Open Arms

Hello Friends! I know it's been quite some time since I've written here. I don't have an actual blog for you today. Instead, I am giving you a short story I wrote over the summer for a contest. Although it did not win (Neither did 496 of the other stories that were entered), I would still like to share my silly little story. Maybe it will give you a chuckle as we head into the weekend.
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Open Arms


Strong waves pounded the dark sand just a few yards away. Hidden by beach grass, we embraced, relieved to finally escape our wedding guests. Mark's poetic whispers suddenly ceased as he leaned back, and said, "There's something I need to tell you..."

I wasn't surprised, my heart didn't even stutter a beat. For the past year I had run from the nagging doubt in my head. Every day, going along my merry way, letting myself be consumed with the fine details of the wedding; planning napkin colors to coordinate with bride's maids dresses and picking flowers for centerpieces. I didn't want to let go of the blissful bubble I had created for myself.

I pressed my finger against his lips to silence him, "Shhh, not now, Mark. Let's just hold on to this moment a little longer."

His brow knotted with confusion but he acquiesced and granted me the comfortable silence. Wrapping my arms around his neck I pulled him down to me for a soft kiss, lingering just long enough to imprint into my memory the feel of his lips moulded with mine.

I grabbed his hand, leading him back toward our guests and the party burgeoning in our honor. "C'mon, let's not keep our guests waiting, they do, after all, expect to see the bride and groom at some point."

"But..." He pulled me to him with a gentle tug.

"Mark, please, let me have this one perfect day."

I would have expected to be weak-kneed and somber, but I traversed the terrain sure footed, appreciating the solid ground beneath my feet. Mark was a wonderful gift to my life and if he was going to leave I would not mourn him while he was still with me, rather, I would celebrate every moment he was mine.

We arrived in the banquet room to thunderous applause and a round of whoops and whistles. The wall of windows filtered the summer sun and set rainbow prisms bouncing off of the edges of fine china and highly polished silverware. Dinner was served, leaving only the low din of chatting voices and the clinking of utensils against plates to be heard. Entree followed appetizer and dessert followed entree, all delicious, all flawless. I could barely keep the smile off of my face long enough to chew.

Mark leaned over to me and whispered, "Keri, I really need to tell you something."

"Not now," I replied. Didn't he see, couldn't he understand? This was the pinnacle of my happiness, here, now, with the love of my life. Why did he insist on trying to ruin it with reality? Reality could wait twelve more hours.

Plates were cleared and champagne glasses were filled while the whimsical notes of jazz songs from days gone by floated through the room. Couples, both new and well worn, shuffled around the glossy tiles of the dance floor. Mark began to fidget and a bead of sweat at formed at his temples. Was it really that difficult for him to see this through to the end? Just as Mark swiveled to face me, a look of urgency pained across his features, tinkling started from a far corner of the room. The chiming grew and grew, swirling around us, urgent and pressing.

"Keri, now, I have to tell you now!" His plea was desperate and slightly panicked.

I smiled my biggest tooth-filled grin, "Mark, they expect us to kiss. Let's give 'em a show." I kissed him with all the passion and love that we had cultivated over the past four years. I owed it to him to give him the honesty of my heart. I owed it to myself.

He pulled away shaking off the flecks of lust that were speckled throughout his eyes, but even that rejection didn't make me crack. The DJ blew a low whistle through the microphone and adeptly transitioned into a new song. "Ladies and gentleman, I would now ask that you clear the floor for our new bride and groom for their first dance."

What was this song? This wasn't the song Mark and I had picked! Weeks, no, months were spent agonizing over our first dance as husband and wife. If Mark had looked nervous before he was positively unglued now.

"Keri, I tried to tell you. I'm so sorry! I, just, I forgot to email the DJ the list of songs and today, before the reception, when he asked what we wanted our first dance to be I panicked and said, well, I said this one."

"But I hate this song? I hate this band!" I blurted out in a mixture of relief and disgust. Mark's face crumbled and I dissolved into a fit of laughter.

I rushed with him to the dance floor and immediately began to sing along to one of my all time most despised songs, while my heart overflowed with gratitude and love.

"Oh, my dear, sweet husband, how did I ever get so lucky? You are undoubtedly the man of my dreams." I looked up into his apologetic eyes as we circled around and around to the melancholy tune.

"I ruined our wedding."

"On the contrary, my love, you made it perfect."

The End

Things I don't do.

I'm just going to lay it all out on the table, here. I'm a terrible housewife. It's true. If I had to interview for the job, in the same way you interview for a paying job, no one would hire me. There are things I just don't do. Then, there are things I can do, but I do them poorly. There is nothing related to my daily job that I excel at or even do particularly well.

My housekeeping skills leave so much to be desired. I've heard other people say, "I just love to vacuum" or "I really get into a zone when I'm dusting" and I think, "You've got to be kidding me. People really enjoy this crap?"

I'm sure my mother could give you a list ten miles long of the half assed or utterly incompetent ways I clean. I do the minimal amount necessary to keep my house presentable. When that fails, I aim for whatever keeps the guys in the hazmat suits at bay. And I absolutely do not iron unless it is forced upon me like an unwanted sexual advance in a dank and dirty nightclub.

The only redeeming quality of housework is that I get to count the calories I burned. Today, for instance, I swept, did dishes, 2 loads of laundry, and steam cleaned the couch cushions. I merrily entered this "cleaning:light to moderate effort" into my smartphone app, knowing I could eat an additional spicy tuna roll tonight. Ah, the taste of victory.

Then there is cooking. I can cook and there are some things I cook very well, but I'd rather not cook. Alas, I'm stuck doing it three times a day. I've heard people say cooking relaxes them. I can't relate. In fact, the idea of cooking a three course meal as a means to serenity is preposterous. There is no time more stressful than that which is spent toiling away over a hot stove, chopping, dicing, stirring, and timing everything so that it doesn't burn.

"Then what DO you do, Annabelle?"

Funny you should ask. I've spent some time contemplating this subject myself. I have concluded that I am not defined by my housekeeping skills. They are irrelevant. My talents lie elsewhere and that is what makes me, well, me. I am an artist, a medium, if you will. I transcribe the words my imaginary friends give me. I tell stories of love and life, happiness and hatred, estrangement and esteem. I channel the sights, sounds, and images that belong to another person and weave vivid tapestries of the world that surrounds them. That is what I do.

Know what you're meant to do and do it well, I say! So, my friends, what do you do?

When I grow up...

When I grow up I want to say I'm a writer. I know, I can technically say it now because I am paid for writing in a professional capacity, but I want to say it in that "I know what I'm doing" kind of way.

I want to know what I'm doing and I want to be good at it. I mean, really good. The kind of good that makes people sob uncontrollably or laugh uproariously while they read my words. The kind of good that makes people say to their best friend, their neighbor, and their mechanic, "You have to read this."

My problem is, the more I worry about being good the less I write. It's tough to find balance. To know enough and yet not be burdened by all that you know. That's what a real writer can do. They can find that balance. I focus on too many imperfections and lose my mojo in my attempts to eradicate them from my writing.

This week alone I've been completely crippled by the word "was". It is such a crutch! A stupid little word that prevents me from writing the beautiful words that could, and should, take it's place.

I fight the urge to edit every single page I write, while I am writing it, and swear to myself I will save it for the word-building and editing phase. Again, this is where balance is paramount to success. If I get bogged down in editing as I go, the story will never advance and actually may never even be told. I really want to tell these stories because I know what I want to be when I grow up and I can't be a writer if the words never make it on the page.

So, do you know what you want to be when you grow up? Have any words of wisdom for me?

This week I'm reading "Alison Wonderland" by Helen Smith. It's, like, a grown up book. I know, I'm as shocked as you are! I'm sorry, I've failed lately at updating you all on what I'm reading, but I've been burning through books at two or three a week!

Writer's Block: Who's the bitch, now?

I've had writer's block since August. It may have started before the camping trip, maybe after, I can't recall right now because it felt like an eternity. The more I wished for that bitch to clear out, the more she dug in her heels. I tried to sit down and write, to force the voices in my head to speak again.

It was to no avail. I was stuck. The more I thought about it the more paralyzed I became. I considered starting a new story. I considered writing fanfiction. I considered giving up. All the while, the pressure mounted. How would I look my husband in the eye, in the face of his unending support, if the writer's block continued for months? Oh my Hell, what if it lasted a year? I have plans and dreams and I felt like I was watching them slip away from me, one tick of the second-hand-on-a-great Grandfather-Clock-in-my-head at a time. I did the only thing I could: I vowed not to write a single word for a week.

I don't have a cat, so that's not the problem.

The week passed, but the hand-wringing continued and the worry lines creased between my eyebrows deepened. Week two crept up on me and I continued my self imposed hiatus. Friends started asking if I'd made any progress. Each time I had to answer that I was still without words was like plucking my eyebrows. My eyes watered and my heart raced, and I knew I'd have to do it again. I had gotten to the point where my answer was curt and well rehearsed, laced with the implication that no further questioning was necessary unless you were ready to be done with child-bearing.

I'm not sure when it started. Thoughts trickling out of ink and lead onto napkins, notepads, and even the minute screen of my smart phone. It wasn't all the same voice. Two of my characters started to throw words at me, at times both perfect and inopportune. Sometimes phrases and sometimes in full sentences. Then, came the elusive full paragraph. It tapped it into the little yellow mock notebook on my phone. And I waited. I waited for her to tell me the rest of her story. I waited for redemption. It came today. Today was the day that the character whom had given me that fateful paragraph told me that entire scene. When she first began her flow, I stopped for a moment to wipe the tears from my eyes, partly to keep my daughter from asking if something was wrong (when really things were so, so right) but also because they were blurring my vision and making it hard to type as fast as the words were coming.

Fifteen hundred glorious words later I came up for air. (Take THAT writer's block. Who's the bitch, now?) Satiated and starved all at the same time. I couldn't get enough of the high that had evaded me for so many weeks. It's beautiful and lovely and altogether terrifying because I don't want to lose the flow again. For now, I'm going to shove that fear to the recesses of my mind and ride this high. I hope my husband understands if he is ignored for the next few days. I need this door to stay open and I need this character to keep talking, for a little while, at least. I also need a new laptop battery to keep up with her, so maybe you'll get another shopping post next week!

Camping Part 2: The Writing

How could you not be relaxed?

One would think that being out in all of that wilderness, the peaceful sounds of nature surrounding me, that I would have a million ideas flowing through me. Some of you probably had romantic images of me, pen poised, notebook full of scribbles and scratches written in haste. It's ok, I had the same adorable day dreams. It didn't go down like that at all. In fact, it was the opposite.

See, what happens when I have these lofty ideas about my creativity is that I completely psyche myself out.  I envisioned quiet nights that would lend themselves to a deep slumber full of vivid dreams and rich tapestries of scenes for my manuscripts. Instead, I was met with a chamber of echoes filled with self doubt. I suffered terrible insomnia, waking every hour or two, at best. Every time I awoke, I was greeted by a nagging voice asking me why I wasn't writing. What was holding me back? Maybe I wasn't really a writer? Maybe I wasn't cut out for this? Maybe, just maybe, this was another one of my lame attempts at becoming something, when I was meant to be nothing. I was paralyzed with fear that the lack of creative energy was a sure sign that I was going to fail at this endeavor.

Self doubt is a nasty bitch. I should have kicked her ass when I had the chance.

Yeah, that's what I should have said.

She took me down and knocked the wind out of me when I hit the ground. Gasping for breath, feeling the weight of her girth sitting on my chest, I fought to regain my strength. (Yes, I personified my self doubt. Work with me here.) It wasn't a fatal wound, but I was incapacitated, to say the least.

She won the battle. I am slowly putting myself back together. Every little piece I write, every drabble, every paragraph, every freelance article, rebuilds my strength. Next time, I'll be prepared. I'll have an arsenal of weapons and an armor of steel. Because, my friends, I fully intend to win the war.

Camping Part 1: The Experience

I've just arrived home from a four day camping excursion. After sifting through nearly one hundred emails and countless voicemail messages, I came straight here to share my adventures.   I'll never understand why people don't like camping. There is something so beautiful about having a breakfast of coffee and Swedish Fish, wearing nothing but a swim suit, slapping on a baseball hat instead of washing your hair and being totally unapologetic about it. Camping food, in general, is pure indulgence. How can anyone resist the allure of Easy Cheese and beef jerky? Not together, though. We tried that last year, it's not a good combo. Don't forget S'mores. Gooey, chocolatey, crispy S'mores. Yes, camping is heaven.

Of course, it's not all fun and games. We fought perilously against a multitude of Yellow Jackets, with some casualties along the way. Us, not them. Incidentally, I really wanted to call them tracker jackers, but knew that this would only cause the people around me to take away my Swedish Fish, so I refrained.
We also survived living in a trailer, a fifth wheel really, for four days. We had running water, a real toilet that flushed, and a kitchenette (because I'd go bankrupt eating out every meal). It's better than actually sleeping outside in a tent (eeeeffffff that) but still hard with three kids and two adults.  I'm small but my husband is a cross between Andre the Giant's height and the Jolly Green Giant's physique.  I lost count of how many times he hit his head on the trailer doorway.  Add to the physical challenges, the mental derangement of three kids, ages seven and younger, having little to nothing to do, save for bugging the hell out of each other. When I was lucky enough for them to be separated by way of geography, I was typically subject to my son's endless planning of which Transformer he would buy next and exactly how many chores he had to accomplish to reach his savings goal or my baby girl singing Paramore...endlessly.

There is a fantastic balance in life, though. Even the knowledge that I will suffer through the previously mentioned hardships, along with various other trials and tribulations, won't deter me from making this trip every year. The moments of awesome are too heady, too enriching to be overshadowed by giant, aggressive, attacking wasps or impossible sleeping arrangements.

This year did not disappoint. We spent the days fishing with a cheap cartoon themed fishing rod and more  light beer than should really be considered acceptable in public. Somehow, we fell into ridiculously traditional rolls, meaning my husband drank beer and fished but I didn't drink a single beer. Instead, I drank cans of soda with reckless abandon while I doled out sandwiches and snacks to the kids. How did this happen? I have no idea. Although I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I don't like beer.

My husband caught four trout, three of which escaped our pathetic excuse for a fishing rod. I also reeled in two sucker fish. I swear, if there was a World Championship of Sucker Fishing, I would own that every. single. year.  At the end of two very expensive days of fishing licenses, we caught exactly one fish.

One Rainbow Trout, about yea long,  was our boon. I was extraordinarily excited to walk our children through the realities of from where and how food comes to our plates. I grew up with fishermen and huntsmen. I have vivid memories of watching one of my uncles practice archery in my grandmother's back yard. The very woman who regaled me with stories of how she was cleaning a turtle for soup when she met my grandfather.

There is such a disconnect in modern culture between meat in the shiny plastic packaging and the animal who has given it's life. I know what you're thinking, but I am not a vegetarian and have no interest in being one. Rather, I am concerned about sustainability, about waste, about first world entitlement and about mass consumption at rates which are both shameful and unhealthy. My children were involved every step of the way with the journey of this fish, from reeling it in to cleaning it to watching me fry it up for dinner. We talked about how the fish gave up its life so we could benefit from the nourishment of it's meat. It was a important lesson. One I hope to repeat often and that they will carry with them throughout their lives, passing down that knowledge to their children, too.

Then there is the river. The river is beautiful. The noise of the rushing water and the wind rustling the trees, coupled with the simple silence being so far from the din of urban life, is breathtaking. To sit in the early morning light and take in the sweet smell of the earth under your feet and the musky scent of the previous evening's camp fires is to experience the perfection of man meshing with nature. It's how man was meant to live. And the crickets. The crickets are a symphony of happenstance that you  must experience at least one time in your life. If you're lucky, the sky might be gloriously clear and you can see the constellations mingled with millions of other stars as they blanket the velvety indigo above you.

Go camping, my friends. If not for you, then for your children. It's one of the most enchanting ways you can remind yourself what it means to truly be human. And don't forget the Swedish Fish.

The Universe Called, was I Listening?

*ring, ring*

"Hello? Oh, hey Universe! How's it goin'?"

~silence~  (this is all you can hear, 'cuz you're not on the phone with me)


I chew on my thumbnail, listening intently while the Universe rips me a new one. It finishes with some nice stuff though, you know, to be encouraging.

"M'hm, okay, yes, I understand. Well, great to hear from you. Talk to you later."

My head falls and smacks against the keyboard. I'm utterly spent by the roller coaster of emotions. 

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Okay, obviously that's not how it really went down. It was more like this. I woke up and checked Twitter. In my feed was a constant drip of actual quotes from editors as to why they had rejected particular manuscripts. I was so stressed out by this, you would not believe it. I felt like each comment was one that could be directed at me. Now, take note, I have not submitted anything to this publishing house. My manuscript isn't even done with it's first draft. Therefore, it's ridiculous that I had any emotion about these tweets at all. I tell myself that it's such an advantage to have these insider snippets of information. That I will be better because of them. Still, they scare the shit out of me.

That's the thing about writing. You can try so hard, but someone is still going to think it sucks. You have to write for yourself first, and your audience second. Maybe to give the finger to an old college professor third, you know, if that's what you need to do. I digress. You have to have thick skin, or be incredibly resilient, or both. Because the honest truth of it is, you will have WAY more rejections than requests. Even if you become a best selling author, some jackass at some newspaper is going to say your book wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. What people like, and don't like, in the way of literature is vast and varied. One person's Anne Rice is another person's Stephenie Meyer : ascribe to those authors what you will (I like vampire books, so sue me). See, that's my point exactly. I like vampire books, you don't. No biggie. The thing is, as writer, it can be really hard to retain your perspective on the situation.

Just as I was feeling like my manuscript was a lost cause and was I contemplating throwing in the towel because "who wants to read my stupid stories anyway." Just as I was ready to skulk back into the recesses of my mind and take up residence in the Land of Hopeless Dreams, I saw a new tweet. This tweet reassured me that someone, somewhere, enjoys the way I tell a story. That's reason enough to keep writing. If I can't write for me, then some days I will have to write for my reader(s).  Even though we have to write for ourselves, sometimes you need to believe someone else out there cares. So, thank you to the people that bother to read anything I write, including the postal worker who sent back the envelop that was illegibly addressed last week.

XOXO,
Annabelle