Free Porn

*reader discretion advised*

I want to tell you about me. I want to tell you my story. I want to tell you about what it is like to be me, as a woman, as a person. But you won't let me tell you in my own words. You don't hear. You take the words I say and you cover them up with your own. You take my story, my life, and you twist it in your mind. My hand in hers becomes fantasy before your eyes. You lean forward waiting for a kiss that will not come. We feel you watching. We are not here for you. I am not for your entertainment and yet you make me so. If I wrote a book, would you read it? Or would you skim, thumbing the pages back and forth in eager anticipation of material you will not find, our deepest secrets and trysts laid bare, spread-legged for your hungry gaze? My life is not your free porn. "Pussy-licking dyke! Lesbian cunt! Who do you think you are, pervert, you make me sick!" You call to me across the street, shout across the buzzing screens, Caps-lock held firm under your thumb as you type. "YUR GONNA BURN IN HELL 4 YUR SINS! GOD H8TS FAGGOTS!!"I know why you do it. I know why you yell. You are scared, and that makes you angry.You are scared because this isn't right. I am not right. You know the way of good and evil in this world and the next, and I am not good. You are scared because while you yell, while you scream, you wonder, too. You wonder what it would feel like to have my head between your legs, not hers. You think about it at night, after you see us walking hand-in-hand down the street. You picture us as you rub  and tremble, and you want it to be me making you tremble, not her.  You are scared of other's happiness, like there is a finite amount of it in the world and somehow you aren't getting your fair share, and that makes you angry. But while your words may be angry, mine are not. My voice is calm--there is a purpose to these sounds, a purpose that, loud as they may be, your words will never have. My words have power. My words, given strength by the voices of others, will always speak louder than yours. They'll long be carried high, bolstered upon the shoulders of others who hear and know them as their own. My words have power. Yours do not. Yours will wither and die as quickly as those make-believes in your head. You have no power here. My life is not for your entertainment. I am not a fantasy for you to play in your head. I may be a pussy-licking dyke, but I am not your free porn. 

Wooden Bridges

Stories are bridges. 

But not just bridges to other countries, other cultures, other worlds. They are not a latticeworks connecting us with the unfamiliar. Stories are the unfamiliar. Stories are latticeworks. Like wooden bridges. 

You have to build them carefully. You have to create an arc. There is a science to it. But passion, too. 

You start with one side and you try to work toward the middle. You have to go bit by bit. You can try to jump ahead but you have to step carefully, build yourself out to that point. 

You might start again from the other side, see if you can work yourself back. It isn't much easier. You still have to connect these bits and pieces. You can tell when something is not quite right. You can sense the balance is off. There is a shift and a sway. Your bridge is uneasy.  

It is never too late to start over. You just have to know when that's best.

You have created something, that is the first step. Your wooden bridge may be unstable for now, but it is not too late to try again. The next will be better. And the next after that. 

Stories are bridges. You'll know when they're finished. 

Shields Up

Apart, you're amazing. Together, though, you four are unstoppable. 

My dad always says that about us kids. The four of us can do anything, he says, if we stick together as a team. Nothing is impossible. 

But some things are. We were faced with the impossible just a couple weeks ago. A lot of impossibles, actually. 

We lost someone in our family. My dad's partner got sick. We had a few hours' notice and then she was gone. That was the first impossible thing. 

The other impossibles came with what was left behind.

It seemed impossible to be without her. There were moments when we all would wonder, here is she? She must be running late again, before we remembered why we were there.  

It seemed impossible to find the right words to say. Especially to our dad. A lot of the time I just stayed quiet. 

My siblings seemed to not have any trouble finding their roles. My sister became the protector. She led our father through the motions; she had to remind him to eat, was his driver, stood beside him at the funeral home. 

My brother was the cook. He took our father's anger and multiplied it with his own and set to work. Baking, stirring, cooking anything and everything in sight, pouring his energy into the food as his outlet. Something over which he had total control. 

My oldest sister has the baby. Nothing can calm you like a baby. He certainly calmed her. When I couldn't seem to ebb the flow of bitter tears, her eyes remained dry. She took on a new strength as a mother. She had to remain resilient where we crumbled. She had to do it for the baby. 

I clung to my siblings' decisiveness, to their strengths. I didn't know what else to do. I had never seen my father cry, not like this. He was so tired. Angry. Sad. 

I knew I couldn't pinpoint his emotions like that. I knew my father wasn't just tired. He was exhausted, drained. He wasn't just angry. He was frustrated, furious. He wasn't just sad. He was empty, 

I didn't know how to help. There didn't seem to be anything I could do, but listen. Maybe that was all he needed from me. He had my siblings to keep him safe, to keep him fed, to keep him distracted. What could I do? 

I could listen. And I did. I tried to take his pain and lessen it. Each story, every word, when he spoke I could take them on my own shoulders, lift them from his.When I could do nothing else, I could listen. 

And tell. 

When the impossibles seem overwhelming, I can at least tell them to the world. So they don't seem quite so impossible anymore. 

Her

My first kiss was with a woman. A girl, really--we were both girls. 

I was barely fifteen, she not quite. We were in our first year of high school, meeting again for the first time in years. 

It was New Year's Eve. We kissed in the snow as the fireworks went off. It was perfect. 

It started as a dare, something shocking and reckless, to kiss one another on the cheek. She was telling us, the group of about seven girls clustered together on the bed, talking about school and boys and silly things, that this was something she did with her other friends. Kisses on the cheek were  "no big thing". So, giggling among ourselves, we tried it.

Lips pressed to cheeks. Some of us too shy ducked and bowed our heads away at the last minute. I leaned right in. It made my stomach flutter to kiss her cheek. She smelled like foundation and baby powder and something else, something floral, probably from her  hair.  

She went to the other high school in town. She didn't recognize me when we greeted each other in the cramped, wet mud room of our mutual friend's house. We had met before at a school program that drew in students from all the elementary schools  once a week to do projects and collaborate as teams. 

I noticed her even then. I wanted to be her friend. I wanted to talk to her. She seemed cool. But we were never put on the same team, and I never spoke up. 

It seemed like fate that we were put together that night, then. My urge, my need, to know her only intensified that night. It was a desire, even as my fifteen-year-old self didn't quite know what that could, or would, mean. 

We kissed on the cheek and sat chatting all night. We arranged our sleeping bags next to each other. We sat next to each other at dinner.

Then as the ball dropped and we went shrieking out into the snow, twirling and throwing snowballs and yelling our resolutions to the New Year's air, I asked if I could kiss her again, not on the cheek this time. She said yes. 

It was perfect. 

Time

Time moves differently when you're writing. You enter a portal, a wormhole. You travel backwards and forwards and then stand still.

Hours may have passed;  you either feel every second, or none of them at all. You've experienced entire lifetimes, seen your worlds, your characters born, live, and die. 

It's different from reading. This isn't immersion into a world already created--you're the one doing the building.

Mountains rise in one scene and fall in the next. She has blue eyes, then brown, then she's a he, then he's gone. It's happening one at a time, and simultaneously. Your fingers can't seem to type fast enough, your mind is whirling, it's all coming together, and then!

It's done. You've lost it. Time drags. How could minutes move so slow? You have to put in the time, sit in the chair. It just isn't working. You don't dare read what is already done. You have to look ahead before you go back--you need the word count, you need the sense of progression. Editing is your enemy now. How could you think this would be easy? 

But it's worth it. When the worry falls away, when the mistakes and typos are minuscule blemishes on the face of something truly great--that's what you're writing for. That's your portal, your wormhole to another world. The rest just falls away. 

How?

How, we ask, do we keep going after they're gone? 

We go through the motions--there are things that have to be done. We can do these things because we have to. We have plans set in motion, people to guide us through. 

But after that? 

What next. 

We keep going. 

It's quiet for a time after. No one says much. We're all thinking. 

What next. 

It'll get easier. We know that. 

We start to smile when we think of them, not just cry. 

The smiles will come easier after that. 

It's not that we keep going because we know that's what they would have wanted. We keep going because that is what we are meant to do. They go and we stay. That's how it is. 

That's how. 

We keep going because we can. We have to. It's the way of these things. We have things to do. We have to get to work. 

Get to work talking again, first. Laughing, next. Remembering the whole way, and sharing it. That's why we go, that's how we go. Remembering along the way. 

We have stories to tell about them. They'll be kept alive through our stories, and our memories. 

We say farewell, but not good bye. The story isn't over, not yet. We keep going. 

NaNoWri NO

Last year I tried to write my entire novel in one month. It didn't happen. I'm still working on the same novel.  

November is "National Novel Writing Month". The objective: write an entire novel in a month. If not from start-to-finish, then at least finish the novel you're already working on by stroke of midnight on the 30th.There is a whole following behind this--even a website where you can track your progress. 

I got really excited when first I heard about this--this was my chance to finally get my novel done. My chance to finally get my novel STARTED! And what better way, I thought,  than to join the thousands of others who were, even now, typing away furiously, scribbling madly, their thoughts flying faster than their fingers in desperate attempt to catch and pin down the unraveling threads of their works that for so long had remained stubbornly tangled. 

Spurred on with a new fervor, I got straight to work. I wrote 2,000 words the first day, sitting in the tiny living room my then-fiance-now-husband and I shared, us working elbow-to-elbow as his "office" was actually just a desk shoved in the corner next to the tiny love-seat on which I sat, laptop perched on my knees. 

The second day I wrote 3,000 more words. By the end of the first week in November, I had almost 12,000 words. I was ecstatic. More Facebook posts than you can even imagine about #myfirstnovel and #NaNoWriMo. I even got excited when I saw other people posting about their progress! I had myself convinced my novel was going better than theirs, that I would succeed where they failed. 

That didn't happen. I didn't finish my novel by November 30. The midnight bells tolled and I felt like the biggest pumpkin possible. 

But I knew why I hadn't finished--NaNoWriMo didn't work for me. It wasn't just that work got busy, that I was travelling, that I found other things to do than to sit for two hours each day and furiously write write write. 

My mind just didn't work that way. My mind STILL doesn't work that way. It's another year gone and my novel is still not done. 

And that is completely fine. I'm going to take as long as I need to get it done right. Even now I try to work on my novel every day. I am certainly not getting 3,000 words every day but am doing more small edits. I am polishing little spots rather than chipping away big chunks. 

For any one else working on their first novel, or their fourteenth, or the ones who are polishing and chipping away at things, keep going. Years may pass--pay them no heed. Spare yourself time and effort spent worrying about the work and focus on doing instead.

It's the hardest thing in the world to sit in the chair and stare at empty pages. You have to fill them over and over. Fill the pages, and make them count. 

Desperate Times

Writing is desperation. It's desperate thoughts, desperate feelings, desperate I-must-get-these-out-before-I-explode examinations of the world. 

Writers see things a little differently--that's why we write. To tell you how we see things. 

And that's why you read--to see what we see. 

Writing is desperation, and you can tell when that desperation is just right. You feel it. You are drawn into it. You are compelled to keep reading. 

Don't blame us for the good or the bad of these worlds, these adventures we lure you into. There is no fault here--we are messengers for our own desperation, and so things go. 

You feel the desperation, don't you? You love it. It's why you keep reading. You can't help yourself. 

You are desperate, too. 

Go Ask a Lesbian

So when did you know you were a lesbian?

Um...what?

You know, when did you figure it out? Or were you born with it? Like, you were born liking girls. 

I don't really...

You must get asked that a lot, huh? I mean, you don't look like a lesbian, so people must be kinda shocked to hear it. 

Well, I don't really know what lesbians are supposed to look like, but...

Oh you know, like short hair and boy clothes and stuff. You're, like, too pretty to be a lesbian.

 Uh...

So, like, did you ever think one of your friends was cute or something and that's how you knew, or what?

 No, I met someone and I liked her and that was it.

So you never liked your friends and dated them and stuff? 

You know being queer doesn't mean I am attracted to every woman, right? 

Oh, right. That makes sense. Some people just aren't that cute....my girlfriend is, though. 

Okay...

Yeah, my girlfriend is pretty cool too...maybe you two could, like, meet or something...

Right..

Cause I think you'd really like her. She's really cute. And, you know...

Know what? 

Well, you know, cause you like girls and so...hey where are you going?

Dear Me

Dear Me, 

Things are hard right now, aren't they? I mean, fifteen so far kinda sucks. You have a lot on your mind, a lot you're confused about. But don't worry, you figure it all out.

There's a time, not long now, when you won't always have to hide that you're queer. You're only just now figuring out that that is what, in fact, you are--you are having a hard time with the labels cause they all seem so constricting, so you're trying a few of them out and so far nothing seems to quite work right. 

There's a time, not long now, when you won't worry about the labels. You'll just be you, like you've always been, and no one, least of all you, will have to feel pressured to identify. 

There's a time, not long now, when you give up entirely on the idea of having to check a little box, stamp your forehead, or change your status to one specific identify. You're more fluid than that, and you'll figure that out. 

There's a time, not long now, when being gay is NBD. Crazy, right? Not in a few years. In a few years, people will be wondering why you hid it. Some people will wonder why you hid it from them in particular. But don't worry, they'll also understand. 

There's a time, not long now, when you will embrace what makes you different. And other people will too. A lot of them will love you because you're different. And you'll love you, too. 

There's a time, not long now, when you'll find someone amazing. You'll spend time together. It will teach you a lot. You'll fall in love and then it will be over.  

And there's a time when that will happen again. And again. And each time you'll learn from it. You'll learn more about yourself than you had ever before, and others will help you.

I know fifteen can be hard, but it gets better. You grow into yourself. You grow into being you. And you don't regret the choices, either. You learn from them, the good and the bad. It all works out. 

So go talk to the girl. Go to take risks and make the falls and seek the unknowns. You won't regret it.

Sincerely, 

Me 

Help Wanted

I recently read the book "It's Kind of a Funny Story" about a young man with depression. It was a great read--a little bit funny, a little bit sad, but mostly a book that made me think. 

I thought a lot about the book itself, about the writing, and the structure and the nuts-and-bolts of the thing, but also about the lives outside of the story .The lives of the readers, and the life of the author. The life and death of the author, actually. 

 I did a quick internet search on the author after noting the caveat at the back of the book that mentioned he spent five days in a mental health clinic, as the main character does, and that the author wrote "It's Kind of a Funny Story" in the year following his stay. 

I also learned the author killed himself when he was only 32. 

That happens a lot with writers. A lot of writers kill themselves. A lot of business men and women kill themselves. A lot of artists, and teachers, and soldiers, and dropouts, and shop owners, and dog-walkers, and babysitters, and just plain old people. A lot of people kill themselves. 

And while we make movies about suicide, this book itself being more commonly known as a movie, and we listen to celebrities talk about their battles with depression, and we try to bring attention to it, and we all probably know, or knew in the worst cases, someone who struggled with mental health issues, we still lose people. 

They slip through the cracks in the healthcare system, we say. We blame it on the political parties. We blame it on not enough time or money. We blame it on ourselves, for not noticing or being able to help. We feel guilty for  missing something, for letting this tragic thing happen when it could have been prevented. 

But as helpless as the bystanders feel, what about the helplessness of those actually suffering from depression? As someone who has been on both sides of that, I can't tell which is worse. Because sometimes these things can be prevented. And sometimes they just can't. 

The monologue below is for someone else. These aren't my feelings, just my words, maybe for someone else who can't say them right now.  I couldn't say I needed help years ago when I really did need it, but others saw and knew and gave it anyway. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay that kindness, but I can try and pay it forward in the mean time. Now it's time to help others find their own ways back.
 

Help Wanted

How can I ask? How can I tell you? I'm afraid. It's hard. I don't have a sign to put in a front window. I'm not a store, I'm a person. But I need help. Help wanted. It isn't as easy to ask when I don't have that red and white, that tell-tale mark, that says-it-all.

I'm not looking for a job. I'm looking for help. I'm looking for someone to talk to, someone to listen to me.  You don't have to pretend to understand. You can just sit with me. I need someone to sit with me, to let me know I'm not alone. Please say hello to me. Please notice me. I've been sitting in silence so long.

I hate silence. It scares me. I'm lonely, and that scares me too. I'm asking for help to stop the silence, to stop the lonely. 

I know I'm not the only one who's lonely. But it feels like I am. Everyone else seems so happy. How can they be happy? How can I be happy? I'm not sure. But it's all I want. This normal I've been pretending isnt' really normal. At least it shouldn't be. 

Help wanted. Help to stop the silence, the lonely, the fears and doubts and hate that fill my mind. Help to find my way back to happy. This is my sign, my red and white flash in the crowd.I know I'm not the only one, I can't be. Where are the other signs? I feel so lost. 

Help wanted.

Again

It's been a while since I posted anything. It's been a while since I wrote. 

I could make excuses. Everyone does. But I won't. 

I'm starting again. I'll probably start and stop a lot with my writing. I've been writing since I was in second grade, almost 15 years ago, and yet a lot of people have spent 15 years actually writing good things whereas I've spent 15 years accumulating works I barely let myself read, let alone anyone else. 

But I keep writing. Small things, little jots taken down on napkins or notes stuck to my computer. Big things, like the novel I honestly thought I would have finished by now that I began less than a year ago. 

For every stop there is a start. I always start again. With as far as I have come in my writing I don't even need to begin again, I just have to start again. I've already laid the foundations everywhere; with my novel, with my blog posts, with the ideas I hold on to for years, waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.

I can't waste time berating myself for how little I've accomplished. I have to just keep going, moving forward and looking ahead, planning what to do next. The stories will come, I just have to be ready to write them down. 

Primal Urges

My fiancé is a caveman. At least, he eats like one. He follows the diet known as "Paleo," or "Primal".  This diet emphasizes the minimization or elimination of several different types of food, including sugars, dairy, processed foods, and legumes, from one's diet and the introduction of fat as the primary fuel source. That means that my fiancé does not eat gluten or wheat products of any kind, no beans, legumes, or grains, unnecessary sugars, sometimes no dairy, and absolutely nothing artificial or stuffed full of preservatives. Instead, he eats a lot of meat, vegetables, few fruits, occasionally some nuts, and a lot of coconut and olive oils. 

When I first met him, this diet seemed crazy to me. Having lived with him for nine months now and cooking with him, this diet still seems crazy, especially to someone who loves her beer and chocolate, used to be a vegetarian, and works in a bakery. 

More than once his restrictive diet has almost sent me over the edge--we have a choice of only two restaurants in our town where he can find something to eat that isn't too carb heavy, and for the past two weeks our fridge has only been stocked with chicken, bacon, eggs, and brussel sprouts.

As a foodie, I revel in eating a varied diet, with no holds barred. I will eat anything, if only once, and I am not one to eat the same thing too often. Even at the coffee shops I frequent, no barista can guess my order for the day, even while they know my fiancé's request as soon as he walks through the door. 

So, this idea of eating a diet that I might argue eliminates some of my favorite things  (buttery, flaky croissants, pasta with garlic bread, pizza and calzones and breadsticks), was a hard sell for me. But, I still tried it. For 30 days, I ate like a "cavewoman". Well, for the most part. 

I'll admit up front, I lasted about a week before I was craving all the sweets and bread and carbs I could get my hands on. I went to work every morning having eaten an Epic bar (think a really thick stick of jerky, with nuts and fruit) and black coffee and then I spent my whole morning eyeing the trays of muffins, scones, croissants, and cinnamon rolls until lunch, when I sat down and ate a salad or my leftovers from the previous night. I was fairly grumpy the first couple days and I didn't notice any benefits from the new diet. 

But I stuck with it and only ended up "cheating" a couple times—pizza had never tasted so good after going two weeks without any bread, and another time I indulged in a white chocolate mocha and slurped the sugary drink with glee. And really, by the end of the month I started to enjoy the Paleo diet. 

It was all too easy to slip back into old habits after the challenge was over, though. I had started the challenge because I wanted to try something new and because I wanted to show my support for my fiancé. The benefits I took away from it where extra bonuses. I felt more energetic, stopped needing the afternoon naps I'd been taking every day, saved money by eating more meals at home, and ended up dropping a couple pounds of unnecessary weight, too. 

Now, months later, I am going to embark on the Paleo challenge a second time. This go-around I'm making it more than just a one-month challenge—I'm working to make it my consistent diet. 

I should clarify that when I say "diet," I really mean the Webster definition—"habitual nourishment", and not just "a special course of food restrictions designed to lose weight". In a culture that places too much emphasis on being skinny but not necessarily healthy, I do not want to fall into that trap of trying crazy fads and weight-loss tips and supplements as a means of achieving a goal weight or size. I'm going to try it the old-fashioned way instead: eating healthy, nourishing food that support my  mind as well as my body, and working out to build and tone muscle. 

It may turn out that I am just not suited to be a cavewoman.But it is still worth trying, at least for the sake of my health. And, at the very least, this new diet will include plenty of bacon. 

Mind the Gap

There is a new craze sweeping fashion magazines and stores across the nation: the thigh gap. This latest trend has women everywhere walking bow-legged and knock-kneed in attempt to avoid the dreaded rubbing together of their thighs. 

The thigh gap phenomenon only recently appeared on scene and yet it has already joined the dreaded and hallowed ranks of other impossibly-high beauty expectations set for women. It sits right up there on the shelf along with "look fabulous without make-up at all times" and "have a flat stomach but large breasts." And the worst part is that we only have ourselves to blame. 

Every year, in so many new ways, beauty standards for women fluctuate and another requirement is tacked on to the already towering stack of expectations. The objective remains the same—beauty—but the requisites vary. New colors come into style, new ways of dressing and doing one's hair. Old fashion trends become stylish again, and then by the next season everything has changed and the clothes you just bought aren't "in" anymore. Breakthrough products hits the shelves, only to be recalled and replaced. 

Two years ago, no one cared about the thigh gap. Now, marketers are actually photoshopping models' legs further apart, and the latest gimmicks splashed across magazines all promise "slimmer legs in five minutes" and "blast that thigh fat overnight!"

We all want these results fast. Now. Instantaneously. No matter how the media tells us to look or dress or be, we are all to willing to comply. We eat up these fabrications of beauty even while we starve ourselves to slim. 

But we shouldn't have to starve ourselves to beautiful. It should be the culture who is made to change, not us, especially by the media's means. These magazine headlines promise skinny, but they don't actually promote health. In our culture, it's better to be tiny than healthy or in shape. Only a rare few recognize these get-skinny-fast ads as the hoaxes they are, and even fewer understand that some women  who are in great shape and are healthy may not have a thigh gap themselves! 

So never mind that your thighs touch. Forget about the media's obsession with overdone make-up and it's degradation of natural beauty. Don't feed the cycle, break it. Defy it. Change it.  Redefine "beauty" to call for health over slimness. It's much better to be a healthy, strong woman than a bow-legged, starving mess.

The Writer (Too)

A while ago I wrote a post titled "The Writer" about my fiancé, a published author about to embark on his first book tour for his third work of fiction. This post is about me, and what being a writer means for, and to, me. 

Sometimes it is hard being in a relationship with someone in your same field. A lot of times, jealousy can arise--jealousy for each other's successes. That may seem completely strange to some of you, the idea that you could be envious of your partner being successful, and not just happy for them. 

But in the interest being honest with you (and myself) I will admit that I have more than once become jealous over my fiancé's latest writing achievement or milestones. And I think that is actually quite normal, too. I think it is normal to envy other writers, whether for the brilliance of their prose, the creativity of their ideas, or the success of their works. 

And really, my jealousy is not limited to my fiancé. Rather, I envy multitudes of writers, for so many reasons. And my envy, while at times irrational and counterproductive, often only spurs me on with even greater fervor towards my own works. 

Right now I am 12,000 words into my first novel. But I am also tip-tapping away at another potential novel at the same time. I have the two Scrivener files open 24/7 on my computer screen, and I carry around notebooks dedicated to each novel in the event that I think of something brilliant to add to either work while not at home. 

The first 10,000 words of my newest novel were hard. I fought for them. Or so I thought. In reality, those 10,000 words practically flew from my mind down my fingertips to the paper. Now, I am struggling each day to even write 100 new words. Mostly I have been glancing over what I already have, and end up only rewording two or three sentences or taking out a handful of commas. 

But that's how first novels go, and how first drafts go, and how writing goes. It is hard and it is painful. But then, if it wasn't, everyone would be a writer and there would be a gazillion and one novels out there, rather than the billion and one that there really are. 

And I envy every one of those authors of those billion and one books because even if their works aren't that great, well, at least they made it and got them out and had their ideas printed into actual books, which is a far cry from what I have right now. 

But that's only right now. I didn't expect to finish my first novel in only a month, and I haven't. But it has only been about that long, one month, that I have been working on these two novels. Well, the writing of them, at least. 

I actually have had the ideas for these two novels percolating in my mind for a while now. The first I came up with almost four years ago, at the end of my freshman year of university. My final project was a very hasty and compact version of this novel which ended up being a total of 40 pages. I was so proud of that 40 pages, though. It was the longest story I had ever written. And it was complete shit writing, too. 

And yet here I am again, readdressing the same idea and trying to expand on it, teasing out the subtleties of the world I created, getting to know these characters as full, actualized people and not static, one-sided figments of my imagination. Four years later, the ideas have expanded tenfold and are fitting together like a makeshift puzzle I am still building even as I begin to put it together. The concept is fuller (I think) and my writing is much better (I hope), but the core is the same. 

The other novel I came up with only a year ago, and it is more fleshed out than the first, but it is also much more complex, its world needing so much more time and concentration to fully come alive for my readers. I have all the chapters and story arc mapped out, but I am having a harder time sitting down with it and getting it out. The characters are still revealing themselves to me, still blank faces with little pasts or reasons behind their motivations. It may take another three years for me to finish the novel, maybe longer. I really don't know. 

Either way, I keep writing. I didn't pick this passion/career path because it was all fun and came so easy. No, I became a writer because the story I really want to read hasn't been written yet. And that is the goal that keeps me tip-tapping away at the computer keys or scratching down bits and pieces  in notebooks full of swirly scrawls and musings. 

So maybe until I have a novel to talk about and hand out to people and go on tour for, I will continue to envy other writers like my fiancé who have managed what seems almost impossible to me right now. Maybe even after I have written my first novel, I will continue to get jealous at others' accomplishments and successes. But hopefully, just as is happening now, my envy and jealousy will be the kick-in-the-ass I need to get back to work, to sit back in the chair and to keep chipping away at my next work, and my next, and my next. 

My ultimate goal as a writer is not to have my name and face and books splashed all over giant billboards across the globe, but rather to have my words and ideas and messages spread across the world, imbedded into others' minds and hearts. I want my works to mean something, and not just to me. I want to inspire envy in other writers, just as the greats (and even some of the not-so-greats) have done for me. 

I don't write for fame or glory. I write because I can't not write. The characters talk to me, the worlds build and unfold in my mind, and I am compelled to share them. I am a writer not because I am good at it, not because it is fun and easy, but because it is imbedded in me, a part of my very being. And so I keep writing. 

I Kissed A Girl And I Respected Her

When I was fifteen, I fell in love with a beautiful young woman. She was a dancer with wild dark brown hair and chocolate eyes that scrunched up at the edges when she smiled. She smelled like talc and shampoo and she loved the movie Moulin Rouge. She was my first kiss. 

When people find out I dated women before meeting my fiancé, I usually get one of a few looks from them. First, there is the accepting nod. This person doesn't care that I am bisexual, that's neither here nor there to them and doesn't change anything. Next, there is the subtle brow-raise of surprise. This is news to them, but often I am not questioned too much further about my sexuality, and if I am, it is harmless and just common human curiosity. 

But occasionally I will meet someone who takes my sexuality personally--they either find it arousing, or disgusting, and often times their reaction will show on their face, plain as day. And no matter what I see, unbridled glee or simmering hate, it pisses me off. 

You see, the reason I get so angry is because in our heteronormative Western culture (one in which heterosexuality is the preferred or "normal" sexuality), homosexual relationships are often looked at in one of two lights--fetishized or demonized. And usually it is gay women who are sexually objectified, and gay men get thrown under the bus. It is commonly acknowledged in our culture that two women kissing is sexy, while two men kissing is considered an abomination against nature. 

Even now I have to wonder how many readers were enticed by this title (at least the beginning of it) and were hoping for some juicy details on just what went on between this young woman and me. And I also wonder how many of them will be disappointed when I tell them that they won't be getting any. 

But this post, and this blog overall, is not an opportunity for me to exploit the inner secrets of my relationships for the sheer entertainment value of others. Instead, I want to draw attention to this issue in our society and not let it slide by, overlooked and undiscussed, as it has in the past.

The fetishization of lesbians and bisexual women is a real thing. It is propagated within our society by people cheering and hollering when two women drunkenly make-out in bars, or by songs such as "I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It". You know the tune, you've probably even sung along to it yourself. It is certainly catchy rhythmically, and who doesn't like the idea of a beautiful woman like Katy Perry making out with another girl? Well, maybe those of us in same-sex relationships who would prefer others respect such relationships rather than promoting the fetishism surrounding them, for instance. 

Some of you may think I am overreacting. I have heard a lot of people, both hetero- and homosexual, say that they don't mind two women making-out just for fun, to make their boyfriends jealous, or to attract other male attention. But then, I have to ask, why do some of those same people mind when two men share a small kiss in public? 

Because that's not what the media tells us we should want to see. We only want to see stick-thin supermodels kissing, not real people in real, meaningful relationships. That's just not as sexy. 

Talk about a double standard. Not only are women once again subjects of sexual objectification, men in same-sex relationships continue to be ostracized for their lifestyles. 

This is not an issue that can be solved overnight. While our culture certainly has made leaps and bounds in LGBTQI rights, this ridiculous prejudice that condones gay women's relationships and then turns around and condemns gay men's can change only as peoples' attitudes change. 

The media won't stop perpetuating it, so we have to find other ways to put this to rest. The first step is respecting same-sex relationships equally, not for the entertainment value or the kicks they give us. Stop fantasizing and realize the reality of the situation--it's not sexy to fetishize lesbians. It's just plain prejudice. 

Block

On any given day, we can come up with one hundred and one reasons NOT to do something. Calling our mothers, doing laundry, paying the bills, going to the gym, whatever. Sometimes these things we're putting off are even things we enjoy and want to do, but just don't. 

Sometimes we legitimately can't do everything we intend to do, checking off all the little boxes on our "To-Do" lists. So we put it off for the day, and then the next day, and the next, and the next, and eventually whatever "it" was hasn't gotten done. 

Right now for me, that "it" is writing. As those of you who read this blog even semi-regularly have probably noticed, I haven't posted anything new lately. I've been busy. And I've been busy making up reasons for why I just can't get any writing done, and why I should just put off even trying until tomorrow. 

And guess what? Tomorrow comes, but the writing doesn't. Maybe because I couldn't make the words flow, and maybe because I didn't even try. It's been a toss up between those two excuses. 

Yes, excuses. We'll be realistic about this; those little rationalizations I make to myself, and sometimes to my fiancé, about why I didn't get any writing done are just excuses. Like anything else, those calls and bills and cleaning and gym workouts, my lack of writing can be rationalized quite simply--I didn't write, and I have nothing to show for it. Crazy how that works out. 

But this block I have been wrestling with can be fixed just as easily as it came about--I have to stop doing this, that, and that other thing, and just get back to writing. I can find time for writing every day, if I make time for writing everyday. I have 24 hours to do everything, and that is plenty of time to do the things I need to do and the things I want to, as well. I just have to figure out how to maintain the balance of wanting to do everything, and figuring out what I am actually capable of doing. 

Some days I may not get everything checked off my list, but that's okay. I will do it tomorrow. But this time around, when tomorrow comes, I will do it, and not just push it off again until another day. No more excuses, just work.

There are always going to be blocks set in the way of your goals and pursuances, but there are always ways of getting around them. You may have to find better ways to balance time, money, and energy, but you will find that there really is time for the important things. There is no more time only for excuses. 

Neil Gaiman's Rejection Letter

Anyone who's ever submitted anything for possible publication somewhere has consequently received a certain dreaded letter, the letter that begins, "We thank you for your submission but...". It's that "but" that tells you everything you need to know--you tried your best, but they don't want your stuff. It happens. It happens to aspiring writers, artists, photographers. It happens to anyone looking to get their works and words and thoughts shared and who are brave enough to put their souls out for the world to appraise, view, and judge. It even happens to those that already have succeeded in this. 

It happened to Neil Gaiman, for instance, one of the arguably most successful writers alive. He recently tweeted how just a few weeks ago he submitted a children's story for review  and the editors sent it back and said it was too scary for their readers and that it just wasn't the content they were looking for. Thank you, but no. 

Neil Gaiman took this rejection with a grain of salt. He even owned up to it by sharing it with his followers. He didn't hide from the critics, but turned to his fans for support and laughs and admittance. It takes a brave soul to admit rejection, but his doing so served to be quite inspiring to those of his followers that had also received rejection letters of their own. Neil Gaiman's rejection letter encouraged his followers to not give in to the frustration of rejection letters, but to remember that they happen to everyone, and to move on. 

At least, that's what it did for me--I can't and won't pretend to speak for anyone else on this, but I have a feeling that I am not the only one who looked at that tweet and went "those people are crazy for rejecting Neil Gaiman. He's NeilfuckingGaiman! Weirdos. They'll regret that in the morning." 

But of course, Neil Gaiman wasn't always NeilfuckingGaiman. He didn't magically spring up one day  on the literary scene and have the world at his feet begging him for his stories and works. No, like anyone worth their stuff, he worked for it. He wrote some stuff, wrote some more, probably threw a lot of it away, and wrote again. And he inspired others to do the same, people like me.

I have received plenty of rejection letters myself. I could keep them in a stack next to my stories and  take bets on which stack would be bigger any given day. But I don't. I throw the rejections away, just as the critics tossed my stories. I allow myself to wallow in the shallow muddy pool of self-loathing and doubt, but then I get back on my feet and I write. I write something else and I may send one or two other ones out. I do work, I don't stop. 

One way or another, my stories get shared. If the critics don't want them, fine. That's okay. I will try again. And I do. But I make sure to give the rejects their own chance, too. I post them here, for instance, on my blog. My story, "The Envelope" was returned to me by more than one committee and so I posted it here. I put it out into the world, albeit by my own means. But at least I did it. That's the key. That it was done.

The occurrence of a rejection itself does not mean that what was rejected was not in some way good, fulfilling, creative, or worthwhile, to someone or anyone. Neil Gaiman has 2.14 million followers on Twitter that believe his writing, thoughts, and actions are worthwhile and meaningful. One critic did not think so. It is what it is. 

Rejection happens to everyone, but it's how it's handled that determines everything beyond that. Pull a Gaiman. Tweet about it, share it, own up to it. And then move on. You have better things to do, and better things to write. So get over it, and then get to it. You, just like Gaiman, have work to do. 

Challenge

My fiancé and I have recently begun challenging ourselves to do, or not do, certain things for certain amounts of time. For instance, one of our most recent endeavors was to make-out every day for a week. 

Another thing we tried was eating Paleo together for an entire month. I'd never tried giving up gluten, most carbs, sugar, or processed foods all at the same time. It was hard. I cheated a couple times, cause, well, I work in a bakery and I love my chocolate and lattes. 

This month's challenge is to give up alcohol of all kinds, in all amounts. We have taken to drinking wine or cider with dinner each night and we want to break this cycle. It's not that this habit has become worrying, for us or anyone else, but we want to keep alcohol as an indulgence, not a habit. 

Now we're seeking out more challenges of different kinds. Going to the gym at least 6 times a week, and sustaining that. Getting rid of 30 things we just don't use or need anymore; (the idea here is that you get rid of one thing per day and that by the end of a month things are less cluttered and your mind and house a little freer. This challenge actually came from The Minimalists and you can find it in their work, Everything That Remains. We accomplished this goal in 2 hours, not 30 days and we ended up getting rid of 3 boxes worth of stuff.) 

Next we might try running half a marathon together. This year's race will be my fourth time running it, but my fiancé has never tried it so he decided to give it a shot. We also want to visit Europe at least once a year, and pledge to read 50 books in 365 days, or see how long we can go without watching television, just to see how much more we can accomplish and how much more time we might spend together without that little distraction. 

We are challenging ourselves in lots of different ways, for different times, and for different reasons. Sometimes just for fun,or to break habits, to try new things, to find out more about ourselves and each other, or  find new and better ways to connect. We might learn a lot, we might learn nothing at all. It might be fun, it could turn out rather terrible. But, no matter what, it will all be challenging. 

Living with a Minimalist

My fiancé and I are very different people sometimes. Especially in our living habits. When I met him, he was living in a beautiful two-bedroom apartment just over the Higgins Bridge in Missoula, snuggled up next to the Clark Fork, Kettlehouse Brewery, and two delicious bakeries.

The apartment was all sleek surfaces and hardwood--and almost completely empty. There was a dinner table, four vintage green dinner chairs, a bed in each room, a desk, a nightstand, one bottle of shampoo, no food except some crazy spice blends I'd never heard of, two microwaves (figure that one out), a solitary lamp we never used in the living room, twelve books, and a red dial telephone. That's about it. In the whole apartment. 

My fiancé was subletting his friends' apartment while they were away on a huge tour. You may have heard of them, and of the tour. My fiancé works with The Minimalists—two men who, after making good figures and living in style for years and years in the corporate world, both made the drastic shift to living with only the bare minimum, only what they absolutely needed. As such, the empty apartment suddenly made a lot more sense. They had no need for decorations, fancy cooking supplies, couches, mega entertainment systems, knick-knacks to grow dusty and unused on shelves and cabinets. They had lived with all that, and they had also chosen not to.

I could go on and on about this concept of minimalism and living simply, but the truth is that I am still learning just what it is. I've recently finished reading one of their books, Everything That Remains, and I enjoyed it greatly. What I gathered, between my fiancé and the book and other murmurings, is that minimalism can be completely different for everyone and anyone, though there is a foundation to it; the foundation of minimalism is to live simply. 

Live simply. Hmmm. Okay....so what does that mean? Again, it can mean so many things to so many people. How I've come to think of it is this: we live in a consumeristic society that tells us to buy more, get more, make more, and you will be happier. Not you might be happier, but that you will be happier. So we go out and stock our houses and cars and lives with things, things, things, and more things. These things become signs of success and wealth, which we then equate to happiness. Brand new car, big house, the most expensive clothes and jewels. These are things that, if you have them, make you happy. And if you don't, then you are unhappy. 

But really, it just doesn't work that way. Minimalism highlights the ways that accumulating more possessions and having more physical things can not, in fact, make us happier in life, but actually weigh us down. Literally. We have to push past this mentality of stuff equals happiness and get at the real things in life instead. How much more time we could spend with our families if we didn't spend all of it in front of the television, or at work, or at the stores buying buying buying. How much freer we would feel if those thousands of dollars of debt were lifted from our shoulders. How our lives would be if we weren't so focused on having and getting and if we didn't live just to work, but could work only to live and we needed only the basics to feel complete.

I could really understand what they were talking about, my fiancé and his friends who also followed these ways of thinking. I could get behind it--to a point. I understood why they did it, and the how was explained as well, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. At least, not completely in one fell swoop. Thus, when my fiancé and I moved into our first apartment together and it happened to be approximately the size and shape of two shoeboxes stuck together, I panicked. I was afraid my fiancé was going to freak out because I had too much stuff and because our apartment was too crowded and that he'd feel dragged down and that we just wouldn't find room for everything and that some stuff would have to go. 

Well, we didn't find room for everything.  And some stuff did have to go. And I didn't mind. I realized that I didn't need all of it, not really. I packed up eight boxes worth of clothes, books, movies, knick-knacks, shoes, more clothes, scarves, clothes, and more clothes that I just didn't need or want. Someone else could find enjoyment and use from them, but not me. I admit, I literally did feel lighter seeing it go. But I was also pleased that I didn't have to give it all up just yet. I agreed that I did want to embrace minimalism, but a little at a time. My fiancé recognized that, and we made it work. 

Some people keep memories in their heads, or in scrapbooks or diaries or with fuzzy home-videos. I keep them on my shelves, mostly in the form of books, or on my Christmas tree, with all my childhood ornaments. I collect elephants, I have for years, and they are scattered around the apartment wherever they can fit. We have three bookcases between us. Two are filled with my books, and they are both double stacked. These things are mine, and I want them. They do make me happy, perhaps on a level only I can understand. But there is no room for excess here. 

When my fiancé and I opened our presents at Christmas, we both catalogued our new things in our minds and decided which things we would get rid of in exchange. We know we do not need more, and so we are recycling the old and unworn in favor of the new. If somewhere along the line the new does not get worn or we have no more use for it, we will get rid of it. It's a compromise, with the universe, with ourselves, with the apartment that can't hold more. It's our compromise between my minimalist soon-to-be-husband and my love for having each book in the series, in paper form, not electronic. 

Minimalism can means different things to different people. I do not claim to be a minimalist. I will leave that to the professionals and to the ones that work so hard to earn that title. I do try, though, and maybe one day I'll call myself a minimalist too. I recognize that money and things and stuff do not equate to happiness, and I don't need them to be happy. But books can make me happy. And they do. So they'll stay.