This piece was for the prompt 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly'. This is probably one of the most personal things I've written for the Fancy Laideez and therefore one of the hardest to share. I apologize for the language involved, Mom, but it's a true story.
A friend’s roommate’s boyfriend died suddenly and she (friend, not roommate) needed to get out of the house after two straight days of consoling. We decided to do something that would get her mind of off life for a little while. We rounded up some girlfriends and went to see Storm and the Balls for their regular Wednesday night show at Dante’s. One of my friends told me that she met the greatest guy over the weekend and that she was going to call him to meet up with us. “You’re going to get along great,” she told me, “he reads a lot”. I was worried that I was coming off as the geek in our group. Sure, I was an avid reader and I wrote a lot and I had been doing some editing work for a non-profit magazine but is that what my friends thought of me? Did they really think that I only dated guys based on what book was on their bedside table? I couldn’t complain because, let’s face it, a guy who reads a lot is really important to me.
Her friend showed up and came to our table with a friend of his. I looked past the one I was supposed to be set up with and focused on his friend who was hanging back a bit. Not only do I like an extensive library, I also like glasses and facial hair and this boy had both! He caught me staring at him and flashed me a smile and a wave. I pulled the seat out next to me as an invitation to get to know me and his RSVP came back “yes”. I have some social anxiety and can get a little bit subdued around new people but not an ounce of shyness came through when talking to him. There was never a lull in our conversation. I learned that he had just moved back to Portland after a year in upstate New York, he was trying to form a band now that he was back home, he was moving into his new place that weekend and that he was a big X-Men fan. We made flirty plans to see the new movie the next weekend and that’s when we exchanged phone numbers. We got that out of the way early on, there was no need to play that game of “should I or shouldn’t I give him my number”, “do I think that he’ll call”, “is he going to remember me in the morning”. Everything was so natural and easy. I don’t think that it was love at first sight but there was definitely something between us I had never felt before. With all the emotions that went along with the death a few days before, it felt great to be out and enjoying life.
I had just moved to Portland from Boston about six months prior and I was still trying to find my niche in this new city. I was excited that I was meeting people on my own and didn’t need all of my friends to be related in the same social circles. I had gone on a few dates over those months but nothing had transpired more than some making out or some awkward one night stands. This, however, felt different. I could tell immediately that he wasn’t trying to get in my pants right away; his actions told me that he wasn’t looking for just some quick and easy sex.
We paid little attention to the band on stage. We were having one of those nights where we were the only ones who existed in the bar. I didn’t converse with any of my friends and he didn’t spend any time with his. I’m sure had we stopped talking and looked around the table, we would have realized that we were the topic of conversation but we didn’t care. Nothing mattered at that moment other than the words coming out of his mouth. This guy was funny, intelligent, engaging, smoked the same cigarettes as me and most importantly, all of a sudden, he was holding my hand. He looked down at the situation and asked if it was okay that his hand had mine. Mind? How could I mind?
Unfortunately, not long after that the lights came on, the bar staff was yelling at us that it was time to go home, and everyone was starting to part ways. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this guy so we decided to take a walk around the block so that we could have ten minutes of alone and quiet time before saying goodnight to each other.
We crossed Burnside and stood on 3rd Ave about halfway to Couch Street. We talked about how great it was to meet each other and that we would definitely go see the X-Men movie together after the weekend. He promised that he would call me before then since he’d be moving the whole time and wouldn’t be able to get to a phone. While we were talking we were moving in closer and closer for that imminent first kiss that we could both tell was about to happen. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close to him and placed his lips on mine. Unfortunately, kissing on SW 3rd Ave at 2:15 in the morning isn’t the most romantic setting for the first kiss of someone you really like. Not only were the people walking by distracting, a carload of my friends saw us and circled the block intentionally so that they could yell “get some” out of the car window. We laughed about it but it didn’t stop us from trying again. Finally, we decided that it was time to go our separate ways for the night as his friend was standing awkwardly on the corner trying not to pay any attention to us and I had an eighteen block skip home!
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There comes that moment in every relationship when you ask yourself what you’re doing here. Mine came at about the three month point. We were walking home from the bar after his roommate, Matt’s, birthday party. He had gotten super drunk and had been moody for the past few hours. We were walking hand in hand crossing through the park at the beginning of his neighborhood. He had been quiet the entire walk but I thought that maybe he was just tired. “Matt‘s great,” I said finally. “I love all of your friends, really, but Matt reminds me of a lot of friends back in Boston.” I was not expecting what came out of his mouth next: What? Do you want to fuck him?. I was completely blown away that that was the response I received to such a mundane statement. My mind was reeling. He then went on to tell me that it was ok if I wanted to fuck Matt because we’d only been together for a few months and that we didn’t have anything invested just yet. I was so shocked and so confused. Who was this guy? I had never seen him like this and I was not impressed. Some girls like when their boyfriends are jealous and protective. I am not one of those girls. Hot tears stung my eyes as we stood in the middle of the park shivering. I was livid. No one had ever accused me of cheating even when I cheated on them! I told him that I wanted to go back to his place to get my things and call a cab. “No,” he cried. “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry.” Sorry? How could he easily apologize so quickly after telling me that he had nothing invested in me? We walked into his house and his two roommates were sitting in the living room asking us if got lost walking home. I ignored them and made my way to the kitchen to grab the phone. He followed me and took the phone out of my hand. “Let’s go upstairs, let’s talk about this”. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the roommates so I quietly walked upstairs and stood in the middle of his bedroom with my arms folded. He stood next to me and just started bawling. He apologized for being a jerk. He said that his last girlfriend had cheated on him and he was worried that it was going to happen to him again. He cried that he didn’t deserve me and that I was too good to be true. He told me how much he loved me and that, although we hadn’t been together too long, he already knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I admit it, I melted. He seemed to insecure and sincere that maybe, just maybe, I could forget his accusation and move forward. Maybe this is what people in love did, how did I know.
I finally decided to stay the night. I woke up to a big kiss on the lips. When I asked what that was for he said “for making sure I got home last night. I don’t remember anything after about 11:30”. My tired mind put together the pieces of the puzzle, almost crying aloud when I realized that he didn’t remember the first time he told me that he loved me.
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I went back to the house a few days after I moved out. I had left a few things behind, nothing too important but a few things that I wanted to grab and a few things that he didn't want left behind to remind him of me. As I was walked through the duplex I noticed so many changes in those three days: the stereo was in the place where the TV was, the bedroom was empty as he moved into the spare room, the bag of potatoes on top of the fridge that never would have been there had I still lived there, and how quiet it was without the two cats running around causing trouble.
I emptied out the cupboards of the last remaining proof that I ever lived there. It was weird to not see my picture on the mantel or my other coat hanging in the closet. He sat at the kitchen table (which he somehow got in the breakup which I still can't explain even to this day) and talked to me as if I was a stranger coming to take a census poll. He asked me about the new apartment, how the cats were adjusting to SE life, how work was and if I had talked to any of my friends. I was so conflicted, trying to be polite and answer him back but also so filled with emotions and trying not to cry as a huge part of my life was ending right before my eyes that I just stayed silent. Once I had everything packed up, I walked out the door.
It was the first time in those three and a half years that we parted ways with not so much as a hug. I stood out at the top of the steps listening to the light rain bounce off the roof and hit the cars in the driveway. I couldn’t believe that it was over. As much as I hated him at that point in my life, I wanted more. Maybe I had watched too many romantic comedies but wasn’t the boy supposed to chase the girl out the door and beg her forgiveness? Wasn’t he supposed to cry and tell me that he was an asshole and that I was perfect and beautiful and everything that he ever wanted in a mate? As I stood there listening to the rain this new emotion started taking over. I didn’t feel like I wanted to cry for the first time in three days. I felt my face grow hot, my heart beating faster and faster, and my arms start to shake under the weight of the box. I realized that had I been Bruce Banner, I would be “hulking” out of my clothes at that moment. This was new and I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. So without thinking I kicked the door a few times with my foot as my hands were still full with mementos of mine he didn’t want anymore.
He answered the door with a puzzled look on his face (I had just left about 45 seconds ago) and let me inside. He looked at me with his hands on his hips, a stance that only said one phrase: what do you want now? I put down the box, looked him straight in the eye, and asked the only thing that made sense at that moment. I asked him why he didn’t feel any emotion anymore. I asked him why he never cried about our break-up. Why he never seemed angry at the fact that I was moving out. And more importantly, how could he sit at that kitchen table my dad bought us and act like my moving out was an everyday occurrence. He told me that he did cry. He cried to his friends after I moved out over the weekend, he cried to his mom at one AM the previous night because he was dreading seeing me again, and that he could cry to everyone in his life except for the one person who needed to hear it the most. He told me that he just had no more emotion left to spend on me and that he mourned the loss of our relationship while we were still in it. He checked out months ago, he told me without batting an eye. Apparently, I was trying to salvage something that died about 120 days prior. I thought that at that point in our relationship he was done hurting me. Turns out I was wrong. I’d heard the expression “those words cut me like a knife” but I had never experienced it before. I always chalked a phrase like that up to dead poets or Harlequin Romance novelists, something that’s cliché but not used or felt. Wow! That phrase caused tears to escape from my eyes without even my knowing it. He got one last stab in before we would say goodbye forever. I was so disappointed in myself for not foreseeing this while I was standing on the steps and I was so disappointed in myself for being the better person and never saying anything to him that would intentionally hurt him. That’s not how I play the game, with him or anyone else in my life. But I wanted to get one more comment out there, something that would sting him. And my chance came a minute or two later when he said “this feels like a divorce” and I responded dryly with “yup, you would know that feeling, wouldn’t you?” as his divorce was the touchiest subject between us. He never told me details about their relationship or under what circumstances they decided to call it quits. It was only after we had been together for two years that I even learned her name. He closed his eyes and let my words wash over him. When he opened them he told me that he deserved that and that he had nothing left to say about us. I couldn’t believe that finally I reached his level and I didn’t like it one bit. It seems like a harmless eight words to an outsider but as soon as I saw his reaction I wished that I didn’t say it. I wanted to be the mature one in all of this but I failed and I was so angry with myself.
He reached out his arms to hug me goodbye and I folded into them one last time crying against his chest. Even though I knew it was for the best I wasn’t quite ready to leave the house for the last time. I was remembering all those nights drinking wine on the couch talking about growing old together, sitting on the roof during rainstorms trying to take pictures of the lightning, creating music in the studio together, listening to NPR while making pancakes on lazy Sunday mornings, meeting our little kitten Gibson for the first time after our neighbor brought him over…for some reason the only thing that my mind would fixate on were the good times, it was blocking out the last few months of hell I had just endured and wouldn’t let me let go. That’s when he broke our embrace, cupped my face in his hands and gave me the kiss every girl dreams about since she learns what kissing is. Our lips were together and our tears were mixing with each others. We parted and had no words left to say to each other. I knew that the only thing to say was goodbye for the last time.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Bone Collector
This is a true story that I wrote about for the prompt "He had an extra refrigerator for". Remember, this is a true story!
A few years ago Josh, his painfully boring roommate, Jessica, and I went out for a night on the seedy town to shake her up and get out of her comfort zone. After hitting a few bars on that strip of 28th between Burnside and Sandy, we made our drunken way to Luckys.
We walked into the dimly lit bar and noticed that there were only a handful of people hanging out but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in personality. We took a seat at the bar and the bartender came up to us asking what we wanted to drink. She was wearing a T-shirt that offered 25 cent mustache rides and her left arm was in a cast. She couldn't have been more than 21 herself but carded us and didn't make note of the fact that Josh's ID had expired. She just went through the motions and brought us 3 PBRs and 2 whiskeys on the rocks.
From the other side of the bar, a woman who could have been 35 or 72 started shouting incoherently waiving her fists for effect. The bartender calmly explained "that's Sharon over there, don't mind her, she's been here since last night."
"She's exaggerating, right," Jessica asked. Josh and I shrugged, we had no idea what universe we had walked into.
We sat at the bar getting drunker and enjoying the people watching when Jessica began her woe-is-me routine and why can't I get laid when two guys sitting next to us suddenly joined the conversation. One of them used Jessica's gripe as an in while the other made a beeline for Josh. "You're gay, right" he opened.
"Um..yea?" Josh replied.
"Are you into human bones?" he asked.
"WHAT?" we shouted in unison.
"Bones. Are you into bones?"
"What kind of bones?" Josh asked, as if there was a right answer to this absurd question.
"Arm, leg, skulls. I have a collection of them at home."
"You have a collection of human bones? In your house?" I asked in amazement.
"Yes," he answered as if this was the most natural conversation we had ever taken part in.
"Where do you keep them?" I asked.
"In my refrigerator".
"You have human bones in your fridge? Next to the mustard?" Josh asked.
"No. I have a separate refrigerator for the food."
Josh and I were stunned. How do you respond to something like that. Josh looked at me with a look of mortification on his face and said to me "he has a refrigerator for human bones in his house." I assume my look was one that said "this can't be happening, he can't be serious."
Through all of this, there was one thing that I needed to know. "What happens when you bring a guy home for the first time and you show him your bone collection?"
"He either runs away screaming or he sucks my cock," he who would eventually become known as the bone collector responded. "Why? Do you want to come see it?" he asked me while staring at Josh.
"Um..no. Thanks. I think we were just going to be leaving anyway"
I noticed that the bartender had been eavesdropping at this point. I looked at her to confirm that this was actually happening. Clearly she had heard this all before as she just shook her head and walked away to pour Sharon another cocktail.
"Where do you live? I can give you a ride," he asked.
"It's walkable," Josh said kindly.
"It's safer," I blurted.
"Well, if you ever want to hang out and see the collection..." he trailed off as he pulled out his wallet and handed Josh his card.
A few years ago Josh, his painfully boring roommate, Jessica, and I went out for a night on the seedy town to shake her up and get out of her comfort zone. After hitting a few bars on that strip of 28th between Burnside and Sandy, we made our drunken way to Luckys.
We walked into the dimly lit bar and noticed that there were only a handful of people hanging out but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in personality. We took a seat at the bar and the bartender came up to us asking what we wanted to drink. She was wearing a T-shirt that offered 25 cent mustache rides and her left arm was in a cast. She couldn't have been more than 21 herself but carded us and didn't make note of the fact that Josh's ID had expired. She just went through the motions and brought us 3 PBRs and 2 whiskeys on the rocks.
From the other side of the bar, a woman who could have been 35 or 72 started shouting incoherently waiving her fists for effect. The bartender calmly explained "that's Sharon over there, don't mind her, she's been here since last night."
"She's exaggerating, right," Jessica asked. Josh and I shrugged, we had no idea what universe we had walked into.
We sat at the bar getting drunker and enjoying the people watching when Jessica began her woe-is-me routine and why can't I get laid when two guys sitting next to us suddenly joined the conversation. One of them used Jessica's gripe as an in while the other made a beeline for Josh. "You're gay, right" he opened.
"Um..yea?" Josh replied.
"Are you into human bones?" he asked.
"WHAT?" we shouted in unison.
"Bones. Are you into bones?"
"What kind of bones?" Josh asked, as if there was a right answer to this absurd question.
"Arm, leg, skulls. I have a collection of them at home."
"You have a collection of human bones? In your house?" I asked in amazement.
"Yes," he answered as if this was the most natural conversation we had ever taken part in.
"Where do you keep them?" I asked.
"In my refrigerator".
"You have human bones in your fridge? Next to the mustard?" Josh asked.
"No. I have a separate refrigerator for the food."
Josh and I were stunned. How do you respond to something like that. Josh looked at me with a look of mortification on his face and said to me "he has a refrigerator for human bones in his house." I assume my look was one that said "this can't be happening, he can't be serious."
Through all of this, there was one thing that I needed to know. "What happens when you bring a guy home for the first time and you show him your bone collection?"
"He either runs away screaming or he sucks my cock," he who would eventually become known as the bone collector responded. "Why? Do you want to come see it?" he asked me while staring at Josh.
"Um..no. Thanks. I think we were just going to be leaving anyway"
I noticed that the bartender had been eavesdropping at this point. I looked at her to confirm that this was actually happening. Clearly she had heard this all before as she just shook her head and walked away to pour Sharon another cocktail.
"Where do you live? I can give you a ride," he asked.
"It's walkable," Josh said kindly.
"It's safer," I blurted.
"Well, if you ever want to hang out and see the collection..." he trailed off as he pulled out his wallet and handed Josh his card.
ache
In April, our prompt was the word 'ache' and I went in a slightly different direction. Enjoy
Do you have a lot of neck pain?” she asked holding on to my left hand.
“No.”
“What about headaches?” She had gray frizzy hair like a mad scientist and I immediately started to regret my decision of seeing her.
“No, not really.”
She raised an eyebrow at me in disbelief. It felt like she was trying to tell if I was lying, she knew that I didn’t totally buy all of this. I avoided her eye and concentrated on the music overhead:
I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend
She was peering at my hand intently
I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine
“Do you read a lot of historical books?” she asked hopefully.
“No”
She said how’d you like to waste some time and I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind
“Well, it looks like you were beheaded in the French Revolution...”
That suddenly got my attention. No, not because I’m convinced that I was beheaded in the French Revolution but because it was so specific. Now my interest was piqued and I wanted to know more of what the voodoo palm reader had to say.
Julie and I went to a fundraiser for the non-profit bookstore she volunteers with. There were free tarot card readings, astrological charting and palm readings. The tarot and astrological readings each had a line a few people long but the palm reader was wide open so I told Julie that I was going to try it out and took a seat. I immediately told her about the last time I had my palm read, how the lady talked about my cats like it was some great revolution when I was clearly covered in white fur. She promised that this would be more insightful.
She explained that she was going to look at my left hand first because that tells the story of where I had been and what I had experienced and my right dominate hand told me what I was going to do with that information. I am a ball of doubt when it comes to these things. Really? My hand is going to tell me when I’ll meet Mr. Perfect and when I’ll pop out a few chit’lens (I just wrote poop there which I am sure was intentional)? I am skeptical of all of these ways to predict your future and figure out who you are. I’m sure it’s a Libra, youngest child thing but I went along for the ride.
First she just held on to my hand not saying a word, just looking at my left hand. I tried to see what she was seeing but gave up and noticed that Prince was playing instead. My mind started wandering to The Kid, Apolonia, Morris Day, and Doctor Fink. Computer Blue was just ending when the palm reader finally opened her mouth.
“You’re an old soul,” she started.
“I’m not surprised, I’ve always been told that”
“This is definitely not you first life and definitely not your last. You’ve been wandering the world for a long time.”
“Huh,” I mumbled. I didn’t really know how to take this information. I’ve been the law-abiding serious one of my friends and always chalked it up to being old for my age.
She went silent again and the first few beats of Darling Nikki started. I tried not to look like I was more interested in the music and tried to give her my first interested face. This is when she started asking about my neck pain.
“Are you of Dutch decent?” she asked next.
I shook my head no.
“I’m seeing you in Amsterdam amongst the windmills…there’s a man…you’re in love…you…you…feed the community…you bake bread together.”
This actually made me chuckle aloud.
“Yes, you’ve been with him in every life, you seem to find him later in life and then you spend the rest of your time together. I see him at the beheading, I see him in the windmills,” she grabbed my right hand, “and I see him in this life but you’re looking for each other…it’s going to take some time to find him again…be patient…you will be together.” She was really excited at this point and it was hard not to share her enthusiasm. “You two will provide for the community together again. You’re going to find each other doing volunteer work. You are meant to be together.”
She traced a line in my hand with her nail, “you’re going to be here for a long, long time. Your life line is strong and goes up your entire hand. Don’t give up on love. You will find him.”
This was more than I could handle. She told me other things in my reading: that I would be wealthy, that I would make my money due to a something that I created, I would travel…none of it penetrated. She was so passionate when talking about my bread maker that she almost convinced me that he exists and that we would find each other. Almost. And then she pushed the tip jar towards me.
Do you have a lot of neck pain?” she asked holding on to my left hand.
“No.”
“What about headaches?” She had gray frizzy hair like a mad scientist and I immediately started to regret my decision of seeing her.
“No, not really.”
She raised an eyebrow at me in disbelief. It felt like she was trying to tell if I was lying, she knew that I didn’t totally buy all of this. I avoided her eye and concentrated on the music overhead:
I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend
She was peering at my hand intently
I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine
“Do you read a lot of historical books?” she asked hopefully.
“No”
She said how’d you like to waste some time and I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind
“Well, it looks like you were beheaded in the French Revolution...”
That suddenly got my attention. No, not because I’m convinced that I was beheaded in the French Revolution but because it was so specific. Now my interest was piqued and I wanted to know more of what the voodoo palm reader had to say.
Julie and I went to a fundraiser for the non-profit bookstore she volunteers with. There were free tarot card readings, astrological charting and palm readings. The tarot and astrological readings each had a line a few people long but the palm reader was wide open so I told Julie that I was going to try it out and took a seat. I immediately told her about the last time I had my palm read, how the lady talked about my cats like it was some great revolution when I was clearly covered in white fur. She promised that this would be more insightful.
She explained that she was going to look at my left hand first because that tells the story of where I had been and what I had experienced and my right dominate hand told me what I was going to do with that information. I am a ball of doubt when it comes to these things. Really? My hand is going to tell me when I’ll meet Mr. Perfect and when I’ll pop out a few chit’lens (I just wrote poop there which I am sure was intentional)? I am skeptical of all of these ways to predict your future and figure out who you are. I’m sure it’s a Libra, youngest child thing but I went along for the ride.
First she just held on to my hand not saying a word, just looking at my left hand. I tried to see what she was seeing but gave up and noticed that Prince was playing instead. My mind started wandering to The Kid, Apolonia, Morris Day, and Doctor Fink. Computer Blue was just ending when the palm reader finally opened her mouth.
“You’re an old soul,” she started.
“I’m not surprised, I’ve always been told that”
“This is definitely not you first life and definitely not your last. You’ve been wandering the world for a long time.”
“Huh,” I mumbled. I didn’t really know how to take this information. I’ve been the law-abiding serious one of my friends and always chalked it up to being old for my age.
She went silent again and the first few beats of Darling Nikki started. I tried not to look like I was more interested in the music and tried to give her my first interested face. This is when she started asking about my neck pain.
“Are you of Dutch decent?” she asked next.
I shook my head no.
“I’m seeing you in Amsterdam amongst the windmills…there’s a man…you’re in love…you…you…feed the community…you bake bread together.”
This actually made me chuckle aloud.
“Yes, you’ve been with him in every life, you seem to find him later in life and then you spend the rest of your time together. I see him at the beheading, I see him in the windmills,” she grabbed my right hand, “and I see him in this life but you’re looking for each other…it’s going to take some time to find him again…be patient…you will be together.” She was really excited at this point and it was hard not to share her enthusiasm. “You two will provide for the community together again. You’re going to find each other doing volunteer work. You are meant to be together.”
She traced a line in my hand with her nail, “you’re going to be here for a long, long time. Your life line is strong and goes up your entire hand. Don’t give up on love. You will find him.”
This was more than I could handle. She told me other things in my reading: that I would be wealthy, that I would make my money due to a something that I created, I would travel…none of it penetrated. She was so passionate when talking about my bread maker that she almost convinced me that he exists and that we would find each other. Almost. And then she pushed the tip jar towards me.
BLOG FAIL (as opposed to fail blog)
So, in case you haven't noticed, I totally lost at keeping a blog. I have no reason for it, I just did.
But, the good news is that I've recently joined a writing group and each week we pick prompts out of a box (so it's almost like a jar). I'm going to post those as I work on them and encourage you all to read them and comment on. Blah blah blah, without further ado, here is my new and improved blog.
But, the good news is that I've recently joined a writing group and each week we pick prompts out of a box (so it's almost like a jar). I'm going to post those as I work on them and encourage you all to read them and comment on. Blah blah blah, without further ado, here is my new and improved blog.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Maiden Voyage
Over the past few weeks I've realized that I need a project to work on. Unemployment has been making me stagnant and I haven't been doing the usual past times which are reading and writing. I was trying to find a way to incorporate the two in a creative way and Wednesday night I had trouble falling asleep because my mind was racing about a way to do so. I knew that I wanted my friends to be involved with this project (or whatever it was going to be) and I wanted to blog about it (I mean, it is the wave of the future, right?) Also, I didn't want the normal 30-something year old's blog that's like Bridgette Jones's Diary procreates with a Sex and the City episode. And then the light bulb went off and I decided to work on a reading/writing blog to help my creative juices flowing.
The next day I emailed 18 of my friends to send me 3-5 adjectives randomly. I didn't give them a theme or explain why I needed said words but most of them sent responses immediately and the words varied, oh how they varied.
Now the project beings.
I put all of the words in a Mason jar and every few days (or as often as I read a book) I am going to draw a slip of paper and find a book relating to whatever word I find. And then I am going to blog about said book while I am reading it and when I'm done. The main thing that I'm hoping for in this project is that I will pick up books that I don't normally read. I mean, Tim Sandlin, Dave Eggers, and Neal Pollock can only write books so quickly and I should branch out more and read more than contemporary fiction, right? Plus, I'm hoping that this will inspire a discussion about books and writing and just a general creative feel overall.
So with all this flourish, I give you post #1.
Word drawn out of the Mason jar: abusive
Courtesy of: Jen (and for that I thank you!)
Being the first book out of many (or so I hope) I had no idea where to even begin. I went to Amazon and searched for the word "abusive" and immediately lists of psychology books came up about dealing with formally abused children. I couldn't start the project with such a heavy topic or with text books. So I tried again using the Multnomah County library site and narrowed my search for just books at the Belmont location (thanks small library for helping) After sorting through a ton of self-help books I finally found Elissa Wall's Stolen Innocence: My Story of Growing Up in a Polygamous Sect, Becoming a Teenage Bride, and Breaking Free of Warren Jeffs.
Do you remember last year when that compound of Mormons was busted into in Salt Lake City? Yeah, this girl was a part of them breaking free a few years prior. She testified in the trail against the leaders and actually lives in Oregon now. This book is going to be really interesting to me for the obvious reasons (never growing up with a religion, dating an ex-Mormon for over 3 years, fascination by cult mentality) and yesterday I wolfed down the first 50 pages without even realizing it. I am excited to read more before I go to bed tonight not just for this project but because I'm really interested in the subject matter and I am sympathetic towards the protagonist. Her described childhood (so far) is so far from what mine was and I'm interested in learning more about that and her.
So as I read on, I'll be posting updates and thoughts. I will never spoil a book in case anyone is interested in reading the same book that I am. And though I will take suggestions about further readings, I am only going off of the adjectives that were sent to me yesterday. Until then, read/write on my friends....
The next day I emailed 18 of my friends to send me 3-5 adjectives randomly. I didn't give them a theme or explain why I needed said words but most of them sent responses immediately and the words varied, oh how they varied.
Now the project beings.
I put all of the words in a Mason jar and every few days (or as often as I read a book) I am going to draw a slip of paper and find a book relating to whatever word I find. And then I am going to blog about said book while I am reading it and when I'm done. The main thing that I'm hoping for in this project is that I will pick up books that I don't normally read. I mean, Tim Sandlin, Dave Eggers, and Neal Pollock can only write books so quickly and I should branch out more and read more than contemporary fiction, right? Plus, I'm hoping that this will inspire a discussion about books and writing and just a general creative feel overall.
So with all this flourish, I give you post #1.
Word drawn out of the Mason jar: abusive
Courtesy of: Jen (and for that I thank you!)
Being the first book out of many (or so I hope) I had no idea where to even begin. I went to Amazon and searched for the word "abusive" and immediately lists of psychology books came up about dealing with formally abused children. I couldn't start the project with such a heavy topic or with text books. So I tried again using the Multnomah County library site and narrowed my search for just books at the Belmont location (thanks small library for helping) After sorting through a ton of self-help books I finally found Elissa Wall's Stolen Innocence: My Story of Growing Up in a Polygamous Sect, Becoming a Teenage Bride, and Breaking Free of Warren Jeffs.
Do you remember last year when that compound of Mormons was busted into in Salt Lake City? Yeah, this girl was a part of them breaking free a few years prior. She testified in the trail against the leaders and actually lives in Oregon now. This book is going to be really interesting to me for the obvious reasons (never growing up with a religion, dating an ex-Mormon for over 3 years, fascination by cult mentality) and yesterday I wolfed down the first 50 pages without even realizing it. I am excited to read more before I go to bed tonight not just for this project but because I'm really interested in the subject matter and I am sympathetic towards the protagonist. Her described childhood (so far) is so far from what mine was and I'm interested in learning more about that and her.
So as I read on, I'll be posting updates and thoughts. I will never spoil a book in case anyone is interested in reading the same book that I am. And though I will take suggestions about further readings, I am only going off of the adjectives that were sent to me yesterday. Until then, read/write on my friends....
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