The Car Your Dad Drove?

My dad is a truck man.  

He had a blue Ford F150 with the manual transmission gear shift

on the steering wheel column instead of the floor. Friday evenings immediately after school, we would cram into the cab--all four of us--and drive to town for a fast food dinner and grocery shopping. 

Fashionista? Who Me?

As I sit at the kitchen table, keeping an attentive eye on the cubed potatoes frying in the black iron skillet on the stove, I'm glancing through the latest edition of a very popular glossy fashion magazine. 

The first quarter, if not more, of the magazine is mostly ads--sleek, glossy ads for designers whose names I cannot pronounce let alone afford. The models are aloof in that tall, gaunt gorgeous way of models. Here's the thing: in most of the heavily stylized ads, I'm not always certain what the designer is promoting. 

Nobel Prize? Rock Star? Oh My!?

Nobel Prize or Rock Star? 

This is an easy question for me to answer: Nobel Prize winner. 

While being a rock star has a certain appeal, I daydreamed about this raucous, glamorous life as a teenager (who didn't, right?) despite having zero talent and the idea of performing on a stage curdles my stomach. 

I must confess that the Nobel Prize in Literature captivates my winsome heart, although I don't qualify. 

Maybe rock star would be better after all.

What do you think? Nobel Prize or rock star?

This post was inspired by a writing prompt from 642 Things to Write About. No, this isn't a sponsored post. They have no idea who I am.   

Am I Good Enough?

As most of you know, I submitted my first manuscript, Alex and

Chase's story,  to the Golden Heart writer's contest sponsored by RWA. Winners of the Golden Heart earn recognition for writing an outstanding manuscript that is unpublished, which can pave the way for a publishing contract, though that is not a guarantee. 

Thank you all, by the way, for your heart felt good luck wishes when I announced my intention to enter the contest. Your support is tremendous and very much appreciated. Truly. I know that you believe in me as a writer and that's a boost to my ego, for sure.

Though now that I've submitted the manuscript, which has taken me well over 8 years to complete, I’m flooded with anxiety, truth be told. That scene I deleted? Maybe I should have kept it. That other scene? What if that was the scene I should have deleted instead? Is the manuscript tight enough? Good enough?

Winners won't be announced until March. That's a long time to brood. I try to distract myself by focusing on my second manuscript or writing blog posts, which has been difficult to maintain since I'm still recuperating from this fractured leg o' mine.  Although I can walk without crutches or a cane, I limp like Quasimodo and my leg and ankle are still very sore sometimes. Like everyone else healing their bodies long term, I have good days and bad days.  

One thing I know for certain is that there are a lot of really good writers out there, all of us trying to be heard. All of us vying for the attention of a publisher or an agent or readers. All of us writhing in equal parts doubt and confidence. As I put myself out there, so to speak, not everyone who reads my stuff will like it, which is the chance I have to take in order to find readers who do like my stories. 

I'm on a journey. Thankfully, you, dear gentle readers, have agreed to come along on this long distance marathon to keep me company. To reassure me. To bolster me. For that, I'm eternally grateful. 

Are You Going To Eat That?

I'm scared.

Do I really want to this?

What if it's poisonous?

Man, I'm hungry. How do I get this open?

Brine, thought the man, swallowing the fleshy meat of an oyster while squatting on the ground next to the recently harvested oysters piled like stones at his feet. His skin prickled with cold from the waist down from wading out into the cold bay water to gather his dinner. 

He ran his calloused thumb along the smooth pearly finish on the inside of the shell. Then he flipped it over, slicing the pad of his thumb on the edge of the shell.  

Multi-purpose, he thought. The shell could be used to cut things. The interior could be used for decoration. A necklace, perhaps, for trading. 

The man made a small pouch of the fur skin draped across his shoulders and dropped in the rest of the oysters to carry them back to his clan camping further inland. 

He wasn't dead from eating the oyster. At least, not yet. 

How was he going to convince the rest of his clan that eating oysters was a good idea?

This is the interior monologue I imagine the very first man to eat an oyster thinks as he evaluates whether or not to eat it. This was a writing exercise courtesy of 642 Things To Write About.  

What do you imagine the first man to eat an oyster thought? Leave a comment below. 

The Bride's Blue Shoes

Something old. 

Something new.

Something borrowed.

Something blue.

For the gazillionth time, Samantha recited the folkloric rhyme in her head instructing brides what to wear on their wedding day for good luck.

What's Your Word for 2015?

Gratitude.

Simplify.

Declutter and organize. 

These are just some of the self-explanatory words some of you may think of when considering one word to describe the way you want to live during the new year.