I’ve been reading the forward to Oliver Twist (Third Edition, 1841). Who knew Charles Dickens was full of such inspiration—such genius? He says things I’ve thought to myself a hundred times, and things I knew but hadn’t figured out how to put into words. Check out these gems:

I have yet to learn that a lesson of the purest good may not be drawn from the vilest evil.

It is wonderful how Virtue turns from dirty stockings; and how Vice, married to ribbons and a little gay attire, changes her name, as wedded ladies do, and becomes Romance.

Dickens is talking about society, and the impact it attempts to have on art. The wealthy’s perceptions of how the world should turn become the perceptions of retail, entertainment, and media industries. Their credos are adopted and propagated by religious, political, and other special interest industries. These perceptions and credos are passed along to the general population, becoming standards in culture. They dictate what should be allowed in society, or what is acceptable to expose about society. Those who share different beliefs are ostracized. Lies and criticism are used to extinguish their voices forever, or at least discredit them enough that there is no danger of the majority paying them any attention.

This one is my favorite:

I have no respect for their opinion, good or bad; do not covet their approval; and do not write for their amusement.

That should be a writer’s mantra. Could there be a sentence more absolutely perfect? The following quote ties in with the above statement:

It is useless to discuss whether ... conduct and character ... seems natural or unnatural, probable or improbable, right or wrong. It is true. ... it is a contradiction, an anomaly, an apparent impossibility, but it is a truth.

The point that Dickens made over a hundred years ago is still true today; it can be heard at any writer’s conference—for those who actually listen—or read in any book that claims to teach the aspiring author how to write: Honesty is imperative in fiction, even if the story itself is built on lies. A writer must be honest about setting and situations; honest about characters and how they speak, how they behave, and how they react. The stories must take on a reality of their own, even if that reality is separate from the writer’s beliefs and system of values. Fiction cannot be censored because the writer may fear what others may think, not only about the work itself, but about the writer as a person. Honesty in fiction cannot be limited to the comfortable or socially acceptable. If it is, there really isn’t a story to tell at all.

1. I live in a Republican state, where even if every single Democrat, Liberal, or Independent of age registered and voted, we probably still wouldn’t win.

2. The popular vote doesn’t count, as shown by the 2000 election. I’m sure if Bush wins the popular vote, he will not be able to keep himself from playing it up. Funny he never played up the popular vote in 2000. And if he wins the popular vote but not the election, I’m sure he’ll have something to say about that as well.

3. Not every state has the same Presidential candidates on the ballot. I’m not saying Ralph Nader would win, or that I would mind if he did, but it irks me that a person has the opportunity to become President that I did not have the opportunity to vote for. I’m still trying to figure out how that makes a democracy.

Or perhaps my vote doesn’t count because there aren’t enough active voters in the US that feel the same way I do. Regardless, the system sucks, and I do not except this year’s election to be any different than the others I have participated in.

My husband and I have been watching coverage of the election, he more faithfully than I. I got bored after an hour. Nothing changed. When I stopped watching, CNN had the number at Bush 66, Kerry 77. When I checked back, this time on CBS, the numbers were Bush 167, Kerry 109. Later, and back on CNN, the number for Kerry was 112, but I missed the number for Bush. They had some pop-up screen analyzing how Florida would go that blocked part of the counter for electoral votes. But I asked my husband what Bush’s number was.

“Who knows.” It was clear my little darling was disheartened.

“I thought it was 167.”

“Oh, that number was wrong.”

“So what’s the real number?”

“Who knows. Every channel is different.”

Indeed, they all were.

Tonight at dinner, someone said that Bush would take the election, and my mother agreed. My heart broke. How could she believe such a thing? And if she believed it, it just might be true, since she is usually right about these kinds of things. I was so disappointed I couldn’t enjoy my bloody steak.

What shall I do if Bush wins? I know what I would like to do. I would like to denounce my American citizenship and move to Canada. But would the Canadians take me and my husband? I don’t think America, and hence Americans, are popular there right now—or anywhere else in the world. Maybe England—no. Just because Tony Blair is buddy-buddy with Bush doesn’t mean the rest of the country is. I can’t think of any place that might have us. We are stuck here. I can only be resigned to it. If people in other countries hate the American government as much as I do, I wouldn’t let me in either. Maybe someone would take us under some kind of political asylum law. I’m sure I will be under investigation soon for expressing the opinion that the American government sucks, and George W. Bush is the DEVIL. My husband also had that concern, and didn’t think I should post this blog. However, there is probably little real danger, as I only know three people that actually read my blog, husband not included.

Even if there was another land that would accept us, leaving would not be so easy. My husband and I have family in America, almost all our family, and our ties to family are stronger than our ties to government. I don’t know if that bond will be sustained under the strain of Four More Years of Hell (George W. Bush), but I think there is a strong possibility. I am somewhat consoled by the fact that Bush can only hold office four more years, and then never again. Then I’ll be praying none of his cronies ever hold positions of power ever again either.

I also feel a tie to the land. America and her landscapes are magnificent. Patriotism is a mix of government and the land. America the land is beautiful. America the government is a stain on humanity and all that is just and good. I don’t think believing that makes me any less patriotic. I hate the thought of having to leave my family and homeland because of the tyranny of President Bush, his administration, and his constituents. He’s already destroyed so much of this land. If he gets four more years, he will destroy so much more. I’m sure I won’t be able to recognize it, if there is anything left.

The worst part is that I have no idea when the election will be decided. Some states are saying that they could take up to two weeks to count all the absentee and provisional ballots. It looks like Bush is in the lead so far, but I’m going to get on my knees and pray that it doesn’t end up that way. Maybe tomorrow will have some brighter news. The day after a presidential election reminds me of Christmas when I was a kid. Up before dawn, excited to see what Santa had brought me. Now I’m going to be up before dawn to see if my government can be saved or if my government will be doomed.

I enjoy having a blog. To me it is an online journal; a place where I can record my thoughts and show them to the world, yet no one will ever see them. There are no rules or forms or styles to follow in a blog; I could care less about the structure or subject. The main importance is that I'm exercising. However, I was still intrigued when I noticed people have been trying to post to my entries. After all these months maybe more than two people actually check my website!

Alas, it is not to be.

Upon opening the first message, I found out that someone named Trotinela wanted to post 'bag poola bey' to one of my blogs. I'm all for comments, but that one didn't make any sense. I'm not familiar with many languages, but I'm fairly certain that wasn't one. I looked at the URL identified in the request. I didn't have to click on any links. A variation of the ever popular 'penis enlargement' fad was in the title of the URL.

At first I was shocked. I don't have a penis, at least not biologically, so naturally it never occurred to me that the companies offering this service would approach me. They could be assuming that I desired the information, but seeing as how I've never made any such request, that endeavor would also be a waste of their time. I am perfectly satisfied with the size of the penis to which I have access. Could they just be trying to get some free advertising on my personal page? No, it could not be! Distasteful marketing ploys had surly not sunk so low.

Trotinela sent me two more messages touting the penis enlargement miracle treatment. Since I don't respond to gibberish, I denied all of Trotinela's requests to post anything to my personal page.

Over the past week I've gotten messages from various Internet browsers, all claiming that they like my sight; a few quoted someone else with some kind of philosophical question. Their names are sometimes not names, such as 'grzh', who wanted to let me in on something called a 'milf-rider'. Call me naive, but I don't know what a 'milf-rider' is, and if the word 'milf' is an acronym for something like I think it is, why send that kind of trash to me? Then there is 'bob', who is one tenacious motherfucker. He's sent me four requests in the past week, not one of which I will allow post to my site, if I can prevent it. Three of them were about increasing the number of potency of one's sperm. However, the idea of increasing the number of potency of my sperm seemed too difficult a task for me to be interested.

I guess websites for men are always about increasing the power and nobility of their gender, and what better way to do that than get a girl pregnant with the biggest dick possible! It's probably the same asshole that played 'grzh', and even Trotinela. I bet if I tried to send mail to any of them, their email addresses would appear invalid. And Hotmail and the others claim that they do not allow their accounts to be used for spam. . . . However, I dare not click on any links or respond, because then I'll be on their list forever, whatever aliases and addresses they chose.

The last message I received was for pain relief. I suppose for relieving all those damn headaches that these spammers continue to beget. Once I figure out how to deny the request and delete the comment, I'll be able to rest. It's really pathetic, and disturbing. My sacred ground has been violated with the Internet's version of telemarketers.

I have been petitioned to know about penis enlargement, milf-riding, getting more sperm, and pain relief. All of these are topics I have no interest learning about, and if I have an interest, I would probably first consult my doctor. If there are any more pain-relieving, penis-enlarging, sperm-producing, gushing-porn producers out there, be warned: My web-host-er seems to have some sort of filter against your spam. I will forever deny any requests to post anything to my page. When I got a blog, I never intended it to be used as a vehicle for commercial promotion, for anyone other than myself. I'm not saying there aren't links that will appear on my site (like MoveOn.org check them out!), but I intend to be very selective about the ones I feel worthy to be mentioned.

So whine all you want, "Please, please, let me post a 'comment' on your blog!"

I will only reply, "Fuck you, bite me, and go buy your own ad space."

I had a bad day. Bad things did not happen, or haven?t happened yet, but I have a feeling of doom. Doom Doom Doom. My stomach is nervous and tied up in knots. I don?t know why. I guess I?m feeling depressed?no, I?m anxious. But why am I anxious? Does the mind sometimes convince the body to be worried about nothing? Maybe I?m just having a major mood swing. But this happened to me two weeks ago. I was at a conference in Bloomington then, so I attributed it to being away from home for so long. I don?t like to be away from home for even a day. But it must be something more if it?s happening to me again.

I had another feeling two weeks ago, when I got home from Bloomington, that I suspect is the cause of the problem. I felt like I had started to change. There was something deep inside me that was moving around, growing and trying to find a new place to live, and there is no way to know how or if it will surface and how or if it will affect the rest of me. I still feel that way. There are two problems with that. One, I hate change. Two, I don?t know how or why I?m changing. That?s probably the reason I hate change. It?s so uncertain.

Perhaps there is a horrible event looming in my future. My sixth sense might be kicking in, trying to warn me and prepare me. But will that really be enough? Would it soften the blow of a tragedy? I doubt it. I suspect that it would make me wonder whether or not I had willed something terrible to happen. In my subconscious I created its coming, and as a result I must suffer for that sin. It doesn?t matter that I didn?t know what might happen. It?s the whole being careful what you wish for thing, only you don?t know what may have been your most grave and disturbing desire until it?s too late.

Perhaps I?m just romanticizing my existence. I write fiction. Sometimes I feel like I live fiction. There are times when I move about my day, describing everything I do and feel in my mind as though I?m narrating a character. Leaving for work in the morning becomes, ?She opened her car door and tossed her briefcase on the passenger seat. Unable to explain it, she settled uneasily in her seat, surrounded by an aura of impending doom.? Sure, I don?t use a briefcase, but my character might. The stories in my mind aren?t limited to small things like getting into a car and feeling impending doom, either. Sometimes I pretend to be someone I?m not, in a situation I wouldn?t want to be in. When I?m writing, that?s absolutely OK, but when I?m supposed to be living? What I?m really doing is giving myself excuses to embellish sinful thoughts, and there are consequences for that.

Either way, it all comes back to change, a change in my life or a change in my perceptions. Change = Doom. But perhaps I should not be so cynical. Perhaps I?m changing for the better and becoming a stronger person. Perhaps I?m learning to let go of the whole sin preoccupation I seem to have and all the guilt?I?m not even Catholic! Or religious... Perhaps my flaws are really my strongest traits, and I?m learning to accept and embrace them. I like those ideas. I just wish life would hurry up and show my path, so I can stop feeling so anxious and uncertain.

All right, SGL, this blog?s for you. I?d better receive a happy message that I?ve finally gotten around to posting something new. I?m sick and tired of you nagging my ass. Since you?re one of the only two people that visit my website, I guess I feel I owe it to you. You?re the only one complaining. Actually, someone else mentioned it the other day, but they were very nice about it.

There are some things I?ve learned during my very, very short life, but one thing that keeps affecting me is the stupidity of men. Don?t get me wrong, I love men. They can be very useful for fixing things, and the thought of my skin pressed against another woman?s just doesn?t do it for me. But let?s face it. Men are stupid. Here are some samples of men?s stupidity, taken from actual conversations.

WARNING: THIS IS NOT A DRAMATAZATION

?Women can?t be president of anything.? (Said to me, at age ten, by a teacher. Crushing.)

?Yeah, I don?t really want to eat there. Mexicans are dirty.?

?Come on, you can tell me.?

?But I thought women liked waiting on men?it?s in their nurturing nature.?

?You strut when you walk, don?t you??

?If I call you, I expect you to call me back.?

?You?re pretty cute . . . my girlfriend thinks you?re cute, too.?

?Women don?t have the temperament for Management positions.?

?Turn down the bass.? (As said to me during a Primus song. The idea is totally sacrilegious.)

?Oh yeah, baby, you like to choke on it.?

?Is that a mood ring??

Lapis lazuli, people! Mood rings are plastic and adjustable, not silver and precious stone. Besides, I don?t need a ring to tell someone I?m happy to see them. They feel it.

Keep in mind this is just a sample of the stupid things men have said to me. I could keep going, but we?d be here for years, and I think you get my point. Since I?m not planning on dying anytime soon, I?m sure I?ll hear other questions or comments that will take top prize. However, lately the question to beat has been: How can a guy afford a wife and a girlfriend?

In the past two months I?ve had two different pseudo-men ask me this question, verbatim. I?m beginning to wonder if there isn?t anything in the water, or playing subliminally on the radio. I?m sure that most men have debated the merits of having a wife and a girlfriend, but to come out and make it public like that?

My first instinct is to question how men could want such a thing in the first place. I?ve heard men praise women for things like serving them, especially for sexual favors, but the other ninety percent of the time I hear men bitching about what a pain in the ass women are. Women have no sense for logic, they are too emotional, they are too manipulative, they bitch and nag constantly, spend all a man?s hard earned cash, and deny requests for blow jobs?after you?re married forget it. My own husband has accused me of being high maintenance, whatever that means. Why would a man consciously choose to deal with two women? It seems to me the emotional struggles wouldn?t be worth the taste or feel of something new. Even the boys who asked me that stupid question have complained to me about their love interests.

However, a man could never understand that kind of emotional logic. So when I answered the question, I told them what I knew men could understand: It is impossible to afford a wife and a girlfriend.

In a man?s vision of the perfect world, there is a loving wife to bear his children and wait on him, keeping him company as he grows old, and a girlfriend on the side for variety. The title of wife implies a permanent appendage, but a girlfriend, now those are interchangeable. But even in the perfect world there must be balance. Women are expensive. In a world where every man got two, it would be doubly expensive. First you have to pay for the wife, which includes a house with a yard, kids, and a minivan. Then you have to pay for the girlfriend. Even if you don?t ante-up for her rent, you?re still going to have to take her out to the movies, for drinks and clubbing, or for dinner, and buy her gifts to keep her happy. If I lived in a world where my husband had a girlfriend or my boyfriend had a wife, I would be set up like you wouldn?t believe. I wouldn?t have to work, though I would still write. I wouldn?t have to do anything but write and spend his money.

There are always questions that follow, exhausting petitions to help find a viable solution. What if I made this much money, or what if the wife/girlfriend paid for herself most of the time? The answer doesn?t change: You couldn?t afford it. The average man does not have money to throw around like Tony Soprano or Henry Hill. If there is still resistance, I throw in a quick summary of the emotional reasons. So far, that?s ended the conversation. There?s nothing more incomprehensible than emotional reasons for not attempting something desired. It?s easier to accept the practical reasons and forget the rest.

I hope no other men ask me that question. But if they do, I?ll be prepared: You couldn?t afford it, you stupid man.

:)

Since my husband doesn?t visit my website, I?m not going to worry.

My dearest husband and I have been married for almost five years. I love him dearly, and show it by my loyalty and in other ways. Five years might not seem like a long time to be married to most people, especially if they?ve made it past the five year mark, but we dated for three before we got married, and?oh, screw the excuses. It feels like long enough to have learned a few things.

Yesterday I wore black lace hipsters, with silver detailing and a crotch like a rubber band, just so I could get laid. I wish they made sensible underwear that pretty, but I digress. . . . I remember putting them on in the morning. It was the first time since I bought them two months ago. I finally decided to suffer through the eternal wedge, just to please my husband. Do you think he appreciated the gesture? No. Sure, he ooh?d and aah?d, and even asked to touch, but he never saw the matching bra. He told me I was beautiful, that he loved me, and crap like that, but the rest of it was, ?I?ll be home in a little bit, I have some errands to run.?

So I gave him a little reminder: ?Stephen, it?s been three days.?

After I say that he laughs, and sometimes he?ll make a comment about how I live in dog years. He knows I?m not going anywhere, so off he goes to pick up some steel for the Hall and take-out for supper. He?s lucky I love him so much, or I might be tempted to prove him wrong.

Still, the question gnaws at me: What do I have to do around here to get laid? It would be nice if there was sure-fire trick. All the old ones that used to work when we were first married are unpredictable. There isn?t a time of day or day of the week I can depend on, nor any physical or visual deeds. I?ve tried to offer him a schedule, like every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, but that makes him feel ?pressured?.

I?m still pushing for that schedule. Everything I?ve tried worked at least once. In the beginning of our relationship, I could get away with motivating undergarments, waxing my legs, and even just makeup. Over the years, I?ve found those feminine tricks have lost their appeal. He doesn?t notice the undies, and doesn?t care if I wear makeup or even shave. Now I don?t know what does it. One time he was insatiable because I cleaned off my vanity in our bedroom. Can you believe that? It was a complete pigsty?change, receipts and other papers (trash), clothes and underwear everywhere?but cleaning a vanity? I cleaned the vanity regularly for a while after that, but it didn?t work again. Perhaps if I let it get extremely offensive and then clean it. . . .

I?ll keep trying my tricks, because I know what the problem is. Security in love creates comfort. There is satisfaction overall with life, even if life isn?t as perfect as imagined, or not even close. Comfort leads to familiarity, and with familiarity comes laziness. It?s not boredom, just laziness. Everything becomes a responsibility. It is his responsibility to remind me that I am not going to die, and my responsibility to remind him that every minute that passes accumulates wasted time, time better spent on activities like sex. I guess that?s just the way it is after you?ve been married for a while. Hard as it is, I?ll just have to accept it.

My dearest husband will be home from class soon. That leaves me just enough time to pick up the house and take a shower before he arrives. I think today is a perfect day for another reminder. And this time my persistence just might pay off.

Writing is my out. I?ve always considered it my out. It was what I did when I needed to relax, exercise my imagination, and forget about the real world for a while. But it is more than that.

Nothing else excites me. When I sit down to work on my creative writing?at my desk, or on the couch, or at the kitchen table, holding my notebook and pen, balancing my laptop, or typing away on my ergonomically correct keyboard?nothing else gives me the same rush of excitement. Of course, nothing else makes me look over what I?ve written the next day and groan, ?It?s not beautiful?it all sucks!? either, but it?s worth it all the same. Shouldn?t a person?s job be exciting to them?

Instead I?m bound by the laws of American culture. I bend to the capitalistic notions that invest even the air we breathe. Part of it is about money. Let?s face it, writing for a living doesn?t always pay the bills, buy the latest and greatest gadgets of technology, or pay for a new car. There are those who get lucky, and there are the rest of us, who wish and hope and pray for it. The other part is about status. Tell someone you finish drywall for a living and they automatically assume you?re either a high school drop out or barely made it, stuck in a job like that because it was your highest potential. But a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer?just about any of the white collar professions?the sky?s the limit! Education equals intelligence and potential, not always the case, and a suit and title equal a respectable paycheck, again not always the case, which in turn equals integrity and worth?do I need to say it? Not always the case. How blind are these congregations that prefer to see and believe in the bottom line! Life is being wasted and passing them by and they don?t even realize it.

The congregations I?m referring to are corporations. Those soulless institutions that control our culture and spread propaganda to make us believe it isn?t a real job or career if it isn?t for one of them. Those corporate pigs, they look you as though they own a piece of you; however, it isn?t true. They steal that piece which you graciously let them borrow, or rent, and then they call it life.

?Work with us and we?ll make all your dreams comes true!?

But how?

?We?ll provide you with opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities, plus a comprehensive benefit package, retirement plan, and money?don?t forget the money! There?s a lot of money to be made in this business.?

They forget to mention they?ll be outsourcing my job overseas in a year or two.

More importantly, none of it matters to me or excites me. I am not motivated by the usual opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities of a ?real? job. I?ve certainly never been excited by the opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities of a ?real? job. Writing in itself is a challenge; making sure I do it everyday is a responsibility. Trying to improve my skills, define my voice, and perfect my craft, those are both challenges and responsibilities. Writing is also damn exciting for me.

If I have to give in to those corporate pigs and support the filth their selling?sure, I only work part time, but still?I?ll sacrifice my life right now. If I had kids, I?m sure I would feel differently, but I don?t, so the sky?s the limit.

If I chucked it all now, money would be tight, but hey, there are ways to save money.

I have plenty of clothes, all in good condition. I?ve already gone a year without shopping, and two years without buying new jeans, I bet I can get a few more years wear out of them; and there is always Christmas. . . .

I think we can take care of the basic expenses, utilities and all that. The cable and cell phones would have to go, but I would still live, no problem. My darling husband might be able to live with these arrangements, I?m sure he would consider strangling me at least once during the day, but he might be willing to put up with it. A predefined standard of living, especially when you?ve already lived it, can be hard to let go of; it took me four years.

Food? I?ve heard the human body can go forty days without food as long as there is plenty of water, and Steve and I are planning a massive garden this year. Peas, corn, broccoli, asparagus (though it won?t be ready for another year?damn it!), summer squash, zucchini, brussel sprouts, green beans, cucumbers, carrots, lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, chives, watermelon, cantaloupe, and shitloads of herbs. I?ve never been a vegetarian, or considered becoming one, but hey, meat?s expensive. We can even make our own bread. Give me some pasta and I?ll be set, at least until the winter. Maybe even through the winter, if I figure out how to can.

Shelter? Ha! If worse comes to worse, we can sell the house and I move in with my mother. She might not like it, but she?d still take me in. She?s got Internet, too, so I won?t need to worry about that. I could probably get a job at Barnes & Noble or something as hassle-free as that (I?d be surrounded by books!), to make enough money to cover my car payment. Food would be taken care of as well. I say I because if we actually lost the house because I chucked it all, Steve would be moving to his own apartment. . . .

I could do it. I could get away from the ?real? jobs that the world, or at least America, has to offer and concentrate exclusively on my writing. It might speed of the process of getting published. I would have more time to research markets and put together and send submissions. It would definitely give me more time to be excited, not just about writing, but also working on the challenges and responsibilities most important to me.

Alas, I?ll suck it up and continue for just a little while longer, if only to protect my darling husband and compromise for his consideration. After all, it can be pretty unsettling to lose your whole way of life for someone else?s desire. I?ll work on my writing as much as I can and as hard as I can, give only the time and energy I feel I can give to the rest, and wish and hope and pray I?ll start making a living as a writer.

Oh, look at me. I?ve rambled on long enough! Someone?s going to think I have issues.

Over the past three months, I?ve received about fifteen rejections for my submission, and most of them from the long-shot publications. I always enjoy receiving a rejection, and I always know what it is before I open my self-addressed, stamped envelope. It makes me feel, even though I?ve been rejected, that someone at these publications is actually reading my work. I?ve submitted to publications that have never responded to me, which I think is unethical and just plain rude; they even ignore my follow-up letters and presumably pocket the postage on my SASEs! So I write these off as a scam.

A few weeks ago, I got a rejection from a publication I?ve submitted to before, but this rejection was different from all the form letters or post-cards I usually receive. It actually had handwritten comments included at the bottom of the form post-card. This had never happened to me before, and while my husband looked slightly apprehensive at my jubilation (I ran around the house screaming, ?Yes! Yes! Yes!?), he was proud of me, too. Here are the comments:

?I enjoyed reading your story. You write great dialogue! Not quite plot-driven enough for Zoetrope?Best of luck to you!?

I am not embellishing these comments one bit. The underlining, exclamation points, and em dash are all original, as included in the handwritten comments. There was no signature, so I don?t know if the editor-in-chief made the comments herself, but it doesn?t really matter. I?m also not concerned about being ?plot-driven? enough, though I?ll definitely take that into consideration if decide to try that publication again; I?m a character-driven writer. Those comments gave me that little bit of encouragement, that shot of confidence, every writer needs. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on the web, I?ll scan this glorious rejection, for all the world to see.

I?m not the type to paste rejections on my walls, as a reminder to myself that yes, I am trying. Instead, I?ve framed my rejection with comments and keep it on my desk as a constant reminder to me that I am on the right path. For even though the story wasn?t right for that particular publication, there?s still hundreds more to chose from that might be willing, and happy, to call my story home.

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/family/pages/mary-wedding.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/37.Mary-Steve.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/family/pages/matt-goofy.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/14.Dave-Parents.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/22.Married.htm

Chapter One ? Jennifer: Just Another Day

?Jennifer, what is you doin???

?Shut up, Christine, an? close the door.?

Does she want the whole place to hear her? I didn?t come in here so everybody?d know what I?s doin?; I come in here to be alone.

?Whatchou got? Is that one a them joints you rolled for Mama??

?Keep your voice down!? She knows better ?en to git me in trouble. ?An? yes, it is.?

?How?d you git it away from her??

?Aw, I done it before. She don?t ever notice. You know how she always has me roll five joints? Well, I jus? roll six and put one in my shoe.?

?That?s sick.?

?No it ain?t. It?s better ?en puttin? it in my pocket.?

Last time I done that, it got all squished up an? I couldn?t smoke it. Joints ain?t as firm as cigarettes; they break up real easy. I think it?s that thin paper you gotta roll ?em with, an? they don?t got no filter. But if I stick it in my shoe, right under where my foot curves up on the bottom, it stays nice like it?s s?posed to. Plus I can feel it there, so I don?t forgit about it.

?What?re you gonna do with it??

?I?m gonna smoke it, Christine.?

?What for??

I swear, she don?t understand nothin?. She?s only three years younger ?en me, but you?d think she was Joey?s age or somethin?.

?So I can git high, why else you smoke a joint??

?What?re you gonna smoke it with? Mama don?t let you have no lighter or nothin?.?

?I swiped one a her lighters from her purse.? Don?t she know I think ahead? I ain?t stupid.

?You ever been high before??

?I don?t know . . . I think so.? It?s kinda hard to tell. ?Prob?ly not, though. I jus? git a little dizzy, you know? But I don?t git all funny like Mama an? Daddy do, or Marcus or Angela or none a them do. But I heard this lady tellin? Angela once she smoked it nine times ?fore she finally got high. I only smoked it twice.?

?So this is your third time??

?No, Christine, this?ll be twice, if you ever quit buggin? me. Last time I put the joint in my pocket an? forgot about it, an? it got all broke up. I couldn?t smoke it. I think Mama washed it away when she did laundry.?

I know Christine an? I gotta share this room, but I still think I oughtta be able to have it to myself some a the time, an? not have her around. Usually we git along good, but havin? her around when I?m tryin? to smoke some pot jus? makes me feel bad. If she?s gonna sit on her bed an? watch me like that?I?d rather she jus? turn around or something. No, I?d rather she?d jus? leave. This won?t take me long, anyways.

?That stuff ain?t good fer you, you know. . . .?

?Yeah, I know, Christine, you tol? me all about it.? I wish she?d quit talkin? to me when I?s tryin? to take a drag. It?s hard to hold it in like you?s s?posed to when someone?s talkin? to you.

?It messes with your brain, an? can cause brain damage. Look at Marcus. See?I tol? you! You sound like you?s gonna choke to death.?

?That?s jus? cause I ain?t used to it.? I?ll be fine in a minute. ?An? Marcus don?t jus? smoke pot. He drinks an? does other shit.?

I seen ?im do it, too. I ain?t gonna git no brain damage from smokin? a little weed once in a while.

?It also ain?t good fer your lungs, like smokin? cigarettes.?

?How d?you know??

?Cause, I seen Eric clean out that pipe. You have, too. You know that black stuff he always pokes outta there? Yer stupid if you think that don?t git in your lungs, jus? like tar from cigarettes. ?Member in Miss. Armstrong?s class, that movie they made us watch??

?Yeah, I remember.? I remember Miss. Armstrong an? that movie they showed us ?bout smokin?. That was two years ago, though, when I?s in the first grade; I?da thought they?d have a different movie by now.

?Then you seen them black lungs they took outta those people that died. An? that doll they had smokin?, an? how its plastic belly got all yellow, then brown, then black . . .?

?I git it, Christine??

?You ever gonna quit coughin???

?Yes, I?ll be fine in a minute! An? I don?t think my lungs is gonna turn black from only smokin? it twice.?

Jeez, I wish she?s jus? leave me alone. I ain?t doin? nothin? wrong, good fer you or not. They?s lot?s a things that ain?t good fer you, like eating too much cookie dough. Me an? Christine did that once, when we?s over at Lisa?s. She had one a them rolls where you jus? cut the cookie off an? bake ?em. We ate damn near the whole thing, and me an? Christine?s stomach hurt the rest a the day.

?That stuff stinks, too. How you gonna keep Mama from noticin? the smell??

?I got the window open.?

?But the air conditionin?s on.?

?So?? I swear, she worries ?bout the dumbest things. ?It don?t work right, anyways. An? Mama don?t come in here much; it?s our room.?

?I bet she?ll come in here if she sees you got the window open??

?Shut up, Christine, she?s watchin? TV. The only way she?d notice I had the window open was if she went around the back of the trailer anyways, an? she ain?t gonna go outside.? Mama don?t go outside much, least not when it?s hot out like it is now.

?Is that all you gonna smoke??

?Four hits is enough, Christine.?

Last time, I made myself smoke the whole thing, my head hurt real bad for a while an? my throat hurt for ?bout two days after. There ain?t no point in smokin? the whole thing in one sittin?, anyways. It don?t git you high, an? I wanna make sure I got plenty left if it?s gonna take me nine times to do it right.

?I?ll save the rest for later.?

?What if Mama finds it??

?She ain?t gonna find it. You even seen her in here?? She never come in here before, ?less she comin? to git us for something or givin? us our laundry. She ain?t like Lisa?s mama; she don?t look through our stuff. ??Less you?re gonna tell on me. You gonna tell on me, Christine??

I wouldn?t be surprised if she told on me. She?s always makin? a fuss ?bout what doin? stuff that?s bad fer you. But I don?t think she got anybody to tell. She don?t like Daddy much?that?s why she calls him Eric. An? she don?t git along with Mama much better. But she might tell some a them people at school. I wouldn?t put it past her. She?s always suckin? up to grownups at school. She thinks they know better what?s good fer her then her own family.

?No, I ain?t gonna tell on you. You shouldn?t be doin? it, though.?

?Christine, when you gonna learn?? I swear, I knew more at her age ?en she does. ?This is jus? what people do. Jus? cause them grownups at school tell you it ain?t good fer you don?t mean nothin?. I bet they do it, too. All adults do. They?s prob?ly jus? tellin? us it?s bad cause they think we?s too young, like when they say watchin? too much TV is bad fer you.?

?Maybe . . . but I bet Miss. Armstrong don?t do it. An? I still don?t think you should be doin? it. It?s different ?en watchin? too much TV.?

She is stubborn. When she gits a idea in her head she won?t let go of it fer nothin?, don?t matter what you tell her. She?ll find out, though. When she?s a little older, she?ll see that adults jus? tell you it?s bad cause they don?t want kids doin? nothin? they?s doin?. An? when we?s all grownup and gots kids a our own, we?ll prob?ly tell ?em the same thing. I can understand it, though. Weed?s expensive, ?specially if you gotta share it with someone else.

?You better put that away. I think I hear somebody comin?.?

I bet it?s jus? Bobby. He?s prob?ly bored, since Mama?s watchin? TV. He can?t play no video games.

?Whathchou girls doin? in here??

Damn, that was close! I didn?t think Mama?d come down here.

?Jennifer! What the hell you got that window open for? Don?t you know the fuckin? air conditionin?s runnin???

?I?s cold . . .?

?Then git your ass outside, it?s plenty hot out there. Go on, shut that damn window right now! You?re lettin? all the cold air out. You?re lucky yer Daddy ain?t here, he?d beat yer ass.?

He would not. Mama?s jus? sayin? that to scare me. He don?t touch none a us, ?cept Joey, but Joey us?ally deserves it. I hope she don?t smell nothin?. Then he prob?ly would beat my ass, an? she would, too. I ain?t s?posed to be takin? weed from them, an? I definitely ain?t s?posed to be smokin? it.

?You two git ready to go.?

?Where we goin??? Good, Christine ain?t gonna tell on me.

?I?m talkin? you all over to Angie?s. I?m tried a lookin? at you kids. Runnin? around, bein? loud . . . you all ?bout drivin? me crazy.?

?But me an? Jennifer?s been in here??

?I don?t care where you been, Christine, I?m takin? you to Angela?s to play for a while. She said Lisa?s been bored, so you all can go over there an? be bored together.?

?When d?you talk to Angela?? We ain?t got no phone.

?Jus? a few minutes ago, right after I caught Joey messin? with the stove. I called her from your Grandma?s.?

?We gonna be spendin? the night??

?I don?t know, Christine. You might, so pack somethin? jus? in case. Jennifer, you pack somethin? fer Bobby an? Joey. I want you girls outside an? ready to go in ten minutes.?

?How we gonna git there?? Mama don?t drive. We gotta car, but Mama don?t never drive it. I don?t even think she got a license.

?Angie?s gonna come git you. She?s got some shit she needs from me, an? said she could take you fer a while this afternoon. She?s on her way right now. So hurry yer ass up, I don?t wanna keep her fuckin? waitin? when she gits here.?

?I?m hurryin?.? Jeez, she don?t gotta be mean about it. It?s gonna take Angela longer to git here ?en it will for us to git ready anyways.

?I hope we don?t gotta spend the night.?

?Oh, Christine, it ain?t gonna be that bad.? I don?t know what she?s got again?st Angela. She gits on my nerves sometimes, but she ain?t too bad. ?You like Lisa, don?t you??

?No. She acts like a baby.?

I guess that?s true. Lisa?s a spoilt little brat. But she don?t act anymore like a baby ?en Christine does.

?An? Angie gits mean. Remember last time we was over there? She yelled at us fer playin? with Lisa?s toys.?

?That?s cause Joey pulled the head off a one a Lisa?s Barbies.?

That was pretty funny, too. Lisa didn?t think so, an? went cryin? to her Mama, like always. Angela was pretty upset. I don?t know what the big deal was; them Barbie heads jus? snap back on. It waddn?t like Joey broke nothin? that couldn?t be fixed.

?It won?t be that bad, I promise. I?ll be there. Jus? stick with me the whole time, an? you?ll be fine. Plus, Angie?s always got some good stuff to eat.?

?If Lisa?ll let us have any . . .?

?Oh, now you?s jus? poutin?. I thought you said Lisa acted like a baby? Here you are, actin? the same way.?

?No I?m not!?

I knew that?s git her riled.

?Listen, don?t worry about it. I?ll take care a everything, an? if anyone does something to git in trouble for, I?ll take the blame, ok?? Well, she does look a little better. ?Now come on, let?s git ready to go, ?fore Mama comes back in here an? starts bitchin? at us again.?

For those of you who know me, you may be thinking, "25? She's not 25!"

The only answer I can give to that is, YES I AM!

25 is a good place to be, and I intend to stay that way for a while....

?So it didn?t go well.?
?Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to know how it went? I couldn?t concentrate on anything. I shoved her around a bit, you know, to get her scared, and I think it worked, too, only she didn?t start spilling, she just shut up and watched me. So then I started in on the whole, ?You sure are a prutty woman,? routine. Never met a woman who didn?t start bawling the minute they thought you were gonna rape them?until tonight.?
?What? Did she fight back or something??
?Fuck no, don?t you think I?d have been able to handle something like that? I was going over the whole routine, you know, get real close, smell her and tell her how great she smells?incidentally, she did smell great??
?Get on with it.?
??she didn?t do much but sit there, all stiff like she had before, and then I did the thing where you grab the girl?s neck, you know, an? hold them by their hair??
?I know, I know.?
?So I licked her face, you know, like a dog would, and then pulled her head back some more and bit her neck?and do you know what she did??
?Kicked you in the balls??
?Damn it, Andrew, can?t you pay attention to what I?m telling you? Can?t you figure out what she did??
?No, so why don?t you tell me already??
?She moaned. Not only that, but her neck relaxed, her whole body relaxed. If I hadn?t been holding up her, she would have slid to the floor. She closed her eyes, the whole bit.?
?So? What do you want me to do about it??
?Jesus Christ, how do you threaten a woman with rape when she wants it? I can?t threaten to rape a woman who wants to get laid.?
?You?re acting like a dumbass. If she wants it, then give it to her. Maybe she?ll be grateful, and tell you what we want to know.?
?Give it to her??
?Just fuck her.?
?God damn, you don?t understand a fucking thing.?
?Look, if you?re not up to it, then I can go in there and see how she responds to me.?
?Fuck you, why wouldn?t I be up to it? It just takes a little bit of the fun out of the interrogation process, don?t you think??
?I think it?s the other way around. Have you ever even raped a woman before??
?Well, no, I never needed to, but??
?Look, you?re not up to it, I can tell. I?ve seen her; if she wants to get laid, I don?t mind at all. I think I can handle it for you.?
?Fuck you, I?ll do it.?
?The get the fuck in there and do it.?
?I?m just saying that it?s not going the way we planned, that?s all.?
?I could have fucked her twenty times by now. . . .?
?All right, fuck you. I?ll be back out in a little while. And no listening at the door.?

I quickly grew out of the superhero phase, probably shortly after I grew out of the Under-roos. Music was the next logical step, as daughter of a drummer in a band.

The predetermined course of a career in music followed me from childhood through puberty, into adolescence and, consequently, to college as a Music Major as Indiana University. I had piano and voice lessons, did choral shows, recitals, and for a long time pretended I had the lifestyle of the various musicians my father introduced to me. I was Linda Ronstadt, belting out rock ?n roll at the top of my lungs to an excited crowd. I was Carol King, pounding out tunes on the piano, evoking powerful emotions through the lyrics. I was Joni Mitchell, strumming on my guitar, though I never took lessons for that, making powerful social and political statements. I still do it to this day, with my old favorites and some new ones: playing some kind of instrument for Cake or White Stripes, and vocalization; always vocalization.

However, from time to time, I would get swept up in another fantasy all together: Writing.

Around the same time as the Wonder Woman attraction, I wrote a story called The Princess and the Whale, no doubt a result of my fascination with fairy tales and the Brothers Grimm. I still remember the pink construction paper I pasted the story on, and the crude drawing of the Sperm whale I did?it being the only whale I knew by name. I don?t remember what the story was about. I think it was something about a whale and princess who somehow help each other out. A prince was involved, of course. The parchment, sadly, has probably been lost, unless my mother has it in one of the many boxes at her house.

When I was eight, my grandparents gave me a little book bound in fabric and leather. Dark, reddish brown leather binding on the spine and at the corners, and a fabric cover embroidered in Victorian shapes of pink, maroon, mustard yellow, and brown. It had pale pink pages with more swirling floral designs and dark yellow lines?or was it just the opposite? Regardless, it was a beautiful book. Absolutely beautiful. My interest and excitement were only heightened when I discovered that it was completely blank. A beautiful blank book, flawlessly bound. The only thing left to do was fill up the pages it. My very first novel: The fascination began. . . .

At eleven, I attempted my own Nancy Drew Mystery. Mine had more violence (it?s not really a mystery if there is no murder) and more romance between Nancy and Ned, or as romantic as an eleven year old girl can get?sappy but not sexual. I also did a short story, my first official attempt at the horror genre, entitled Attack of the Killer Pump Organ. It was about a haunted old pump organ that devoured anyone who played it, starting with their hands once they touched the keys and progressing from there. Spoooooooky. At the time, we (me, my little brother, and some kids from the neighborhood) thought it was hilarious.

Still, music occupied most of my time, and the dream of writing became exactly that: a dream, not to be confused with reality. I continued to write; I simply kept my writing to myself, not only my journals but my creative writing as well, only showing a story or two to my best friend Mary. It was just something I did for fun.

Unhappy in the School of Music at IU, I ditched music and transferred to Purdue University, following a loser?which often happens to young women when they think they are in love?and majored in the reliable field of accounting. I worked three years as a Public Accountant before I finally acknowledged that writing?creative writing?was the only thing I really wanted to do.

Shortly after my decision to write for a living, I found my Senior Portfolio from high school. Nothing in it contained any ideas about a musical career or anything resembling desires to be an accountant; it was all about writing. In one essay I even wrote:

I enjoy writing so much and I love the feeling of being able to create a work that is fulfilling emotionally and in other ways when it is a finished piece . . . I?ve even thought of studying English in college, and taking creative writing classes and possibly having something to do with it [writing] in the years to come.

Did I actually write that? Never mind that it?s terrible, I can?t believe I forgot writing that, or feeling that! Here I am, thinking that I?ve recently uncovered my dream of becoming a writer, yet the desire started long before now.

How would my life be if I had the occupation I dreamed about as a child? All I can think about that, now that I?m pursuing it, is that I?d be a lot farther ahead than I am now. I never realized how important the dream of writing was until the time to matter came: until I was an adult.

But this rejection was different from the others: it had an actual signature. The very editor that I had sent the manuscript to actually signed the letter. There was no block printed reading, ?THE EDITORS?, or just the typed name of the editor. It actually had a handwritten signature above the printed version. I even held it to the light, just to be sure it wasn?t from a laser printer, copier, or a stamp. Granted, the letter was probably typed by an intern, and handed to the editor to sign along with a great big stack, but who cares. It was still my first rejection that had a real, bona fide signature, and with it, in my mind, a slight chance the editor actually read the piece.

I reread the letter and studied the signature for about a half hour. Then I left it out for my husband to see, just to prove that yes, I am trying. I walked away from it feeling totally inspired. I got another rejection. That?s good because it means that editors are receiving my work. If editors, or their assistants, are receiving my work that means there?s a good chance they might read my work. And if enough people are reading my work, I?ll eventually find someone that wants to publish my work. I look at the submission process like the lottery. If the odds are seven million to one, and you buy seven million lottery tickets, doesn?t it stand to reason you?d have a very good chance at winning? While I can?t send out manuscripts blindly, I can send them to every viable possibility. That has to raise my odds. You could argue it has something more to do with the quality of the writing, but I?ve read several literary journals, and several elite literary journals, which contained one or two stories I wouldn?t use to wipe up my cat?s hairballs.

So two good things happen today. I got another rejection, proof that I?m trying, and I got an actual signature, the possibility the editor I submitted my manuscript to actually read the piece. I could view these things as bad things, as rejection itself has negative connotations, but then I would get depressed. My motivation and perseverance and inspiration, and thus chance at publication, would die. So I have to put a positive spin on it. I can still have my little tantrums of inadequacy, but I have to try, overall, to remain positive, even about the shit that blows. And let?s face it, rejection blows.