I’ve been perusing The Hairpin, and Kelly Conaboy’s scented candle reviews are truly excellent. I have written my own scented candle nonsense, but it got me thinking about my actual candle-related expectations. You’d think having only ever bought maybe five candles ever, and at least two because I thought Mr. Squish would like them, that I wouldn’t have strong feelings about this.
I haven’t touched on any of the whole “Trump’s going to be the president” thing in any of my blog posts. Mostly because the thought is exhausting and depressing, and everyone else is talking about it anyway.
However, I do want to address the rather desolate expectations some people have of the next administration. People are talking like disaster is imminent.
Happy Halloween, dear reader! It’s been too long since a bit of fiction flitted across this blog, and so, I give you a spooky tale for Halloween.
The apartment I shared with Laura was clean, spacious, and incredibly hostile, as passionate romances also spur passionate break-ups.
After a week or so of couch surfing, I found a sublet in my price range a mile or so from my classes. Closer to campus were new complexes with attached gyms and single bedroom units well beyond a T.A.’s budget. My new place was one of the classic, yet dilapidated houses infested with young people that were common further from school.
It must’ve been a stunning place when it was new: a grand, old Victorian with broken stained glass windows and faded green shutters. The porch was unsettlingly soft, and the plaster stank of pot. But I was morose and the price was right. Continue reading A Short Story for Halloween
I don’t hide the fact that I’m a Hillary supporter, but I also don’t go out of my way to try and convert others. I just don’t have the wherewithal to slog through conspiracy theories and paranoia like a political ice breaker.
However, I do want to point out the sexism that Clinton been subjected to through out this campaign that is couched as legitimate criticism. Now, Shakesville has a much more comprehensive list, but it still isn’t every sexist thing that has been lobbed at Clinton. (Ain’t nobody got time for that.) Continue reading Yes, Virginia, It’s Sexism
Ohmygod that was so beautiful and the world is full of breathless mystery and I swear I’ll never eat meat again and I’ll hug a dog and look into its huge, warm eyes like Krishna’s mother seeing the world in his mouth and I’ll bike everywhere like a Communist to save the Earth.
When I’m confronted with actual nature, that is, in real life without a score, it looks more like this:
My heart’s in the right place, kind of, but I have no idea what the hell is going on. Then I have an Italian beef or something and drive three blocks somewhere.
Perhaps there’s a message here about the difference between eliciting emotion and eliciting action, or perhaps it’s more evidence that sometimes I’m just kind of a crappy person.
First of all, I missed my blog’s birthday because we all know that I’d be a terrible mother. My first post was June 11, 2015; so sorry, Blog, that I’ve neglected you. People are giving me money to write and stuff, so that’s gotten in the way.
Have cake, Blog, and feel better.
So! I had said a long time ago that the romance genre is much maligned for various reasons and that I would write about it. What has finally gotten me around to doing the post is actually making an attempt to write a bit of romance.
Even a small piece, about 800 words as a thought exercise, is proving difficult. The gears that make romance writing tick are not easily manipulated. Granted, writing anything out of one’s sphere isn’t easy and takes practice, but making a decent, entertaining, little scene requires a deft hand. Otherwise everyone’s rude, creepy, and inappropriately horny in a strangely ambiguous historical setting (where my characters currently are right now.)
My mother told me that she didn’t care if I ever give her grandchildren in much the same way she told me that I didn’t have to become a doctor: sincerely with an undercurrent of disappointment. I remember the home movies she took of my tantrums, all snot and rage and throwing shoes out of the shoe rank. Watching the old VHS tapes with images of my fits popping up between piano recitals and birthday parties, I knew that if I ever had a child I’d be cursed with one like myself.
When I first started reading Harry Potter I was about 13, and I grew up with the books in a way. The petty rivalries and teenage miseries spoke to me. Of course, the delightful world of magic did, too.