Jan. 25th, 2013 01:42 pm
actionreaction: mini icons of coffee, computer, pens and paper. text: can't feel my brain ([writing] can't feel my brain)
I kind of changed directions of something I was writing so I'm post a wee bit from yesterday's writing jag.

There's a pretty strong sense of accomplishment that comes from finally unpacking the last box after a move. I'm not exactly the best at seeing thing through to the end in a timely manner so it's not surprisingly that two years after I left my old college apartment, moved across state lines and settled into my new job as a publicity assistant at a major book publisher, I was only just emptying that last box.

Looking back, I really wished I'd done it all sooner, or at least started with that one.

The last box wasn't labeled like the others because it was just a bunch of miscellaneous junk that didn't fit in anywhere else, stuff I almost threw out several times. In fact if I'd listened to my ex, who kept saying if you don't miss what's in there, if you don't so much as think you need something from it in more than a year, you should just toss it. I finally tossed something after a year but it wasn't that box of junk. That bit of advice might have been good, but when it was coming from someone who was cheating on me while I was interning and pretty much scraping the barrel of jobs to get my foot in the door, I didn't really want to listen to it.

So I threw him out instead and held onto the box. Both decisions turned out to be the right ones.


Jan. 16th, 2013 11:00 am
actionreaction: text: not so much writing as making a mess with a pen ([writing] making a mess)
This is something I'm working on for Less Than Three press, and I hope I finish it on time to be submitted. If not, I have a backup plan for where it can go, but I wouldn't be paid for that :/ AH WELL I CAN ONLY TRY

I think the whole thing resonated so well because it started with a letter. Not an email, text message, status update or tweet. An honest-to-God letter, handwritten no less. My name was written in the very center of the envelope, precise and neat, like it was from someone who took pride in the process of sliding pen over paper. The lost art of writing.

The return address was a PO box with no name, nothing to give me a hint about who had sent it, other than it was mailed in this town. That didn't narrow it down nearly enough for me.

I opened it during my lunch break, careful to keep my iced tea from spilling its contents or its condensation onto the envelop or its contents. I don't know what I expected, but whatever it was, it wasn't what I got.

It didn't smell like flowers or perfume. It wasn't pink or decorated with flowers. It wasn't on delicate stationery. It was however on paper that looked like old parchment, and it was definitely a love letter. The words, written in the same perfect handwriting as the address, were few as if the writer feared overwhelming me with too much too soon. The last few words struck me the most.

“There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled.
There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.
You feel it, don't you?”

It wasn't signed. I actually had a secret admirer.
actionreaction: photo of gemma arterton, chin resting on her hands, staring straight ahead ([characters] laura)
Another for the 13 days! Sorry it took me a while to get this one up.

They were beneath the mistletoe.

Laura didn't even notice at first, not when she drifted over to Les partly to escape the wives of his business associates, and partly because as much as this was supposed to be an Arrangement, she found herself seeking him out more and more frequently.

It started when she realized she was spending more time with the contractor working on the renovations on their house more than with him. The contractor was attractive, but Laura wasn't the slightest bit attracted to him. No even when the handyman smiled in a way that'd probably make Sandy's toes curl, Laura found herself thinking about how Les had that barely there smile that shone in his eyes so much more than it showed on his lips.

She thought about the long look they exchanged, all the words left unspoken, and she wondered if she was the only one who was feeling like this. She was falling in love with him, even though this was just supposed to be a marriage of convenience.

So when he eyes drifted upward and saw the cheeky decoration hanging above them only inches above Les's head, she flushed slightly and promptly blamed it on the wine. She likewise blamed it for how she leaned into Les a little. He leaned back and maybe it was just for show - they were in public, and ostensibly newlyweds, of course - how he bent and brushed his lips against hers, but it didn't feel that way. It didn't feel like an act when she slid her hand up to his neck, fingers curling at his nape, while his hand circled her waist and pulled her closer.

It wasn't an act at all, because later, when the crowd was gone and they were alone, their lips found each others again and there was nothing and no one to blame but themselves.


actionreaction: text: not so much writing as making a mess with a pen (Default)

December 2016




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