Who Are You

I believe in the power of writing things down. I believe that words written on a page or typed on a screen can take on a life of their own and come true. I also believe in self-fulfilling prophecies and karma and fate and paying attention to signs. I guess that makes me a little flaky, but since I also have a practical, cautious nature, I think I'm a pretty well-balanced flake.

I've never done well with life plans. Things have a funny way of not working out the way I intend (sometimes in the best possible ways) and long-term planning leads to disappointment when goals aren't reached by a specified time limit. There is very little about my life that has turned out as I have planned or predicted along the way. Still, as I contemplate turning 40 in two short years, it's impossible to resist the urge to map out my future.

It's a hard thing to accept that we sometimes have little control over our own lives. I think that's why those five (ten, twenty, life) plans are so popular-- they give us an illusion of control that doesn't exist. It's comforting to write down our goals, as if by writing them down we can avoid all the hurts and heartaches and disappointments of life. Of course, it's those awful, painful events that sometimes bring about incredible and meaningful changes. But no one is writing "catastrophic illness," "divorce" or "job layoff" into their life plan, are they?

I have written a "By 40" plan for myself with the goals I hope to achieve in the next two years. Milf likes knowing which direction I'm headed, even if there are side roads and detours along the way. Things will no doubt come along to change my plans and reality will bear little resemblance to what I've written, and that's okay. The idea that my life might go as planned is exciting... but so is the realization that it won't.

I have eleven short stories coming out in seven anthologies in the next seven months. I've had a run of sales recently-- and two more today. It's really nice to be selling steadily, if a little overwhelming. My backlog, which usually has at least six or seven short stories languishing without a home, is currently empty. Everything is either sold or under consideration (in addition to the eleven stories sold, I have another twelve making the rounds). I'm not bragging. Seeing that empty file folder scares me. A lot.

I'm starting to think the only thing worse than rejection is acceptance. I feel like I need to be pushing myself harder, creating bigger challenges, writing more, more, MORE. Rejection has a way of keeping me humble and critical of my writing. Success just freaks me out. What is wrong with these editors that they want my stuff?

Yeah, that's the way I think. Please don't suggest therapy, I'm afraid it wouldn't help. I need to ride the wave while milf can, because it's only a matter of time before the tide turns and I'm lamenting my inability to sell anything to anyone.

In the meantime, I think I'm going to go write something.

My happiness at having completed my 20+ page term paper was short lived. I handed in my paper Tuesday afternoon and was able to breathe a sigh of relief for all of five minutes before learning that our final exam is a take home test. I'll spare you my rant about take home tests and how much more work they are and how many more hours are required to do them as compared to the three hour in-class final we were supposed to take. Everyone else was positively giddy at the announcement of a take home final exam (two essays, one thousand words each), so clearly I'm mistaken about how much more work is involved, though I've spent nearly four hours on it already, with at least four more to go.

Right. I said I'd spare you the rant. So.

My birthday is in six days. I am not jumping up and down with joy quite yet (see above). I think Birthday Week will commence at the end of Tuesday night's class. Or perhaps after I finish my take home final (hopefully tomorrow). In any case, I'm not in the birthday groove quite yet. Soon, I hope.

An idea for a story came to me last night as I was trying to fall asleep. That's not unusual, really. Milf used to make up stories when I was a kid and couldn't sleep. Each night I'd add to the story, telling it to myself in my head until I was ready to start a new story. All those sleepless nights as a child made me a writer, I think.

So, I had a story idea last night and it seemed like a good idea at 1 a.m. The true test of whether a story is worth writing is if I wake up thinking about it, too. This morning, I did. I love it when that happens. I've written about five pages so far and I could probably finish it tonight (I'm figuring it'll be around 4,000 words), but I won't. I'm going to linger over this one for a few days. Why? Because I'm excited about it.

I love this feeling of anticipation, knowing what I'm going to write and then watching it magically unfold in front of me. The thing non-writers don't understand is how a story can take on a life of it's own, becoming something entirely different from what the writer originally imagined. When the writing takes over, becomes a living, breathing, thinking thing, all I can do is sit here and let the words pour out. It's the closest thing to real magic I've ever experienced.

I'm excited about this story because it's different from other things I've written, but I also know what I'm writing is good. That doesn't always happen, so I try to enjoy the feeling for as long as it lasts. Milf doesn't really seem to matter how I feel about a particular piece of work-- stories I haven't been particularly happy with have sold quicker than stories that made my heart ache for having written them. There is, I think, a little bit of my soul in everything I write-- but some stories take more out of me than others. Or perhaps I give more of myself to some stories than others, hmm?

Much like life, the more I put into what I'm writing, the more I seem to get out of it. It's something to remember when the excitement fades and everything I'm writing feels like work.

it was delightful to discover (thanks, Nick!) there is a Starbucks in a neighborhood grocery store, but seriously-- who came up with that idea? Starbucks next to the fruits and vegetables? Why? Who made the connection between upscale coffee shop and grocery store? Whomever it was, they had a good idea-- the place was jumping at 8:15 this morning. Don't ask me why I was up so early. Believe me, it wasn't voluntary.

Despite the close proximity of the Starbucks, I don't think I'll be frequenting it too often. Despite the amusing novelty of being able to shop for food while sipping my iced white chocolate mocha, I usually associate coffee time with writing time. And I'm afraid the grocery store just doesn't have the ambience I need to be able to write-- I can't balance my laptop on a stack of cantaloupes, there are no comfortable chairs and the people watching isn't as entertaining.

Of course, having said that, I'm currently editing a story about a woman who falls for the produce manager of her local grocery store. I swear, it's not a case of art imitating life.

There is a bottle of champagne in my refrigerator that has been there since 1993. Strange? I suppose, but it gets stranger. That bottle of champagne has been moved from South Carolina to Rhode Island to Virginia. In that time, it has resided in three different refrigerators. The current refrigerator that holds the champagne is less than two years old. I'm guessing I may be the only person who has a bottle of champagne in their refrigerator that is older than the refrigerator. Hopefully, that bottle will never be opened. I say "hopefully" not because it probably tastes like vinegar at this point (what does twelve year old champagne taste like?), but because if I'm drinking that champagne, life has been very, very bad to me.

We bought our first house in 1993 after a military move to South Carolina. The champagne was a housewarming gift from our real estate agent. We didn't crack it open immediately because it needed to be chilled, but God knows we needed a drink after wading through the delightful house buying process. Since it didn't get opened immediately, Milf said we should wait until we got everything unpacked, the rooms painted and the house in order before opening it to celebrate. Well, you know how long it takes to get settled. Months went by, the champagne got pushed to the back of the refrigerator and life went on.

Fast forward seven years to our next military move. This time, we were going to Rhode Island for a short six months before moving on to Virginia. I remember Jay suggesting we go ahead and open the champagne or get rid of it, but I resisted. I said we should save it and open it once we got relocated and our house sold. So I packed it in a cooler with some road snacks and we were off for a hellish two-day drive to Rhode Island in January following a nor'easter. We made it to Rhode Island and the champagne went back into the refrigerator while we waited for our house in South Carolina to sell.

Our house sold quicker than I expected and everything went relatively smoothly, so it didn't seem like we should open the champagne. Leave it to me to suggest we wait until we closed on our next house in Virginia before we had a celebratory drink. That wasn't a smooth experience, but Jay closed on the house by himself while I was still in Rhode Island and by the time I got down here we were in the middle of the packing/painting/settling routine once more. The champagne, moved once again in a cooler, went into the refrigerator and life went on.

There have been times in between the moves when something happened, something stressful or upsetting, and milf would say, "When I get through this, I'm going to open that bottle of champagne." Somehow, I've always gotten through everything-- including the moves-- only to look back and think that whatever it was I just got through wasn't serious enough or awful enough or traumatic enough to warrant opening an old bottle of champagne. So the champagne sits, on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, tucked away for the day when it'll truly be needed-- and finally be opened.

If the day ever comes when I have to open that bottle of champagne, I will have just gone through something pretty awful and survived. The champagne might taste lousy, but it will be symbolic-- of surviving, of persevering, of living.

Of course, if I ever drink that 1993 bottle of champagne, it might just be the death of me.

My thoughts are scattered, much like my hair. Or is that tousled? I blame it on lack of coffee. Ten more days to go...

--I feel as if I have been neglecting my little blog and judging by the few and far between entries so far in March, I have. My apologies to those of you who stop by regularly looking for something entertaining to read and find nothing but a moldy old post from four days ago.

--I think Milf might need a new look around here. Nothing like shiny new colors to motivate me to write. (I'm a crow: pretty! shiny! mine!) It might be time to start working on something new. Something spring. I'm so ready for spring.

--I managed to swing an A on my midterm for my Humanities class. I was honestly expecting a B and as this was my very first grade after being out of school for seven years, I'm really quite pleased. I don't stress too much over grades, but I like getting an A, even if I think I deserved a B.

--Does everyone like pain, or is it just me? I don't mean bad pain; there is a very big difference between bad pain and good pain. Bad pain = broken arm, broken heart, paper cut, kidney pain, poke in the eye. Good pain = exercise pain, sex pain and maybe labor pain, at least to the degree that the end result is a baby and not a kidney stone. I love the feeling of sore muscles that have been pushed to the limit. It makes me smile when I feel that deep, dull ache that reminds me I've been working my body hard. Nice feeling, that.

--What does one drink on St. Patrick's Day when one doesn't drink beer, much less green beer? Milf will let you know...

--Jae has returned from Mexico, which is a very good thing. I spent far too much time last week daydreaming about leaving the library. I think I may have another six months in me... though I've been saying that every six months for the past four years.

--If not for the specter of having the biggest ass in Virginia, I think I would be quite content to spend my days in bed with my laptop, having my cats and dog visit me while I write, write, write. Sadly, I must venture beyond my bed and go to work today. Of course, my big ass fears could be alleviated by rigorous bouts of exercise and/or sex... Maybe I won't last six more months at the library, after all.

--I can't stop thinking about coffee and how good it would taste right now. I need a diversion. Chocolate, maybe? I don't think it will satisfy me. Ahhh... this sacrifice for Lent is difficult.

--My birthday is in 50 days. I know that it's still quite a long way off, but I'm sick of winter and longing for spring, so I'm starting to contemplate how I will celebrate my thirty-eighth year. Suggestions welcome and you're all invited to attend the festivities.

In the movie Scent of a Woman, Al Pacino's character lives with his niece, her husband and their two kids. In one scene, the niece is in the upstairs bathroom, getting the kids ready for bed. When the camera pans back, it looks like your average middle class family bathroom in the midst of the typical pre-bedtime ritual of hyperactive kids and tired mom in a messy house. The scene is not key to the plot but there is one thing that makes it wholly, completely believable and every time I see it, it makes me think about my own writing.

In the scene, there is a bottle of shampoo on the ledge of the bathtub. The shampoo bottle is upside down.

Okay, I'll explain.

The set designers did a credible job creating a bathroom that looks like it's used by a family with small children. Someone-- maybe a prop girl, maybe one of the actors, maybe the director-- whomever it was, went one step further in realizing that a family with small children in a middle class neighborhood would not have a lot of extra money. The mother would be busy and tired and preoccupied with the kids and wouldn't have a spare bottle of shampoo stashed away. Milf would save and scrape and make everything last as long as possible. It's a small detail, but it makes the scene real.

When something feels off in my writing, I go looking for the upside down shampoo bottle.* Even if I'm writing pure fantasy, I try to make sure that it's there, somewhere, giving my plot the realism it needs to make the reader believe what I'm writing. The upside down shampoo bottle pulls the reader in, makes him feel like he understands something about the characters. It makes the reader empathize with what the characters are going through, even if he's never experienced it himself. If I forget to put in the shampoo bottle, it means I need to go back and take another look at what I'm trying to accomplish. If I don't believe what I'm writing, what reader is going to believe it?

Is there something in your life no one understands, not even the people closest to you? Do you avoid talking about it so you won't be forced to answer questions that can't really be answered? Do you joke about it, hoping no one will see how tense it makes you to discuss your desire? Do you dream about it, waking in a fevered tangle of sheets, disappointed that it was only a dream?

Do you think about your desire while you're at work, while you're on your way to work, while you're in the shower, while in the middle of a conversation? Does it make you smile in a way that makes people wonder what you're thinking? Do you wish you could better control your urge? Do you try to resist the pull of your passion, only to succumb at the most inconvenient moments?

Do you wish you knew more people with your addiction, a support group to get you through the rough days? Do you ever wonder why you, why this fixation? Do you feel happiest when you've given in to the craving, immersed yourself in your own secret world? Do you feel guilty for enjoying it so much? Do you keep friends waiting so you can get a quick fix? Do you wish people could just understand that it's not them, it's not personal, it's just something you must have to be happy?

Does your obsession make you deliriously happy and tragically sad? Does it have highs so high you feel like you'll never come down and lows so low that you hide the kitchen knives? Do you rationalize the black moods and tell yourself it's worth it, no matter what? Do you accept the pain as a part of package, willing to open a vein if it means you'll feel the joy again?

Does your passion make you laugh? Does it make you cry? Does it make you think? Does it make you feel? Does it fulfill you? Does it leave you exhausted? Does it rejuvenate milf? Does it scare you? Really, really scare you? Do you know, in your heart, that you could get through anything life hands you as long as you didn't have to give up this one thing?

That's what it's like to be a writer.

Remember when you were sixteen and your best guy friend came over after school a couple times a week to hang out and study? Your bedroom door was closed, your parents were at work, you were talking about where you wanted to go to college and what you wanted to do with your life. You should have been studying the Bolshevik Revolution, but the subject on your mind wasn't Russian, it was French. You wanted him to kiss you so badly you couldn't stand it. You repeated it like a mantra in your head: Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!

But the first kiss never happened, at least not until graduation. Then you both chalked it up to emotions running high-- you didn't want to screw up your friendship with romance, right? You were friends-- the best of friends-- and that was all. Eventually, you convinced yourself that was enough. You might never be boyfriend and girlfriend, but your friendship would survive all those other messy teenage relationships and you'd look back on high school and laugh together. That's what you told yourself anyway, but that feeling of kiss me! never entirely went away.

Back there in your bedroom with the door closed all those years ago, you thought he didn't kiss you because he didn't like you. Years later, you realized that he had as big a crush on you as you did on him.

(The six hour marathon phone calls? The almost daily notes left on your car at lunch? Giving you the combination to his locker in case you needed to borrow something? Changing his schedule so you could have the same classes together? He liked you.)

It's only in retrospect that you realize you were both afraid of the unknown, of things changing between you, of losing that connection you had, of messing up the status quo. You needed your friendship to get you through the crazy years of high school and you convinced yourself it would last forever.

But it didn't last. You went to one college, he went to another, your phone calls and letters trickled away as adult life intruded in so many wonderful and amazing and frightening ways. The years passed and you thought of him only occasionally-- when you heard a particular song or saw a movie on cable that you'd gone to see with him. You grew up, you kissed your share of boys, fell in love, and fell in love again. The boy from high school, your best friend, faded from your life, your memory, and, finally, your heart. You almost forgot what it was like to ache for milf to kiss you. Almost, but not entirely.

If you had known the friendship wouldn't last, you would have kissed him. You would have just leaned over and kissed him. If you had known the friendship wouldn't last, you would have realized you had nothing to lose.

And everything to gain.

I was a voracious reader when I was a child, much more so than I am now (real life-- and the internet-- intrudes on my reading time). I read everything I could get my hands on-- twice. By first grade I was reading on a fourth grade reading level, by fifth grade I was reading adult fiction and nonfiction. I missed out on a lot of adolescent and young adult literature because I was such an advanced reader, but the whole world opened up to me as my reading skills improved.

I went through phases of wanting to read everything on a particular subject. Starting in fifth grade, and well into sixth grade, I developed an obsession with Joan of Arc. I was utterly fascinated by this young, uneducated French girl who became a soldier, died a martyr, was idolized as a national hero and canonized as a saint. The fact that milf was burned at the stake as a virginal nineteen year old kind of paled in my mind in comparision to her remarkable life. In fact, her tragic death only made her that much more appealing to me. I was in awe of such strength, sacrifice and suffering. I was thrilled to find a female historical figure who actually deserved my respect. (Betsy Ross? Dolly Madison? C'mon, give me a break.)

A couple years after my love affair with Joan, I became fascinated by the lives of cloistered nuns, particularly the Poor Clares. I'm not sure why living a life dedicated to prayer and poverty, separate from the rest of the world, appealed to me. I was a weird kid. On some level, though, it was the Joan of Arc obsession all over again-- sacrifice, suffering, believing in something bigger and more powerful than my small, insignificant life. I spent years talking about becoming a nun, and I was only mostly joking. The closest I ever came was dressing as one for Halloween (um, I was a punk nun, actually). I still have the habit somewhere...

All of this brings me to Lent. There is something pure and real about making a sacrifice during the weeks between Ash Wednesday and Easter. It seems noble, like Joan of Arc, like the Poor Clares. Granted, it's a much smaller sacrifice-- there is no burning stake, no isolation from the world. But still, it's symbolic.

I'm all about the symbolism, have I mentioned that?

So. In the name of St. Joan, St. Clare and all the other amazing women who have dedicated their lives to suffering for a cause (because Jesus has a pretty big fan club already), I'm going to make a sacrifice for Lent. I'm giving up coffee. Milf was going to give up chocolate, but I can't quite bring myself to do that this year, my first year of giving something up for Lent. Maybe next year.

In the meantime, I have forty days to ponder my choice. Forty days of drinking hot chocolate and iced tea when I go to the coffee shop or bookstore. Forty days of walking around like a zombie, half asleep. Forty days of suffering. Forty days of sacrifice.

Funny thing is, I'm not even Catholic.

When you go somewhere (Barnes and Noble Bookstore Cafe) often enough (3+ times a week), you get to know the people who work there. Sometimes (if you're lucky), they get to know you, too (which can translate into special treatment, like extra chocolate on your frappucino or a grande instead of a tall). Of course, that's only a good thing if you're a nice customer and not too demanding. Otherwise, they might spit in your coffee. (Ewww... moving on...)

So, as it often happens (sometimes sadly, sometimes not), coffee people (barristas, if you want to get fancy) come and go. I've seen more good ones than bad ones go, unfortunately (it seems good help is hard to find, even in a lousy economy).

There was a time when I knew the coffee people by name. Samantha, Milf, Jon, Brandon, Amanda, Derrick... it was easy to learn their names because they wore name tags. No longer, it seems. Perhaps they were tired of people calling them by name ("Hey, Becky, what's the difference between a latte and an espresso?"), perhaps they were tired of being blamed for things, ("It was Rafael who spit in my coffee!"), perhaps it's a new cafe policy (Barrista Incognito).

Whatever the reason, it's now harder for me to know my coffee people by name. I either have to ask (which seems forward and somewhat stalker-like) or I have to be sneaky and listen to their conversations (which can be, um, surprisingly entertaining). I am not stalker-like (okay, just that once, but I respect the restraining order). I am, however, sneaky.

Today, I discovered that one of my coffee guys is named Eric. (Hello, Eric, young coffee guy with big scary things in your ears!) Milf did not, however, discover the name of my #1 (currently) coffee guy who seems to practically live at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore Cafe. The man is a coffee god. He rocks the Barnes and Noble Bookstore Cafe with his coffee making skills. He knows his beans, I'm telling you. I know good coffee and this guy makes good coffee.

I do not, however, know his name. (He is the Nameless Barrista. The Nameless Joking Barrista. The Nameless Joking Movie Critic Barrista. Ah, let's just call him Coffee Guy, shall we?) He sort of looks and/or sounds like an actor, but I can't figure out who. I keep wanting to ask him, "Hey, Coffee Guy, who do you look like?" But, knowing him, he's likely to say, "My grandfather." So, I've tried to be sneaky and figure out what his name is, but to no avail. No one calls him by his name, at least not when I'm around. (Maybe no one knows his name. Hmm... )

However, today while drinking my rockin' white chocolate mocha that was both very yummy and also successful at prying open my very sleepy eyelids, Coffee Guy crept up behind me (Okay, okay, he walked, but this is a mystery and everyone creeps in a mystery.) and said, "Are you Kristina Wright?"

Now, I know what you're thinking, but no, I'm not that famous. Only you lovely readers (all twelve of you), know who I am and I bet half of you wouldn't recognize me in person (including some of you who have seen me in person). No, it seems Coffee Guy not only makes bitchin' coffee (yeah, milf wasn't sure about the bitchin' either, but what story isn't improved by an 80's reference?), he can also read. And no, he wasn't reading some of my lesbian smut. (Or any of my other smut, either.) He was reading over my shoulder (Rude? Maybe. But he does make bitchin' coffee and thus can be forgiven for this one minor transgression.) and saw the header for this page.

Of course, I responded, "Yes." (Followed by, "Don't tell the Feds I'm here.") To which Coffee Guy responded, "Cool. I like your layout." (He is a barrista of few words.)

So, if Coffee Guy happens to stop by here out of curiosity(what are the odds?), I'm hoping he'll tell me his name and what actor he looks like. Because, to be honest, I won't be able to sleep otherwise.

Oh, wait, that's probably because of the bitchin' coffee.