On why I write and how I am going to be a better reader.

Published February 15, 2019 by mandileighbean

Full disclosure: before you read this entry, I think you should know I’ve been listening to two songs on repeat. One is “I Hope You’re Happy” by Blue October, and the other is “Cherry” by Moose Blood. I’ll let the reader decide if the looming holiday has anything to do with my musical inclinations as of late.

On another note, I just found chocolate icing in my hair. It must be Valentine’s Day.

I was young, but I’ve never really been irresponsible, and I think I regret that. I worry that it shows, that I’ve never really been free and uninhibited. I worry that it makes me boring and predictable and safe. I also worry it influences what I write, like how all of my first drafts are wildly melodramatic. I always do the responsible thing and revise, but is that guarding my art? Am I dumbing it down too much? Or am I just overthinking?

Why do I write?

Maybe all writing is juvenile – at least at its most basic level – because all it really is, is wish fulfillment, simply a continuous retelling, or re-imagining, of a specific moment in time the author cannot move past. Aren’t all writers, at the hearts of their respective stories, all writing about the same thing, hence why all writers borrow and share? Or maybe I’m only talking out of my ass because everything I’ve written lately has been all about someone in particular and our moment? In my defense, Stephen King’s wife once asked him how long he was going to write about his accident for, and he told her, “Until it’s behind me.” I like that answer. And while I do not believe that my “accident” is behind me, I can honestly say I feel better having finished my revisions on my manuscript, and his face no longer leers at me from between every line. I think it’s a fine story, and I’m hoping the five agents I’ve sent it to will have similar thoughts.

I’ve started outlining my next novel, and I’m eager to get down the nitty, gritty business of writing.

But then where does that leave this blog? Rather than pump out mediocre responses to Googled prompts on a bi-weekly basis, I thought I could approach entries with more direction and, as a result, more substance. Why not really delve into the writing life? Why not talk about how I’m becoming a better writer and share some wisdom? So in line with making serious moves as a writer, and in line with showing Stephen King some love, my literary idol once wrote, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.” He also wrote, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” To put my money where my mouth is, I realize this blog needs to be about reading just as much as it is about writing.

Here are Twelve Tips for Being a Better Reader.

  1. Set a reading goal.
    I only read a handful of books throughout the year, but I KNOW I can do better. For 2019, my goal is to read 12 books a year, translating to a book a month. Seems doable, no?
  2. Make a list of books for each month.
    For this month, I need to finish The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower by Stephen King. Honestly, I’ve been reading it for like six months and I’m ready to move on (it’s a re-read anyway). So on tap is: I Feel Bad About My Neck (And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman) and I Remember Nothing (And Other Reflections) by Nora Ephron; Between Here and the Yellow Sea by Nic Pizzolatto; The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (& Other Stories) by Charles Bukowski; and Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding.
  3. Read at least 10-20 pages a day.
    This seems extremely possible. To aid this endeavor, I’m always slowly working my way through an Edgar Allan Poe anthology so if I want to change it up, I could always read a short story or two.
  4. Set reading times and days.
    I always read before bed. Moving forward, I’m going to start reading during lunch and on Sundays. That way, if I miss my daily quota for pages, I can make them up in marathon sessions during the weekend.
  5. Get a reading partner/book club.
    I was part of a mildly successful book club through work. It fell apart, as some things are apt to do, but I’ve been seriously talking with a couple of colleagues about starting it back up. So if you can’t find one, start one. Or just reach out to a fellow bookworm and agree to talk about what you’re reading once a month. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.
  6. Always carry a book.
    Hell, live a little; make it two.
  7. Find a quiet place.
    My bedroom is in a loft, so there’s plenty of space. I have a love seat up there and all these candles, and it has so much potential as a reading nook. Guess what my summer project will be.
  8. Reduce television/internet.
    I’m surprise by how difficult this is for me. I don’t watch a lot of television (but the new season of “True Detective” is AMAZING – just saying) but I am always scrolling through social media on my phone. I know all the hazards that accompany such behavior (depression, procrastination, envy and other such deadly sins) so I’m going to start making a concerted effort to limit the screen time.
  9. Keep a log.
    I LOVE GOODREADS.
  10. Go to used book stores.
    Not only are the books affordable, but there’s usually a particular type of atmosphere that really inspires and reassures. I’m going to aim to go to two book stores a month.
  11. Have a library day.
    FREE BOOKS! There’s a GREAT library by my house, so I have NO EXCUSE. Two Mondays a month, I’ll be in the stacks.
  12. Give it 50 pages.
    This one is difficult for me too. Like Alice on her infamous trip through Wonderland, I seldom take my own good advice. So many things in my life are all or nothing at all, to the point where if I start a book, I have to finish it. But I am wasting so much time! I’m embracing the 50 or bust rule IMMEDIATELY.

And while I’m reading? I live by three rules:

  • Highlight favorite/moving passages.
  • Make notes/remarks in the margins or on Post-it notes.
  • Actively read using annotations because those notes are an extension of me (as both reader and writer).

Happy reading, folks! Comment with your reading resolutions, and feel free to share recommendations! Better yet, find me on Goodreads. 😉

181212-woman-reading-book-grass-stock-cs-1235p_ee32881d5bf47c628985390c83d6d8e8.fit-760w

On older but not wiser.

Published January 31, 2019 by mandileighbean

As people age, we’re supposed to get smarter – or at least jaded by life experiences, which are assumed to be universally disappointing. The weird thing is that no one wants to grow up. No one really wants knowledge or to face consequences or be responsible. I guess I’m aiming for a happy medium. Last night, I wrote in my journal that I wanted to be Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City.” I think she’s an appropriate role model for a woman of 30. She’s fiscally irresponsible and endearingly stupid when it comes to men, but she respects deadlines and is a writer. So maybe I’m just validating her picture on my fridge, but it’s interesting to think about, isn’t? There’s this pressure from social media to be altruistic and to be who you needed when you were younger, but just because we’re older, do we stop needing people? Shouldn’t we just be the type of people we think we need?

Do we even know what we need?

Being a human being is hard at any age. I don’t think it gets easier as we get older, but I think we develop a better perspective and that can change our attitude towards growing up.

I’m about a third of the way through final revisions for my manuscript, MOODY BLUE. The goal is to send it to agents I spoke with at the conference in June next week. Wish me luck!

carriebradshaw

#2.2019: Hidden Away on the Inside of a Jacket

The sky was an uninteresting shade of gray. Michelle eyed it warily through the kitchen window as she let the faucet run, waiting for the water to get warm before she started the dishes. She had removed her rings, her engagement ring, her wedding ring, and the blue sapphire with the gold band she had inherited from her grandmother, and placed them carefully on the window ledge above the sink. The windows looked out over the backyard, an especially desolate scene at the end of a bitterly cold January. Thinking of warmer and greener climates, she sighed as the front door was swung open.
Michelle spun to see William entering the home, closing the front door firmly behind him against the rising wind. On the television earlier that day, the meteorologist had looked very serious indeed, with his shirtsleeves rolled above the elbows, as he warned of the impending squall. Michelle Googled the definition on her phone and was glad she had taken the day off. Her fever had been mild and her cough had not returned, but a day spent mostly beneath the covers had done her a world of good. She hurried to William, smiling, and offering to take his coat. “Is it bad out there?” she asked.
William nodded, blowing on his hands as he rubbed them together. “Yeah, and it’s getting worse.” He kissed her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
Michelle kissed his lips. “Much better. I probably would have survived a day at the office, but traveling in this cold also could have knocked me right back on my ass, you know?”
“You never take days off anyway. You deserved it,” William said and squeezed her shoulders gently as he passed into the living room. He sat to take off his shoes and Michelle turned to the closet to hang his coat up for him. “Is there beer in the fridge?” William asked as his voice sounded farther away. Michelle assumed he was on his way to the fridge.
“Of course,” Michelle called. She hung his coat and smoothed it lovingly with her palms. It was a stylish, expensive coat Michelle had bought William for his 35th birthday. He looked absolutely perfect in it, and she was glad she had married a handsome man. She thought about his strong body and full head of hair, but as her hands passed over the coat, she felt a lump. Michelle was worried William had left his car keys in his pocket, but digging her hands in the soft fabric revealed nothing. His pockets were empty.
Determined to find whatever it was, Michelle dug her hands into the pockets on the inside of the coat and on the left side, she retrieved a small, velvet-covered box. A box that held jewelry, specifically rings. Ecstatic that William had thought of her, had purchased her a special gift because he knew that she wasn’t feeling well, Michelle bounded into the kitchen. “And who is this for?” she asked in a playful singsong.
William had been standing in front of the fridge, guzzling a bottle of beer. When Michelle walked in with the box, the color fled from his face and he sputtered beer across the kitchen. He looked terribly guilty and Michelle felt terribly stupid once she began to understand. When William didn’t answer, Michelle asked the question again but she employed a very different tone. “Who is this for, William?”
William’s posture crumpled and all he said was her name in a pathetic kind of whimper.
Michelle chucked the little box at William’s fat head and moved to the front closet. She grabbed her boots and slid them on, and she shoved herself into her winter coat. She was digging through the bowl that kept their keys by the front door when she heard footsteps.
“Where are you going? It’s supposed to squall,” William said.
“Like you give a shit,” Michelle spat. She found her keys and was out the door before William could say another word. Michelle started driving to her mother’s house but didn’t get very far before the wild, winter winds and snow began to pile up. She had to pull over because she couldn’t see where she was going. Whether it was the inclement weather or the tears in her eyes, Michelle waited for the squall to pass before she continued away from the home she shared with William.

On coming back.

Published January 24, 2019 by mandileighbean

the-comeback-is-always-stronger-than-the-setback-13163545

It’s been a year since my last blog post. I want to say I’ve been busy, and I have, but not in the romantic, adventurous ways I’d like. I was struggling with depression and losing the battle for a while. I had no inspiration, no motivation, no real reason to get up in the morning. There were some really awful nights where I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe, where I gorged myself until I couldn’t move, where I didn’t even leave my house to check the mail. I hated my existence and hated who I was – only the worst sort of person could allow herself to be such a fucking loser, I thought.

And the problem with writing, I realized, is that it is solitary and sedentary, making it NOT conducive to the my goals of being social and beautiful, but it remained vital to my survival; I have to write. So instead of blogging, I filled journals with scribbled self-loathing and only a few blips of creative expression.

But therapy helped; it really did. And so did attending The Writer’s Hotel writing conference in New York City in June of last year. I was inspired, invigorated! I met some truly amazing and talented people whom I still talk to. I got some much needed perspective and validation. As a result, I’m healthier than I’ve been in a long time, and I only have one more chapter to revise on my manuscript.

So I’m back, bitches! Here’s a prompt for your enjoyment.

01.2019: Stealing Sentences
     I opened up to a random page in Nic Pizzolatto’s collection of short stories, “Between Here and the Yellow Sea.” I chose the first sentence I saw, and wrote this little ditty.

She looked briefly at his art. “I don’t get it.”
Jay blinked. “What do you mean?” he asked in an accusatory tone, offended because he believed she was being intentionally obtuse.
Alison cocked her head to the left, trying to study the sculpture from a different angle. She narrowed her eyes and Jay remained breathless. When Alison sighed, Jay did too, disappointed and deflated. “What is it?” Alison asked.
“I can’t believe you can’t tell,” Jay growled. He gathered his sculpture delicately in his arms and headed for the door.
“Oh come on, Jay, it’s not that serious,” Alison pleaded as she followed close behind. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she knew she had just made everything worse. Jay took his art super seriously and Alison knew that.
“I wasn’t looking for an in-depth critique or anything,” Jay said. He was struggling to open the door with his sculpture simultaneously nestled in his hands. “A little enthusiasm would have been nice, that’s all.”
Jay was avoiding eye contact, so Alison used the opportunity to roll her eyes. “I am always enthusiastic about everything you do. You just caught me on a bad day. I had an awful morning. I tried to make coffee without closing the lid on the coffee maker.”
“Fascinating,” Jay spat. His hand slipped against the doorknob. Alison reached over and opened the door for Jay. Neither moved for half a minute. Then Jay said, “I spent hours making this today. I was so proud of this sculpture and the first person I thought of to share my joy with was you. And you couldn’t even humor me.” With a wounded look that irritated Alison to no end, Jay marched himself out of Alison’s apartment and into the hallway. She slammed the door behind him, pissed at Jay for making her feel guilty. She didn’t really think he wanted to share joy with her. He wanted to praised for his artistic endeavor like some elementary school kid. He was a grown ass man who should be confident in his abilities and shouldn’t need any validation.
All the same, Alison supposed she could have asked questions and feigned interest, even if only for a few minutes, or until his excitement waned. She’d call later and apologize when she had more energy.
It really had been an awful morning."His work hovers between neo-realism, post-modernism and crap."

On misery.

Published January 30, 2018 by mandileighbean

I know I haven’t updated like I said I would, which is not really surprising.

At least I have excellent news to share.

I applied and was accepted to attend The Writer’s Hotel writing conference. It’s in Manhattan beginning in the first week of June. As part of attending the conference, my manuscript will be read twice and commented on. After talking with one of the editors for just fifteen minutes, I felt so validated and rejuvenated. This whole experience will help me better understand why my query is earning requests for my manuscript but my manuscript is being rejected.

In going back and reading my manuscript (which I foolishly neglected to do properly before sending it out), I realize my writing became impersonal. This is ironic considering the inspiration for the manuscript is incredibly personal. But I think I was too close to the story to accurately judge how I was telling it.

My parents are funding the conference, which is really and truly remarkable. Their generosity leaves me breathless. Honestly, I would be nowhere without them.

Next month, I find out where I stand regarding that contest I entered to try and turn my book HER BEAUTIFUL MONSTER into a movie. Wish me luck!

I’ve recently started attending therapy. I’ve only gone twice, but I think it might be helpful. I’m keeping and open mind and trying to stay positive.

I want to continuously make the conscious decision to be happy.

That being said, here’s a prompt about being miserable.

Stay gold, friends. And be excellent to each other. xoxo

 

WRITING PROMPT #02.2018: “Come with or stay at home. It’s your misery.”

Madison was not living her best life.

She was stretched out upon the old, lumpy couch that was covered in an itchy fabric that made her sweat. She was on her stomach with her head turned to the right so she could see the television.

Nothing interesting was on, just an endless stream of true crime documentaries that Madison had seen before.

Her mouth was hanging open stupidly. She couldn’t remember the last time she blinked, let alone moved. Madison was fairly confident she was resting on top of crumbs. She was mildly concerned she was even covered in crumbs, that she heard a faint crunch whenever she shifted to mold closer to the couch. couchpotatoAs a matter of fact, her mouth was shiny with grease from consuming an untold number of potato chips. She just kept crunching and chewing until the bag was empty. She flicked her eyes to the empty bag, which was resting on a stained and wobbly coffee table less than a foot away from her. The open end of the bag gaped at her like an open mouth, and she flicked her eyes to stare into the void.

She had never felt less motivated, had never felt so unattractive. Madison suspected that this was giving up.

Her roommate, Christine, came bounding down the stairs. Madison didn’t turn her head to see Christine, didn’t dare move to make eye contact. She had been festering on the couch for several days now, content to spoil like so much rotten meat. She could feel the best parts of her decomposing and believed she was powerless to stop it. Doing her best to be sympathetic, Christine had allowed Madison to eat food that was terrible for her, watch television that was mindless, stay in the same clothes, and just be disgusting. A heartbreak could be near impossible to bounce back from, and Madison’s foray into the disappointments of romance had been a doozy.

But enough was enough; there was a definite odor hanging about Madison now, something like pathetic despair. Madison couldn’t live like that and to be frank, Christine couldn’t live with someone who lived like that. If Christine were to move out, Madison would have absolutely no social interaction and would certainly decay at an accelerated rate. Madison probably envisioned herself as an Emily Dickinson type, a tragic albeit talented recluse, but Christine suspected the Unabomber was a better fit.

Christine walked over to where Madison was and kneeled before her friend, forcing her to make eye contact with a real human being and not some imagined individual on a screen. “Madison, get up. Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“I don’t want to,” Madison mumbled against the cushion she was doubling as a pillow.

“I don’t care. You can’t keep going on like this.”

Madison was silent.

“Do you think David is doing this? Just waiting around to die? No way. Come on now. Get up.”

Madison was unmoved.

Christine rolled her eyes. “Come with or stay at home. It’s your misery.”

Madison blinked stupidly and did not say anything.

Christine sighed and got to her feet. “I’m going to The Marvel Bar with some friends from work, and I am inviting you. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.” Christine did an about face to walk into the kitchen and make herself a pregame cocktail. She had only gone about four steps when Madison flopped over onto her back.

“Do you think David will be there?”

Anger boiled up from Christine’s stomach to color her face. She was about to spin around and scream at Madison so that spittle flew from the corners of her lips. How could David possibly matter? What Madison needed to focus on was herself, on getting happy, on being fit to be around other people. Christine wanted to shake Madison until Madison’s teeth clacked together, until Madison bit her tongue hard enough to make it bleed. There was no doubt that tough love was necessary, but Christine also realized that she had to get Madison out of the house. That in itself would be a victory.

So coolly, Christine turned around and said, “Probably.”

Madison bounded into the bathroom at an alarming speed, surprising for someone whose muscles must have been entering atrophy. Christine smiled and continued to the kitchen. She’d make two cocktails.

On obligatory new year resolutions and the value of introspection.

Published January 4, 2018 by mandileighbean

MAN_ON_A_LISBON_BUS

Hypocrisy, in my opinion, is one of the worst human flaws. I understand this sentiment is ironic because just about a year ago, I wrote a post which discussed hitting rock bottom and how I was going to change myself into the woman I have the potential of being, the woman I so desperately want to be. However, the year came and went and nothing changed. If anything, I got worse; the weight has ballooned into an unhealthy, unattractive number; creative writing has all but ceased; I still spend more nights than I care to admit to publically eating bad food and re-watching romantic comedies at home … alone.

But recently, I was forced to think about the last five years of my life. With the clarity hindsight provides, I was able to understand that I had been through several tumultuous periods and had tried to blindly just trudge ahead. The spirit is commendable, but in doing so, I developed many unhealthy coping mechanisms that have since cost me my health and happiness and, to a point, my sanity.

So that is my resolution for 2018: to get back to good, and to take my life back. To do that, I am going to spend more time doing what I love. I’ll read more and I will update this blog once a week (every Wednesday for Writer Wednesday … get it? I’m a sucker for alliteration). Granted they start on a Thursday this week, but I had snowmageddon to contend with. And would it really be me if I did something right the first time around?

I will progress my literary career in 2018.

I will start taking classes for my Masters degree.

I will diet and exercise and the goal is to lose at least 30 pounds by May 16th (when I see Bruce Springsteen on Broadway!). I want to go hiking at least once a month and really spend more time in nature. This, plus starting therapy, will help me regain mental health and stability.

I will begin making improvements to my home to make it cozier and to become more independent.

Putting all this in writing helps me to formulate a plan and in my attempt to avoid hypocrisy at all costs, helps me to stick to these resolutions.

And now for some creative writing; stay golden, readers. And be excellent to each other.

WRITING PROMPT #01.2018: After falling asleep on a twenty-hour bus ride to his mother’s house, a college student wakes up to discover that he’s been on the wrong bus the entire time.

I stood in the bus station, looking out at a deserted Main Street that was slowly but surely filling with snow. The winter wind was whipping itself into a frenzy; I could feel it slipping through the door in front of me, and it was enough to make me shiver in my jeans and tee shirt. I was woefully unprepared for the wintry mix outside because I had fully anticipated waking up as the bus came to a stop in Atlanta, Georgia. Yet here I was in Liberty, Indiana.

I couldn’t understand how it happened. Obviously, I boarded the wrong bus, but how could that have happened? How could I have made such a stupid, stupid mistake? I rubbed my cheek, felt the stubble that needed to be shaved. It was bristly against my palm and helped me come back to myself. Staring out the door would do no good. I needed a plan. I needed to think of some course of action, so I walked back to the uncomfortable bench that was no more than a piece of curved steel. It was cold against my lower back, as the thin cotton of my shirt was powerless against the cold that seemed to pervade everywhere. It helped me to prioritize; I would get myself some boots, a heavy coat, some gloves, a scarf, and a hat. If I was going to be lost, I could at least be comfortable doing it.

Behind the counter was an elderly, grizzled-looking man who just wanted to get home. He watched me approach without interest, with a cold detachment that I took as a bad sign. I had heard that people in the Midwest, although weird, were incredibly friendly. This guy looked like I could have walked up to him on fire, burning alive, and he would have yawned and apathetically watched me turn to ash. I did my best to smile, and as polite as humanly possible, I said, “Good evening, sir.”

He said nothing in reply. He only blinked back at me.

I swallowed hard and pressed on. “Could you tell me where the nearest clothing store is? I didn’t know it’d be- “

“There’s the Liberty Mall right next door. You might have some luck there.”

I nodded, mumbling my thanks as I pulled the straps of my duffle bag higher up on my shoulder. He nodded in return and turned away.

I was on my own.

Outside the bus station, the cold was overwhelming. I imagined my fingers and toes turning blue, then black, then falling off. I’d leave a trail of them the cops could follow to the doors of the Liberty Mall, where they’d find me all frozen and stiff and dead.

I didn’t used to be this dramatic.

I hurried over to the mall, walking close against the sides of the buildings to avoid all snow as best as I could. I wrenched the door open against the wind that was really starting to pick up, and the first thing I saw was a little, sad-looking department store that appeared to have ignore the turn of the last century. My feeling of disorientation was growing; what time was it? Had I traveled not only in the wrong direction for twenty hours, but had I also gone back in time?  The yellow lights that burned overhead burned low, so that everything was washed in a depressing shade of yellow and looked older than it was and sickly. There was a young woman who came from around the counter and walked to the very edge of the store’s boundary. She hadn’t noticed me, and she reached high up over head. I realized she meant to close the metal gate that rolled down, so I sprinted over to her.

“Miss, please! Don’t close that gate!”

She looked at me in alarm, scrambling back a few steps and wrapping her arms around herself. I felt bad but was grateful she’d backed away from the gate. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but we’re closing.” She looked at me from the sides of her eyes, turning her head mostly away from me.

“I can appreciate that, but I don’t have any winter clothes and I’ll freeze to death outside.” I stopped just inside the store. “I’m supposed to be in Atlanta. I got on the wrong bus and I have no winter clothes packed. Can I buy some clothes?”

She slightly turned her head towards me and looked me up and down. “But I’ve already shut down the register.”

“I’ll pay cash. We’ll cut the tags off and you can ring everything up first thing tomorrow.” She didn’t move. “Or you can turn it back on while I look around. Please, miss. Please … what’s your name?”

“Caroline.”

“Please, Caroline. My name’s Dillon and I just rode a bus from Philadelphia for twenty hours. I’m embarrassed, I’m cold, I’m tired, and I’m hungry. Help me fix one of those things, please.”

Caroline’s hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes were big and brown and nice to look at it now that they were no longer narrowed with suspicion. “Be quick,” she said before she turned and went behind the counter. I thanked her again and again, what seemed like a thousand times over, and she only got me to shut up by pointing me in the direction of the outer wear – first right off the main aisle. As I turned, I could see the bulky jackets crudely stuffed against one another, hanging from circular racks. I breathed a little easier and slowed my pace, figuring I could take a second to enjoy the tiny victory. I passed a t-shaped rack filled with coats for infants, the sizes ran from 0-3 months, and I came to a complete stop.

Later, when I called my mom from a bar with a steak and a mound of mashed potatoes both smothered in gravy in front of me, she harassed me, berated me until I could explain how I managed to be so stupid. What kind of jackass gets on the wrong bus? I tried the empty, obvious answers; that the bus station was crowded and overwhelmed with holiday travelers. I lied and said I was half-listening when the man who sold me my ticket talked about transfers, so I fell asleep and forgot. She wasn’t satisfied. She knew I was lying even though she couldn’t see my face in the way that only mothers can. I did the only thing I could do; I broke and told my mother the God’s honest truth about the last 48 hours.

Staring at the infant jackets reminded me of Alicia. I had met her in college, after I had gone to the north and broken my mother’s heart. Alicia was an art major who didn’t give a damn about plans or responsibilities. I was intoxicated by her freedom and her wildness, and she helped me to let my guard down and to get into a little bit of trouble. It wasn’t anything serious; no legal troubles, but a few stories to tell with a big smile. I loved her. And I’d tell her all the time. I told her I loved her constantly. She never said it back, just took me into her arms, into her bedroom, into the nearest place that offered any kind of privacy and she’d let me show her how much I loved her. I never thought much of it; I was happy and it made me stupid, I guess.

I invited Alicia home to meet my mom. She was supposed to be on the bus with me.

But she sat me down in the kitchen of her on-campus apartment and explained that she wasn’t looking for anything serious. She said going home to meet a guy’s family was pretty serious, the way having a baby was serious. Alicia usually talked in long, winding paths that eventually got to some point. And I could usually anticipate the destination of her dialogue and patiently wait for her to get there. But this time, I was confused. “Who said anything about having a baby? No one said anything about a baby.”

Alicia looked at her hands between her knees. “I didn’t want to tell you because I saw this coming. I knew you were getting caught up.”

I stood up. “Tell me what?”

“I was pregnant.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. She told me she was on the pill, so how this could have happened seemed the obvious question to ask next, but her phrasing troubled me more. “What do you mean was?”

“Don’t worry, I took care of it.”

It was hard for me to swallow. My face felt hot, but I knew I was cold all over. “What do you mean you took care of it?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Alicia said. She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, Dillon. Don’t make me say the obvious.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I knew this was going to happen,” Alicia said. “You always take things too seriously. You get too invested. You’re gonna break your heart a million times over doing that.” She went to walk past me, to leave me standing there alone. As she passed, I grabbed her nearest arm and wrenched her back. She stumbled back to stand in front of me. Her face was pale, her eyes were wide, and her breathing had quickened. She was scared but I didn’t give a shit.

“You’re a fucking bitch.”

Alicia brought her hands to her face like I slapped her, like I was bringing my hand back to do it again. I still didn’t give a shit. “I love you! We’ve been sleeping together for two years, and you don’t tell me you’re pregnant? You don’t tell me you’re gonna get rid of it? That’s fucking weird, Alicia.”

Alicia came back to herself. “It’s my body, my decision. And I don’t have to explain myself to you! Just because I don’t buy into some Judeo-Christian definition of woman-“

“Oh, fuck off! This isn’t political! This is personal!”

Alicia pushed me hard. I moved back a step or two. She wasn’t strong, but she surprised me. “Don’t you tell me to fuck off, you petulant man child! I knew you’d be hypersensitive about this. Grow up, Dillon! You’re so pathetic, I-“

I shoved her. Hard. Hard enough so she fell back onto the carpeted floor of the living room, just a few steps away. I was losing control, and an apology rose to my lips, but I kept them shut tight. I had never laid a hand on anybody my entire life. I was a father, then I wasn’t. I was a gentleman, then I wasn’t.

Alicia was this smart, beautiful firecracker I tried to keep held securely in my hand. But firecrackers explode, go off, and the result was injury.

I left her lying on the floor. Confused, depressed, and desperate, I went back to my dorm room and drank until I fell asleep. When I woke, I only had thirty minutes to pack and get to the bus station. I blindly followed the crowds onto the wrong bus, going unnoticed because of the thronging crowds of holiday travelers, and then I slept.

“Dillon? Sir? Are you finding everything okay?”

I blinked and silent tears rolled down my cheeks. Caroline had caught me hundreds of miles away, in a different time and place. She found me vulnerable, crying in an outdated department store in a small town in Indiana.

On still insisting to see the ghosts.

Published September 13, 2017 by mandileighbean

Hello all! Welcome to another edition of Writers’ Wednesdays!

And boy, do I have a story for you. It’s quite the story; so much so that I have decided to forego the weekly writing prompt to share this story.

School started up a week ago, so I’ve been busy. Mostly, I feel overwhelmed and exhausted just trying to keep up with all the demands, but I also know this is partly because I’m hormonal and partly because I’m recovering from the extreme lethargy of summer break. It appears that more than my muscles entered a nearly lethal state of atrophy. To escape all of that ugliness, I was really looking forward to seeing “IT,” the new adaptation of the Stephen King novel of the same name. Well, for all of those reasons and because it would be a welcome return to familiar territory.

Even only an occasional reader of this blog knows that I’m something of a Stephen King fanatic. I think he’s absolutely brilliant. I’ve read most of his work – even the writing under his pseudonym of Richard Bachman – and I’ve seen all of the adaptations; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’ve seen him at readings at least three times and have traveled out of state to do so. Next to F. Scott Fitzgerald, he’s my favorite author. And of all his works, IT has a special place in my heart and has affected me in a very profound way. I remember finishing the monster of a novel (pun very much intended) with a stunning clarity. I remember I was on the way to one of my twin sister’s many athletic competitions at our local high school, practically dragged kicking and screaming to help watch our little brother who is ten years our junior. I was sitting in the last seat of this monstrosity of a vehicle (last pun, I promise), this huge, black van that I absolutely despised. It was roomy, it was comfortable, it was a logical purchase, but it had a television. That’s not a bad thing, unless you were like me: a fifteen-year-old girl who considered herself rather literary and therefore superior. In a silent, pointless protest, I would bring books in the van to avoid the television, which often blared to entertain the other passengers.

I was the worst fifteen-year-old.

On a particularly dreary day, on my way back to the high school against my will, I was in the van and I was reading. I was going to finish IT, and I did so sobbing. The story is so beautiful, and I wept with a palpable, pulsating kind of ache because I wanted so desperately to be an integral part of a team on an important mission. I wanted so badly to have a shared purpose who loved me so much they would die for me, people who weren’t family so loving me would be a choice, more of a conscious decision. I wanted a Losers Club. I wanted to make and keep a promise to be a hero. I wanted to be an adult who was still a child. In short, I wanted everything that was in the novel. I needed it to be real.

Until September 8th of this year, the best I could was re-watch a badly outdated miniseries (that I still cherish, just to be clear).

I was so excited for the new adaptation, I made plans with a friend to purchase tickets early for a fancy theater with reclining leather seats, massive screens, and speakers that boomed so loud you can feel their vibrations inside your chest. I was going to travel to a movie theater in Howell that I’d never been to, that had only opened a few years ago. I posted about the adaptation and my plans on social media for months. I can’t remember the last time I was so excited for a movie (if I had to guess, it’d be the last “Harry Potter” movie).

And the film did not disappoint. At the time of this post, I’ve already seen it twice. If you haven’t seen the movie, do yourself a favor and make plans to go and see the movie. Whether or not you’ve read the massive novel, the story is brilliantly told with great care. That being said, the movie is also incredibly disturbing. It effortlessly gets underneath your skin and catches you at random moments throughout the day. It stays with you, changes you.

When I left the theater, my stomach hurt from the anxiety. My muscles were sore from cramping and my mind was reeling. All I wanted to do was talk about what I had seen, purge the myriad of my emotions onto my companions, relive the film’s best moments. But once we left the theater, we were told we could not enter the lobby and could not even go past the podium where tickets were ripped for admission. We saw a line of employees, a kind of human barricade. It was unsettling and unnerving, even more so because we stumbled , blinking into the lights of reality from a nightmare of a film. We weren’t told why we couldn’t leave, but rumor among the large number of people leaving theaters and filling the hallway was that something was going on in the parking. We nervously shifted for about ten minutes before deciding to go the bathroom. The females in my group pressed through the tense crowd, doing our best to politely make a path, and happened to pass a female police officer. She was busily making her way through the crowd and was being asked for information at every turn. We heard her say that we were safe inside the building, and that if we wanted to be extra safe, we would move further down the hallway and away from the glass windows.

I swallowed hard. I could tell the other women in my group were nervous and upset, so I did my best to stay calm and lighthearted. All the same, we moved down the hallway.

We were inside the theater for about forty minutes. People were making themselves comfortable, plugging phone chargers into available outfits, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. People were preparing for a long haul, and why shouldn’t they? There was lack of information and our phones were dying one by one. Finally, an intimidatingly muscular police office got the crowd’s attention and said we could leave as long as we stayed behind him, proceeded in an orderly fashion, and kept our voice down.

My stomach flipped over.

We did as instructed, my friends and I holding onto each other as we followed the officer. He led us to the far end of the hallway and through a rear exit out the side of the building. We left the doors, trampled over gravel along a chain link fence and ended up in an adjacent parking lot. We were not allowed to go to our cars; the parking lot was being searched and the police had established a perimeter. We waited for another twenty minutes in the chilly night air, rehashing everything that had happened so far and asking for any news. I called my father just before my phone died and asked him to pick us up; we weren’t sure when we’d be allowed back in the cars.

We saw cop cars go speeding by.

My dad arrived just as the police began to let people return to their cars and leave. I still went home with my dad, still seeking some familiar comfort and not wanting to be alone (I never really want to be alone). Saying goodbye to my friends, I smiled and agreed that we’d have a hell of a story to share.

But when I got in my dad’s truck, I cried. I cried really hard because I had been so scared. There was the movie and then there was the reality, and I was scared of both, and I was scared that they could never be distinguished between, and I was tired.

The employee who ripped our tickets, who guided us to the theater, who I bantered with for a few brief moments, was arrested because he had an inert hand grenade, two handguns – one of which was loaded – and hollow-point ammunition in his car. A fellow employee told the manager something was wrong, and the manager called the police. One of the theaters had an off-duty cop just trying to relax and catch a flick.

Thank God for the police, and thank God no one was hurt.

Leave it to Stephen King to scar me in unpredictable ways.

 

On summer bummer.

Published September 5, 2017 by mandileighbean

Good afternoon, all. It’s absolutely gorgeous in the Great Garden State; a little warmer than most would like for September, especially after a cool spell of a couple of days, but even though it’s a bummer, summer is winding down. I reported back to work on Friday, and was back in the building today. Truth be told, I’m excited to be back and I’m more than ready for fall. This summer has been a rough one for me, and even though I haven’t been updating regularly (it’s been over a month since the last time I posted), I’m back and ready to take my life back from whatever gross apathy and complacency has settled upon me. And I’m going to start with this blog.

Some thoughts for today: as I was walking the boardwalk (trying to get my weight under control), a sweet old man stopped me to tell me about a turtle he saw. I listened patiently, nodded encouragingly, and then simply kept on keeping on. It made me think about how all anyone needs is a little compassion, a little effort on the part of someone else to make them feel like they matter. I’m going to do my best to do more of that.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #6.2017: Months after receiving a gunshot wound to the head, a patient is discharged from the hospital. She wears a pendant made from the bullet that was embedded in her skull.

Luna stared deep into her own reflection and she was trembling. She was in the ladies’ room of a fancy Italian restaurant that required patrons bring their own alcohol. She was dressed in an emerald green dress that glimmered like the scales of a fish – or a mermaid’s tale, if she was feeling especially fanciful – when the light caught it in just the right way. Her best girlfriends had insisted the color did wonders for her complexion and for her eyes. Luna assumed that same would be said of her hair, as it was the same shade of brown as her eyes, but her hair was gone. Her head was shaved. And although it had had about four months to grow back, her hair was taking its sweet time to return. The imperfections of the shape of her skull were exposed for all to see, and she felt so vulnerable. Her trembling hand moved to the side of her head, and trembling fingers traced the scar that ran from the front of her skull all the way to the back. It was ugly and purple and bloated, and it separated her hair in an unfashionable line.

The bullet entering and exiting her skull had done the same, had separated her life by an unfashionable, hard line. There was life before the bullet, and then there was life after the bullet.

Luna had been walking her overweight, long-haired Chihuahua named Teddy in the park just a block or two from her apartment building. It had been a marvel of a September day; warm enough to forego a coat beneath an unblemished blue sky. She saw the kids playing basketball and heard their raucous shouts and laughter. They added to the atmosphere, became ambient sound, and so she paid them no special attention. If she had, she might have dropped to the pavement when everyone else had.

In the shot of a lifetime, a stray bullet from an attempted drive-by shooting traveled through a chain link fence, across a blazing blacktop, and through another chain link fence before coming to halt inside the skull of Luna. She collapsed to the ground, falling at the same rate as the blood that spurted from the wound and splattered the fence. It made a neat pool on the ground around her, but Luna didn’t really remember all of that. She didn’t remember anything. It was all a black void until she woke up in the hospital about a month later.

When Luna was released, the doctors presented her with the bullet they had extracted from her skull during surgery. She had it melted down and molded into a neat oval, and she wore it around her neck. Her mother said she was morbid, and her friends never talked about it, but all of them had encouraged her to move on, to keep living, to be happy for her second chance. And Luna supposed she was.

But it was hard. It was hard looking like some oddly feminine monster of Dr. Frankenstein’s while trying to date. And it was hard to keep from crying when someone asked about the pendant she was wearing. And it was hard to escape to be confronted by a mirror.

bulletbrain

%d bloggers like this: