saving; yet, I just didn't know what it was or how to foster the novel's growth. Well, time went on, I graduated from college and got out into the workforce, then I realized that I would never be happy if I wasn't writing for a living.

Sooooo..., I am here at my computer facing my monster novel once again, a month before my first semester in Creative writing program. All I can think about now, is salvaging my story, in order to have something, anything that can be critiqued, workshopped and lastly, revised into something worth reading.

Welcome! The purpose of this blog is to document my journey in novel creation. I hope tricks and tips I will learn along the way will be helpful to whomever reads my blog. Again, welcome to my blog and thank you for reading.