I finally figured it all out ... SLAM

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All writers seem to have a 'platform' these days.  The last time I had a platform, it was a pair of shoes and I fell off of them on a regular basis.

I've looked high, low, and pretty well everywhere in between to see where the heck I would have put my platform.

You might even say I've been round the Globe to find my platform.  (Okay, so it is only Globe Arizona, but still.)

The magic is in SLAM.

Ultimately it is what (virtually) everybody wants: Sex, Love, And Money.

When reading palms or doing energy work for people there are very few who want to know if they will be the one to develop the next big Pillsbury Cookoff Recipe (but that also leads to Money and depending on the person Love).  Fewer still want to know if it is energetically correct to have a new hairdresser (but with the right haircut, it could lead to Sex or Love).


So my figuring this out hasn't been "Speedy" but I've finally done it!

Now if I could just go where I was supposed to and not where I really wanted to go. But that's for another time.

writing doodle - boy toy

"I always wanted to be a boy-toy," Brett said with a long, drawn out sigh.

"Well, now you belong to Sharon and you're her toy," I said.  This wasn't the answer he wanted or expected, but maybe he would cheer up a little.

"It isn't the same thing and you know it."

I knew what he meant.  He wanted to belong to a wild woman who would make him do any number of things he could never tell his mother about.  So did I, but that was beside the point.  Sadly for him, things weren't working out according to his fantasy.  Right now, he was someone's toy and wasn't that just a pity?

I looked at the redhead who was giving Brett the eye and said, "You tell him who's boss." 

"That's not funny, Hal."

"Sure it is."

tbc ...

writing doodle - through his eyes

It had been a long week, the kind where nothing went right.  When Judy took her umbrella to work, the sky cleared.  When she forgot about it, it poured.  Her boss was being a jerk, per his usual, and her most demanding client didn't think she bent over backward far enough.  If she lost ACME paints, she'd lose a big part of her commission base and right now that wasn't acceptable. She needed the money for medical bills.

She sat in her husband's favorite chair and opened the drawer in the table next to it.  She fished out the glasses she kept there, stored in a monogrammed hanky, and gingerly put them on.

"Mom.  What are you doing?" Judy's six year-old daughter, Melissa, asked. "I'm starving.  What's for dinner?"

"I'm looking at the world through your father's eyes." Judy indicated the thick lenses in the black, plastic frames.

"Can I put them on?"

"Maybe after dinner. I'll be done soon."

Sean saw all of the possibilities and all of the joy in life.  Besides, he saw her as perfect and wonderful.  It was his faith in her that kept her in graduate school and got her to see her innate abilities.  He never saw her short temper, short stature, or shortcomings.  When he died six months ago, the only possibility she could see was a life without him.

She looked around the room and though blurry realized that life in this house with their kids was really pretty nice.  Good even.  That was when Judy decided she would give Melissa her own pair of frames, sans lenses, so she might see the world through her father's eyes.

writing doodle - interview jitters

Pauline checked her reflection in the small compact mirror one more time before she got out of the car.  The Preparation H under her eyes almost shrank the bags she hadn't been able to get rid of for the last month.  The light gloss of Vaseline on her teeth would ensure a bright and even smile.  Her lips were painted a dull red; it accentuated her mouth without making her look old or harsh.  The triple strand of costume pearls with a matching pair of stud earrings should make her look conservative enough.

So far, so good.

She double checked the address for the fourth time to make sure she arrived at the right place.  The number on the rundown ranch house matched and it was the right street name, but somehow she didn't think that an old family business, one that was exceptional in its reputation for generations, would be located here in the land 1970s sitcoms had forgotten.

She expected something sleek and modern or something cozy and chic.

"No time like the present."  She looked at her watch again, she was still too early but she didn't want to sit in her car for the next thirty minutes and ruin her look.  Nope.  If you're early you're on time, if you're on time, you're late."

writing doodle - what are you doing?

"Aunt Vicky, what's in the basket?" eight year-old Maura asked.

"Mending."  The woman fished around for a piece of tattered cloth and held it up for inspection.  "Doesn't  your mother remember how to mend?"

Everything in Betsy's Walter's life was disposable: cleaning rags, clothing, furniture, jobs, men.  Even her daughter Maura was somehow on the disposable list, it is how the little girl came to stay the summer in a sleepy town with a woman who had never had children.

Vicky Masterson was raised by a mother who survived the Great Depression.  Everything was saved and used up as much as possible: boxes, bottles, tools.  Not that Vicky had a belief if she didn't do these things she would be poor.  On the contrary, these things made it possible for her to do the things she loved.

"Show me, please."

Vicky realized she would have a great deal to show and teach the child in nine weeks.  Hopefully it would be enough to last a lifetime.  She was grateful for the opportunity.