Link on over ...

He likes them - you will, too. Check out my short stories at katy brandes writes.

How did camp creep up again?

sweet kitty pic apropos of nothing

I love/hate doing NaNoWriMo. Camp NaNo is less stressful as participants set their own word limits. Cranking out 50K during November tends to be too much pressure. Undeniably, I enjoy being part of the online community undertaking such huge projects. The camaraderie is fun. Watching NaNo Sprints via Twitter is intriguing - witnessing all the productivity when I could be sprinting myself has a somewhat self-defeating purpose. But I just can't seem to hang.

So I'm riding the fence about starting again tomorrow. My last Camp NaNo project sits listless on the back burner. It isn't even simmering, not even tepid, just cold and congealed. The project before that one is what I need to finish. It is simply stuck in the purgatory of revision. I've fallen out of love with my characters and can't seem to re-ignite the passion.

Meanwhile I try to use Studio 30+ writing prompt to actively create over at my other blog. Check it other over there. Whether I "go to camp" or not remains to be seen.

Elsewhere ...

Two works-in-progress now adorn my stack of books. They're mine, and they collect dust atop the other hard-copy ... or real ... books that rest on my dresser at home. The writing projects that are still what I call "in the revision phase." 

Now I've come back and realized my apparent abandonment of this blog. Truth is, I use another space as my actual writing blog and try to practice doing so at least on a weekly basis. Procrastinator that I might be, I'm doing a little something there. 

Katy Did Not, on the other hand, is what I've previously referred to as my ranty blog (like, "Oh, no you didn't ...) where I consider myself more anonymous in doing so. Well, as anonymous as a person can be online, especially since my Twitter account links to it. 

But I'll link over to the other one here in hopes that maybe I'll get a little traffic from it. Until then, cheers, and get back to work!

Gone Writing - aka November's Craziness

November is already half gone, and I'm currently in the throes of the kicking-my-butt event known as National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo. Even though I'm not meeting the 1,600 word daily goal, I am plugging right along on a work-in-progress tentatively called "The Ones You Love." So I've been busy.

Be back soon!

Trouble in Paradise

I don’t want to be privy

to your intimate (and sordid) relationship details --

much more than I ever needed to know.

Looking at you both now,

I realize why her gaze stays downcast and sullen --

all the more reason I despise you.
(image via Gabriela C. on Flickr)

Mom and Dad

 

In an infinite battle of wills,  

a winner rarely triumphs.

Little eyes watch, ears listen,

and learn what it’s like to be adults.

Our example too graphically demonstrates how they will
 

build their own homes on the ugly example
 

we have provided.

Style

Unfolding the stale cookie from its crispy twist, I read the fortune and popped pieces of the tasteless wafer into my mouth. The ominous slip of paper inside encouraged, “Be adventuresome and try a new look.”

Were I a more suspicious person, I would fear an assembly line worker out there somewhere had it in for me. Wishing away any bad premonition for the future, I decided to not heed the advice. What had throwing caution to the wind ever gotten me before? A seat on the crazy train, perhaps.

The last time I tried to change things up and got a new ‘do, people could barely divert their eyes from my purple locks. Personally, I loved the dramatic swoop of my bangs as they rose into a pompadour. At first I told myself the stares were simple jealousy and had nothing to do with my pale makeup and pastel-floral blouse. Those hues went so well with the midnight blue leather mini-skirt and navy lipstick. The snag created when my tights caught on a grommet of my boot string only added to the overall effect of my “new look” at that time.

Hey, it was the ‘80s. My recent breakup and broken-heartedness called for something entirely different to counteract the negativity. A whole new me. I was peeling away the layers of an entirely redefined self, an emerging aspect of my persona. Uncovering a wonderful piece of me, of who I was to become.

Perhaps I was young and naive, but I still yearned for that dental assistant position. No one told me I should wear something different to the job interview.   

*Studio 30+ prompt from an original post at Chaotically Yours

A Different Kind of Earth Day

We didn’t care about things like SPF back then. When you’re brushing your teeth and spitting into a ditch in the morning, you don’t really think about slathering on sunscreen for the impending trip down a river in southern Missouri. It’s onto the junky retired school bus driven by the canoe outfitter’s scroungiest driver as you pop the first beer by 10 am.  

The girls’ weekend float trip -- our freedom on the river.

The kiss of the sun was not a gentle greeting of welcome. Its glare bore down on pale flesh and cooked the epidermis to a fine scorch. Soothing any blisters would happen later that night after stumbling to the filthy bathroom, complete with cobwebs in the corners, broken toilets, and overflowing feminine hygiene product dispensers. You were lucky to not step in someone else’s vomit or fall down on the inevitably wet and scummy concrete floor. Being very lucky meant someone else had enough forethought to bring aloe vera to soothe your over-baked body, aflame with the after effects of too many hours in the elements.  

You don’t know misery until you spend the night lying on top of a sleeping bag to seek a little relief from its slick, cool surface. A campground with that sunburn in a stuffy Midwestern July is the last place to find solace for crispy skin. Claustrophobia comes around midnight when the spinning tent walls start closing in. Funny how the front flap zipper was always more difficult to find on nights like that.

Only a gulp of fresh air upon flinging the vinyl opening to the side would quell the nausea. A freezing-cold soda in the cooler’s melted ice helped, too. Clutching a flashlight and willing the old batteries in it to illuminate the inky darkness outside, you’d look for the closest tree behind which you could squat to pee.  

Looking back, we were probably irresponsible. Such alcohol binges seem dangerous in hindsight. But, damn, we had fun.

Before gaining our sea legs, my partner and I went bank to bank while figuring out how to rudder the boat and steer it straight along with the current. We’d been canoeing many times before but with the luxury of a brother, boyfriend or someone else more skilled at the helm.  

Slapping paddles on the water’s surface to echo their smack against limestone cliffs never got old. Neither did banging the handles on the sides of the canoe to obliviously mock Indian chants. We proved it was possible to take the girl out of the city but not take the idiocy out of the girl. We sang as loud as possible and took dips in the water for bathroom breaks between beers. Red-eared sliders perched on submerged trees didn’t appear to mind as long as we kept our distance.

Walnut tree fronds sticking out of our swimsuit tops were meant to draw attention, no matter how ridiculous they actually looked. Short channels of tiny white caps capsized canoes when the people doing the paddling were too drunk to handle the miniature rapids. And the day always flew by too fast.

Sandwiches eaten at a sandbar meant our toes were nibbled by minnows if dangled in the shallows. We watched crawdads swim small tide pools, too afraid to touch their clipping claws, but almost touch and pull our hands away quickly. We’d brave the current to wade out into the swift moving water and almost be swept bodily downstream, with many butts bruised on the bed of slick rocks.

Before the end of the trip, everyone turned over their vessel - or “tumped,” as we called it - from some mishap or other. Two girls even sunk their boat, which is pretty hard to do floating such a shallow river. We were there for the laughs, no actual skills needed. The waterproof bag brought along never quite did its job.

Campfire smoke brings back traces of those days, although the smell never quite matches that of a summertime wood-burning fire pit ablaze more vividly than our parched skin. Other sensory memories stored deep in the recesses of my subconscious get stoked to the surface from time to time.

One is melted rubber from shoe soles being drug behind the pickup that delivered us back to the campsite. Creating a cloud in the gravel to follow us “home” was hilarious at the time. Our clothes were coated in dust, hair matted to our heads, and the best-tasting, yet disgusting, hot dogs ever cooked over a fire awaited us at our makeshift base. A couple bags of crushed potato chips, worse for the wear of a two-hour drive, and s’mores finished off a delicious post-float meal for our ravenous group.

A few extra six-packs might still be back in someone’s car at the end of the day, left by those ultra-planners who anticipated we’d drink everything else earlier. Well past saturation point, many of us still had the fortitude to stay up late. No one wanted to miss the usual retellings of “remember when.” Old war stories are always the best.

Especially the telling about being struck by lightning on the Niangua during the sudden onset of a thunder storm. The last place to be was in a metal canoe on the water. But that’s a tale for another day.

This bunch of longtime friends looked forward to such an adventure. Amy even found herself collapsed on a chaise lawn chair next to smoldering coals as sunrise woke her the next morning, but that story is also meant for a different time.

Some of the best memories of my young life, a budding adulthood, were born upon those river banks. I can’t help but cringe to think back to all the near misses and potentially broken limbs. We escaped fairly unscathed with most memories intact. If only I’d thought to indelibly capture every single frivolous moment in my mind, as those times could never be recreated.   

*Studio 30 Plus prompt - kiss of the sun from KG Waite's original post.

(image via photobucket - source linked) 

Saying Goodbye - fiction

We had so much hope when we signed the final paperwork to purchase our home. My fingers were crossed that no major repairs would have to be made, the foundation would remain intact, and trees wouldn’t topple onto the roof. I’d no idea our marriage would be the first thing to fall apart.

Saying goodbye to the house was almost harder than bidding my husband farewell. It meant all hope was lost for a future there. A grand family room window positioned over the spacious back yard would never again host holiday gatherings while a carpet of snow covered the lawn and a crackling fireplace played as background music. No more Christmas Eves sitting around an eight-foot tree in front of that plate glass.

I look at the hole in the wall next to the window, the exact size of the back of my head, that's never been repaired. There would be no more blood to wipe off the wall or broken glass to clean up from the floor. No more 9-1-1 calls made in the middle of the night. Never again.

I loved this house and tried my best to make it a comfortable home. My husband had different plans that made our original dreams impossible. A distant memory now.

Because I had the courage to leave and would not withstand his brutality again. With a heavy sigh, I turned away from the picturesque window and walked back toward the door to leave. A final bittersweet but triumphant goodbye.

*This post was prompted by #GetYourWriteOn at Indie Chick Lit.

Back to Life

via Jake on Flickr

Winter finally takes its leave and exits at everyone's satisfaction, erasing the feeling of blue so common with aching cold bones. All creatures welcome the warming temperatures that envelope them in long-awaited comfort.

Smiles spread across the lips once used to blow warm breath across freezing fingers not buried in mittens. Layers of clothing are shed when the sun peaks out from clouds and greets gloomy creatures who not so long ago sang the blues and cursed its early setting.

The horizon meets a clear azure umbrella of sky to greet the wakening animals. Nature is renewed in the country, with a robin’s egg being laid in the nest and baby to hatch soon enough. She’d welcome her offspring as if they were royal.  

Deep brown soil hosts a stirring of plant life ready to spring upward and break through its crust. The bachelor’s-button flowers impatient to spread their cornflower blooms and wave across the grain field so long dormant over the season past.  

The slate of evening falls at last, and twilight’s periwinkle and pink hues crawl across the sky as if a Navy ship could set sail over the ocean-like waves. Midnight arrives.  

*The Woven Tale Press weekly prompt was blue, so I used all the shades of blue and associated words (those in bold) I could remember - just for fun!

(photo used w/permission)

In God's Name (re-post)

In light of an infamous death in the American headlines yesterday, below is an appropriate re-post of something I wrote last year. The world is a little less hate-filled today.

robbplusjessie – flickr creative commons

Such a lovely summer afternoon generates a wonderful mood, with the breeze blowing and clouds diffusing the heat as they drift in front of the sun. Folks gathered there instead glanced around at each other in stunned bereavement, their eyes glazed over with grief. The cemetery. No one should have to spend an amazing day like that at a funeral.

Friends of the deceased young man milled about behind the line of family members at graveside. Fellow service members weren’t able to attend the hometown memorial as most of them were still at their duty station. Others from his until were still hospitalized from injuries they’d sustained in the IED explosion. His were too serious to survive and snuffed out his life at a mere 27 years.

A procession of motorcycles ran along the entire block of lanes surrounding the section of cemetery where he’d be buried. Bikers presented a formidable show of force, a seemingly impenetrable shield surrounding the gravesite, and Sergeant Miller’s family was glad to have the friendly strangers there. Especially burly ones who embodied such strength.

Having their protection made the Millers feel safe in a situation where no such assurance should’ve been necessary. Their son had given his life for his country — the ultimate sacrifice — yet his loved ones and friends had to restrict attendance to only those individuals truly paying their respects. Unfortunately, others arrived who were anything but courteous.

A short motorcade of them tried to pull up to the plot unnoticed in their dented-up vehicles with Kansas license plates. The first car, a faded yellow, late-model Chevy Caprice, came to a stop, and a small man emerged from the front passenger door. His hubris preceded him through an arrogant smile that slithered across his face. He was short and thin, with cheekbones threatening to slice through his transparent skin and dingy blond hair that had grayed into the dull color of metal. Removing a straw cowboy hat, its plastered ring still encircling his head, he waved the Stetson in a broad swoop before him. The gesture seemed a rallying cry to his troops.

The legion of followers emerged from their vehicles — station wagons with small children and teenagers, as well as trucks and SUVs with adult passengers — lifting their block-lettered signs from within. Every last one of them had a message to deliver from the Westboro Baptist Church. They wanted the world to know their congregation’s purpose.  The group, like their leader, believed this funeral needed to be protested. It was their purpose to interrupt a calm, quiet goodbye to a young United States service member in order to purport their mission of hatred.

Signs read, “Thank God for Dead Soldiers” and “Thank God for IEDs.” Others read, “God Hates Fags” and “Fags Die God Laughs.” Funeral goers saw the yellow and black signs emerge in the hands of school-aged kids, and their wails of sorrow grew louder than before. The church members seemed unfazed and urged their children forward to form a parade line. Adult faces, like that of their conductor, glowed with vitriol and indignation, whereas the little ones’ seemed perplexed and anxious. Prods from their elders kept the tiny minions moving regardless of their stilted steps.

A cacophony of motorcycle engines broke through the increasing volume of discord on both sides of the cemetery lane, those on the lush green lawn and others holding harsh placards on the hard, cold pavement. The bikers gunned their motors and moved in between the two factions, revving their bikes to declare their purpose – keeping the unwelcome visitors away from the funeral. An over-sized American flag billowing from the lead motorcycle blocked the church leader’s face from the sight line of dead soldier’s family.

As the driver of the first bike lowered his kickstand, he removed his helmet and approached the man standing defiantly with his cowboy hat in hand and trying to whip his followers into a frenzy. A twisted expression and too-large dentures accentuated his ghoulish features and emphasized the monster he truly embodied, but he seemed to shrink as the leather-vested gentleman neared him. No one else could hear the few words expressed at such close range to the bilious little man, but the congregation recognized his signal for immediate retreat. They all turned, hustled the children back into the cars, and withdrew from the scene in haste.

The clamor faded into the distance, and appreciative cheers of funeral goers eventually settled down, too. The motorcyclists escorted the stymied Westboro bunch out and blocked any chance at re-entry so the burial ceremony could proceed as originally planned. An overhead row of cumulus clouds fully dispersed, and only the harmonious summer songbirds accompanying the eulogy remained to be heard.

One more disgraceful disaster averted … unfortunately, so many more to come.  

*This post is being submitted for The Friday Fright Write at Cheney’s blogGiving Up The Ghost. She prompted participants to “write about the scariest creature you can imagine.”

out to lunch

No one has probably even noticed that I haven't posted here in months, as my following is small. I fully realize my relative web insignificance. It's humbling but true.

I do wish I was more diligent about my "Thanks, my friend" effort I had somewhat persistently pursued for about a year. So many amazing women deserve recognition, and I regret I haven't continued to give them kudos here. My life is rich with amazing women I have the privilege to know, and I hope to get back to blogging about them. 

In the meantime, I have been fervently pursuing fiction over at katy brandes writes. The main impetus is an online writing community called Studio 30 Plus, where weekly prompts give me the motivational push I need. 

I am trying to "find my voice." It was a great pleasure to have a line from one of my posts , "a semi-permanent state of self-medication," used as Studio30+'s prompt this week.

Many posts are out-takes from my '70s childhood with fictional spins on them. Sometimes I get a tad serious and sprinkle in some social commentary. Being from the Midwest, I can't help but also throw in what I hope is a little colloquial humor.

Any which way I spin it, I am having a ball trying to mix it up and improve my fictional skills (take that how you will). Meeting other bloggers, especially other avid readers and book reviewers, is one of my favorite things about shredding the blogsophere.  

So, until further notice, please find me over on that other platform. Thanks!

Getting stuck

Should I be reading, or should I be writing? The conflict is constant. Observing, and hoping to absorb talent and style by osmosis, is a worthwhile endeavor. My conscience, however, keeps telling me to get at it. Put the Kindle (or book) down, and start typing. Even if it's blogging. That pesky conscience says, "There's a story to develop. Details, more description! You need to add dimensions to those characters already existing in your head. Bring them to life." It's quite a naggy frontal cortex.

The tirade continues with, "Quit looking on Amazon. Open up Word instead!"

My inner-dialogue is relentless, and I use it to make myself feel overly guilty. My conscious mind knows there are revisions to be made to last year's -- yet unfinished -- NaNoWriMo project. Obviously, I need to complete the story. The finale stands at outline status, and that doesn't suffice if it's ever to be finished.

Self-criticism gets me, much like troll-ish reviews on Amazon , nowhere! Worry is like that. Feeling anxious about something is not helpful and only sucks away the energy needed to complete the project. Whereas my writing can always improve, my expertise at worry is unsurpassed. I'm a pro! I'm the best -- just ask me!

The key to feeling un-stuck is simply not staying stuck. Just today, I joined a conversation about whether to be enlightened or discouraged by criticism. I've often said my skin needs to thicken to criticism. An online friend once suggested to read the review only one time and take from it what can help you learn. She urged to never go back to it after that initial reading. Let it serve its purpose if it is to do you any good.

Naysayers can suck, but their words can make you stronger. Everyone has their own taste, but the goal is to write something that you know came from your best effort. And using the feedback constructively can drive a writer to do even better the next time.

Prove them wrong! Know you are going to continue to grow as a writer and a person by never letting yourself stay in a rut. Right - write - on!