"John, you have to go." Diane was breathless and rumpled and knew that if she didn't make him leave now, he would spend the night and all hell would break loose the next morning. The cycle of guilt, grief, and pain would start all over again. She'd played his game before, but it had been years ago. Shouldn't she have been wiser now as well as older? Would the power play ever really end?
"You know you don't mean that." His index finger crept down the collar of her shirt and into the open V at the neckline. He brought it back up her neck, just under her ear to hear her shudder. "I think I should stay."
Before she could get in an additional word, much less take a deep breath, he said, "All of the nightmares will stay away if I'm here. I know how much you hate sleeping alone. I know all of your secrets."
"This isn't about what I want. This isn't about what you want." She placed her palm against his sternum and gave a gentle push. "This is about what's right. You staying isn't right and it never will be."
"I never would have taken you as a prude."
The words stung, she always prided herself on her being open minded and accepting.
"I was wrong to have invited you back here tonight. It was my mistake. I won't do it again." If he continued to touch her anywhere, it would be like getting lost at sea. The loss of control. The inability to make it stop and get back to safety. Everything was escaping her grip.
"If I leave tonight, sweetheart, I won't be back." The anger and hostility were clear.
"I know. I think it is for the best."
"In that case, we will discuss the school's budget tomorrow morning after mass. Good night, Sister Diane."
"Good night, Father John."
8/12/2011
writing doodle - love letter
She lifted the letter out of the delicate envelope slowly and meticulously. Each time she breathed on the paper, it seemed to become more fragile, more delicate. One day, she would open the envelope and find nothing but tattered remains.
The letter was written in tiny, cramped script. Blue ink on what had once been unlined white paper, now yellow with age. The page still smelled of his aftershave lotion. Even though forty-five years had past, she kept this one letter in a shoebox with a cotton ball she periodically soaked in the same brand. She inhaled and smiled. How much she loved the smell of him, the feel of him. The memory of him.
Now this is all she had. One letter, a shoebox, a cotton ball and her memories. It wasn't enough and yet it was everything.
Running her right index finger over each word as though she was writing them herself, she smiled. He had taken the time to write her once more before he left school to return to Switzerland.
Dearest Lindsey,
These many months have been the world to me. Though words can never express it adequately, know that I will love you forever.
If only your parents had understood. If things could have been different.
Perhaps it is better this way. Live the life they have planned for you and be as happy as you can.
Always yours,
Fritz
A light tap on her bedroom door let her know that her brief return to a different time was now over. Her grandchildren were going to go home the next day and she needed to make the most of her time with them.
"Come in," she said.
"Grandma, can I ask a question," her seventeen year-old granddaughter asked.
"Of course. I always have time for you."
"I think I blew it with Andy at school..."
A lifetime passed as the girl told the tale of a love that might have been but was allowed to escape, probably never to come again.
"I understand perfectly," the grandmother said. "The same circumstance happened to me, but a little differently."
"Really?"
"Sure. It took me a long time to let go of the one I let get away. The one who could have been everything I thought I wanted. I want you to know that I've never told anyone else about it." She had lived the life with the man her parents had selected and done her duty by him for forty-two years until he died. With each move, each horrific family loss, each unfathomable circumstance, she had hidden away with her letter and her shoebox.
"How long did it take you to get over it?"
"Ah, that's the thing. It isn't a matter of letting time heal anything. It is what you do with your time that counts."
The letter was written in tiny, cramped script. Blue ink on what had once been unlined white paper, now yellow with age. The page still smelled of his aftershave lotion. Even though forty-five years had past, she kept this one letter in a shoebox with a cotton ball she periodically soaked in the same brand. She inhaled and smiled. How much she loved the smell of him, the feel of him. The memory of him.
Now this is all she had. One letter, a shoebox, a cotton ball and her memories. It wasn't enough and yet it was everything.
Running her right index finger over each word as though she was writing them herself, she smiled. He had taken the time to write her once more before he left school to return to Switzerland.
Dearest Lindsey,
These many months have been the world to me. Though words can never express it adequately, know that I will love you forever.
If only your parents had understood. If things could have been different.
Perhaps it is better this way. Live the life they have planned for you and be as happy as you can.
Always yours,
Fritz
A light tap on her bedroom door let her know that her brief return to a different time was now over. Her grandchildren were going to go home the next day and she needed to make the most of her time with them.
"Come in," she said.
"Grandma, can I ask a question," her seventeen year-old granddaughter asked.
"Of course. I always have time for you."
"I think I blew it with Andy at school..."
A lifetime passed as the girl told the tale of a love that might have been but was allowed to escape, probably never to come again.
"I understand perfectly," the grandmother said. "The same circumstance happened to me, but a little differently."
"Really?"
"Sure. It took me a long time to let go of the one I let get away. The one who could have been everything I thought I wanted. I want you to know that I've never told anyone else about it." She had lived the life with the man her parents had selected and done her duty by him for forty-two years until he died. With each move, each horrific family loss, each unfathomable circumstance, she had hidden away with her letter and her shoebox.
"How long did it take you to get over it?"
"Ah, that's the thing. It isn't a matter of letting time heal anything. It is what you do with your time that counts."
write post-wrong blog ... or is it right post?
I have an alternative blog where I posted something about Brenda Ueland ... should have put it here instead of there - it is more in the right lines here - or is it write lines.
Anyway, in her book on writing, she talks about the importance of writing daily ... and being somewhat messy about it.
According to the instructions, one should write every day for some period of time, or until the muse tires, and not re-read the bits and blurbs for up to six months. The exercise is supposed to free the mind, silence the inner critic, and show the writer insights in his/her own character.
Her initial recommendation was to start with a whopper like you would tell a small child.
The purpose of the whopper is to expand upon the details and the experience of the vignette you are writing.
My goal is to write at least five minutes a day, every day, and do it here.
I don't know that the bits will be any good. Nor do I guarantee that I will check for spelling, grammar, syntax, or punctuation.
Let's see what happens and if there are any gems that are worth scribbling.
Anyway, in her book on writing, she talks about the importance of writing daily ... and being somewhat messy about it.
According to the instructions, one should write every day for some period of time, or until the muse tires, and not re-read the bits and blurbs for up to six months. The exercise is supposed to free the mind, silence the inner critic, and show the writer insights in his/her own character.
Her initial recommendation was to start with a whopper like you would tell a small child.
The purpose of the whopper is to expand upon the details and the experience of the vignette you are writing.
My goal is to write at least five minutes a day, every day, and do it here.
I don't know that the bits will be any good. Nor do I guarantee that I will check for spelling, grammar, syntax, or punctuation.
Let's see what happens and if there are any gems that are worth scribbling.
8/11/2011
Meditations on Violence ... Rory Miller
Much of romantic suspense and 'regular' suspense or mystery has a violent element. Sometimes it is direct violence (the reader gets to see what is going on inside of the head of the attacker) or it is indirect (the reader 'sees' the aftermath of the situation).
About a year ago, I found a book called Meditations on Violence by Rory Miller.
He has the background to thoroughly and completely explain not only the mechanics of violence and the psychological factors involved (both in creating the situation and some in the de-escalation of it).
Why mention this here?
I've been fighting with the muse about how much violence needs to be shown in my writing. I have usually just had the implied threat - the fight that isn't engaged in - the preparation and planning of a thing all hope will be avoided. I've been criticized for it because there isn't enough tension.
I've been fortunate to have very little first hand experience with it. Not to say I haven't felt threatened or been in bad situations, but I have avoided actual fights outside of a dojo. The staged fights I did participate in resulted in several cracked ribs, broken toes, and a dislocated finger. And these were 'fights' with men I knew who liked me. It made me cringe at what I knew could happen if I were ever on the wrong side of some of these people. Not to mention actual bad guys.
My (limited) martial arts experience emphasized the best fight is the one avoided. And there is no such thing as a fair fight, except in Hollywood. Take the advantages you can, the other guy will. Train as though your life depends on it, it just might.
Turns out, I'm in good company. Mr. Miller is of that school of thought and so are several police officers I've had the privilege of knowing.
Every woman should read it to learn about the psychology of violence, what can make it escalate, and the importance of survival.
About a year ago, I found a book called Meditations on Violence by Rory Miller.
He has the background to thoroughly and completely explain not only the mechanics of violence and the psychological factors involved (both in creating the situation and some in the de-escalation of it).
Why mention this here?
I've been fighting with the muse about how much violence needs to be shown in my writing. I have usually just had the implied threat - the fight that isn't engaged in - the preparation and planning of a thing all hope will be avoided. I've been criticized for it because there isn't enough tension.
I've been fortunate to have very little first hand experience with it. Not to say I haven't felt threatened or been in bad situations, but I have avoided actual fights outside of a dojo. The staged fights I did participate in resulted in several cracked ribs, broken toes, and a dislocated finger. And these were 'fights' with men I knew who liked me. It made me cringe at what I knew could happen if I were ever on the wrong side of some of these people. Not to mention actual bad guys.
My (limited) martial arts experience emphasized the best fight is the one avoided. And there is no such thing as a fair fight, except in Hollywood. Take the advantages you can, the other guy will. Train as though your life depends on it, it just might.
Turns out, I'm in good company. Mr. Miller is of that school of thought and so are several police officers I've had the privilege of knowing.
Every woman should read it to learn about the psychology of violence, what can make it escalate, and the importance of survival.
8/04/2011
a rose is a rose ...
I have never been good at contractions. That's not quite true - in writing exercises at school, fine. On various jobs when a new alphabet soup was needed, ok.
Blondie is part golden, part retriever, and a mix of about 20 other dogs. What do we call him? Cute. Easy and only four letters.
Peabody, Blondie's former partner in crime, would have been a shep-ollie
based on current contractions. He was a German shepherd and collie
mix. What did we call him? Gorgeous (because he answered to it).Now everyone is contracting their dogs and mixing them like they are hip designer accessories. Now there are golden-noodles, labra-doodles, chugs, and the like.
What ever happened to mutts?
Dogs that are/were loved who are/were of indeterminate breeding?
We will probably never know with certainty what Goldie is - but based on this image I found tonight on the web, chances are she's a Puggle.
Does this mean she needs her own shades and pearls?
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