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On 3,000 words.

Published November 20, 2019 by mandileighbean

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Leave it to me to finally complete a “Writer Wednesday” post on an actual Wednesday  the week before Thanksgiving, one of the busiest times of the year! This is likely only happening because I’m not hosting (but I am cooking … a little) and because what I want to share with you lovely, lovely readers is something I already wrote.

I’m B E Y O N D excited about studying abroad at the University of Limerick in Ireland, starting in September of 2020. In my last post, I shared some reservations about my next steps, but I’d be a big, fat liar if I didn’t admit that the first step was nerve wracking. I had to apply – no big deal, I’ve done that before – but I also had to submit 3,000 words of original writing as it’s a creative writing program. I haven’t published anything since 2010 despite my best efforts, and I worried my writing wouldn’t be good enough. I was terrified I’d face another rejection.

But my 3,000 words worked; I got in! And so, I’d like to share them with you. Please read them and please let me know what you think! How’s the characterization? Does Duke actually sound like a guy, or does Duke sound like me trying to sound like a guy? Is it too melodramatic? Please, please, please let me know!

Suffice it to say that Duke was a troubled man. Without getting into everything right away, without immediately investigating all of the tragic elements that composed his character, let it be known that simply put, Duke had a shit ton of emotional baggage. Quiet rage constantly bubbled just beneath his surface and whenever it boiled over, the damage was swift and devastating. Duke was cognizant of all that, and so he did his very best to stay calm. He practiced yoga in the early morning hours, before coffee and cigarettes. He quoted Buddha’s teachings when he needed to remind himself to be peaceful. Duke would do anything and everything to maintain an even keel, and that is why he found himself on the beach in February.
It was too cold to be on the beach, but Duke didn’t care. The sky was gray and miserable. The clouds were so thick in their misery that the sun had no real chance of poking through. Still, Duke sat in the frozen sand, his ass becoming numb. His heels were firmly sunk in with his toes pointing upward and slightly outward in opposite directions. His knees were bent, and his long arms curled around his knees with his chest resting against them. He was compact, trying to take up as little space as possible to keep warm. Duke wasn’t an idiot, though he certainly couldn’t be called a scholar, so he dressed appropriately for the weather. His wool beanie cap and long, corduroy jacket with the fleece lining did the best they could, but the wind whipping onto the shore from the bay was fierce and freezing. It unapologetically stung at the exposed bits of Duke’s skin and his jeans suddenly felt thin and worn.
But truth be told, he didn’t even mind the wind coming off the water in rowdy gusts. He breathed it all in deeply and with squinted eyes, Duke surveyed the flat landscape before him. He was reminded of that one poem from high school, the one with the famous line about water being everywhere but there not being a single drop to quench thirst. Duke was not a scholar, not by any stretch of even the kindest imagination, but he knew that poem was talking about saltwater; the stuff Duke’s chalice of salvation would be filled with. He had journeyed to the bay in the middle of February, trampled across frozen sand, just to be near his beloved mineral. Duke was cold, and knew he wouldn’t last out there much longer. But Duke also knew that he needed the sea; it calmed him.
The dark hair that escaped his beanie whipped around his face (he always kept his hair longer than what was considered fashionable) but Duke did his best to keep his eyes that were like drops of milk chocolate open, and his gaze steady. He watched the rolling waves with slightly parted lips, hoping to taste the salt in the air on his tongue. He firmly believed in the beneficial uses of sea salt and he knew that it calmed him when nothing else could. Aurora, his best friend, had once explained the romanticism of his beliefs, of the irony of it all, but that seemed like forever ago. It was lost on him then, and it was lost on him now; nothing changed. There was something futile and defeating in that train of thought, so Duke steered clear of it. He took a deep breath, breathed in all the salty air he could to completely fill his lungs, and closed his eyes.
He wanted so desperately to clear his mind.
He wanted so desperately to be at peace.
A single tear rolled down Duke’s cheek, reddened and raw from the incessant, frigid wind. He knew this wasn’t working and popped his eyes open. His muscles had tightened from the cold and the frigid weather seemed to stiffen his joints. Plus, he had been all curled up on the sand for the past half-hour, so it took him longer than he liked to get up and get moving. He needed to be Zen, to be calm, and if the sea proved disappointing, if sea salt let him down, Duke only knew of only one other place he could go.

Duke’s heavy boots caused the wooden floorboards of the deserted outdoor patio to creak loudly in the wintry silence. The Anchor Inn was open all year round, but did its best business in the summer when thirsty tourists were a dime a dozen. As the season progressed, the neon lights downtown became familiar and lost their appeal so that even the least adventurous made their way to the Anchor Inn in search of authentic local flavor. However, during the middle of the day (a day in the middle of the offseason), the local dive was empty except for town drunks needing a certain level of alcohol in the bloodstream to function normally, and those battling or embracing the kind of existential crisis that always seems to blindside the blissfully unaware on a random weekday afternoon. And it was in this very establishment, this very environment, where Duke could find his one other source of solace – as long as she was working.
The lighting was terrible and dim, as it usually is in such dive bars, and it took Duke’s eyes a moment to adjust and see the surroundings clearly. No one looked over when he walked in; despite being clean for three years, Duke was still considered a regular. So no one noticed Duke stroll over to the main bar and take his usual seat on a rickety, uncomfortable stool made of wood. The whole place was that way; rickety and uncomfortable and made of wood. The bar shrank and expanded with the seasons so that now it seemed small and cramped and cold, despite it being empty of clientele and in spite of the fireplaces roaring in opposite corners at the far end of the building. Duke was unaware of the less than appealing aspect of the place, felt comfortable enough for a prolonged stay, because he found what he was looking for. With a small smile, Duke enviously watched Aurora lose herself in some paperback novel. She had folded the cover back and was chewing her bottom lip as she read. She was leaning on her forearms that were resting on the bar top, and her one leg was just a few inches in front of the other and slightly bent at the knee so that her whole posture could be described as bent. Duke wondered not only how Aurora could possibly be at ease in that position but how long she could endure such a position. Duke observed his friend for just a minute more, still smiling in a muted way, tracing his mouth and chin by moving his thumb and pointer finger along his thin mustache in opposite directions, down along the laugh lines that formed parentheses around his mouth, and reuniting his fingers below his pointed chin in the short hair of his trimmed beard. Musing complete, he let his hands come together and folded them on top of the bar. “Hey Aurora,” he greeted in his low, sturdy growl.
Startled, she looked up quickly but once she realized who spoke, she relaxed. Aurora, whom everyone else affectionately called Rory, straightened her posture after closing the book and slipping it onto a shelf beneath the bar. Smiling wide, she said, “Well hey there, Duke. What are you doin’ classin’ this place up?”
“It’s my day off – thought I’d stop by and see you.”
Aurora was pouring Duke a tumbler full of ginger ale, already knowing to hold the whiskey. She was eyeing him cautiously but her playful smile hung around her lips. “Oh yeah? You need money or something?” She shot Duke a wink and slid the glass over to him.
Duke was relaxing. “Can’t your best friend say ‘hi’ for no other reason than to be friendly?”
“Best friend,” Aurora repeated in mock skepticism. She was leaning her weight on the bar top with her palms splayed wide. “Laying it on kind of thick, aren’t you? Must be after a small fortune from me; use and abuse, that’s you all over.”
“Fuck off,” Duke said with a soft laugh. He brought the glass to his lips and sipped.
Aurora’s smiled faltered nearly imperceptibly and she leaned closer to Duke. “You okay though? Seriously?”
Duke shrugged and dropped his gaze. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just –” he was about to use the word “needed,” but didn’t like how it would likely ring in Aurora’s ears later, so he decided against it – “just wanted to see you.”
Aurora paused to think for a moment, but her expression remained the same. She squeezed Duke’s hand that was free of the glass and said, “I’ll be right back with some pretzels for you.” She moved somewhere to the right, off into some room Duke couldn’t see and in her absence, Duke released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. He shook his head from side to side once, telling himself “no” in response to a question no one asked.
To announce her return, Aurora chucked the bag of pretzels at Duke. “Day off, huh? Must be nice.”
“First one in a long time; you know I never take time off.”
“Maybe you should,” Aurora advised.
“Are you working all day?”
“Kid cancelled tutoring, so I picked up another shift here.” Aurora busied herself with wiping glasses she’d already wiped clean. “Why? Did you want to do something?”
“No, but,” Duke paused to breathe, “do you care if I hang out here today?”
“Of course not,” Aurora laughed, “even though I can’t figure out why. Nothing’s going on here, man. I’ve cleaned these same glasses six times and,” she turned to look at the handful of customers scattered along the bar and raised her voice, “no one’s tipped me yet!” The patrons all knew Aurora, all liked Aurora – everyone liked Aurora – and so they only smiled, raised their glasses to her, and promptly returned to ignoring her. She rolled her eyes to Duke in exaggerated disdain for her beloved locals.
Duke wasn’t as comfortable as Aurora was around people in the town so small it was actually claustrophobic. He knew exactly what people thought of him. Duke did his best to avoid undue attention, whispers so loud they were intended to be overheard, and knowing, disapproving glances. So he lowered his voice and changed the conversation, asking, “What were you reading?”
Aurora snorted dismissively. “Some book I found in my basement. There’s lots of gun play and forced characterization and no real depth, but it’s entertaining as hell.” She shrugged. “You can borrow it when I’m done if you want.”
“Thanks anyway. I don’t really read.”
Aurora nodded. “Yeah, I remember doing your English homework for four years.”
“Don’t get mad at me because you were a nerd desperate for attention from a really cool, really hot guy.”
“You called me your best friend when you walked in here, dick,” Aurora laughed as she swatted Duke’s arm. She moved down the bar to check on her other customers, still looking for tips. Duke watched her go and felt himself fill with appreciation. She never asked for anything and saved the lectures but was always willing to kick his ass if he ever needed it. She loved him, was unfortunately in love with him, and Duke loved her but was not in love with her. He wondered how long such a relationship could last. It had been over ten years. Duke worried he might be pushing his luck.
Aurora sauntered back to Duke. “It’s dead here, and George is in the back. I’m going out for a smoke. Wanna come?”
Duke nodded. He slid off the stool and followed Aurora out the rear exit. She pushed the heavy door open with her hip, slipping her coat on as she moved outside. “Fuck, it’s cold,” she complained through gritted teeth.
“The wind’s picked up some since I came in,” Duke said.
“Shit,” was all Aurora replied. She didn’t have gloves so to save her fingers, she pulled her sleeves past her fingers and used her hands as claws to hold and open the pack of cigarettes she retrieved from the back pocket of her jeans. To continue to avoid using her fingers, Aurora bit down on a cigarette and pulled it from the pack using her teeth. Duke watched with real amusement and Aurora winked. “Give me a light, fucker.”
Duke stepped forward and flicked the lighter. Aurora puffed and pulled until a thin tendril of smoke circled to the sky. “You could have said ‘please,’” Duke admonished.
Aurora removed the cigarette from between her lips. “Yeah, and I could have said ‘thank you,’ but you know that’s not how this friendship works.”
“Yeah, right,” Duke laughed.
Aurora took a few steps closer to Duke and pursed her lips to exhale the smoke away from Duke. She looked up into his face very seriously. “So now that we’re alone and you’re more comfortable and more likely to tell me things, tell me what’s going on with you.”
Duke looked back at Aurora just as seriously. “What makes you think something’s up with me? Why can’t I just spend time with my best friend?”
“I’m touched, Duke, but you know that I know that you’re full of shit. So talk to me, okay?”
He lowered his face closer to Aurora’s. They were just inches apart. “Leave it alone, Aurora, please. I’ll come to you when I’m ready. I always do, so don’t push the issue.”
Duke was confident Aurora would oblige him, and she changed the topic of conversation. She tried to play it off like she didn’t just do whatever he asked and pretended to be suddenly distracted. She acted like she hadn’t even heard what Duke said, but Duke knew better than to believe her sudden change in interest when she asked, “What’s that around your neck?” Aurora reached out and touched the vial that hung closely around Duke’s neck.
Duke looked down. “What do you mean?”
“What’s in there?” Aurora asked as she gingerly handled the vial with one of her sleeve-covered claws. “It’s beautiful, really awesome, so I feel like it’s too pretty to be cocaine or something like that. What’s it filled with?”
Duke rolled his eyes. “It’s sea salt.”
Aurora was so surprised she didn’t know what to do, so she laughed. “Why sea salt?”
“It calms me,” Duke said. “Maybe all your hippie bullshit swayed me. I was inspired by that lamp you bought me when I came home from the hospital.” He laughed softly through his nose. “Just trying to keep the inner peace.”
Aurora nodded, taking a drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled above her head as she answered. “Matt and Eric told me you’ve started to really get into yoga lately.”
Duke momentarily clenched his jaw. “Yeah, so?”
Aurora smiled, shaking her head. “Don’t let them give you shit for it. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” She quickly kissed his cheek.
“You know, I guess it started way before that, though.” Duke was becoming nostalgic, so his tone wasn’t exactly filled with humor and his shoulders shifted awkwardly, like the conversation had become uncomfortable and he wanted nothing more than to get away from Aurora. “Do you remember when I went to the beach with Uncle Rick when I was in elementary school? And I was out for a couple of weeks?”
Aurora nodded. “You guys had a bad car accident or something.”
“Well,” Duke began hesitantly, “Uncle Rick and I loved looking for fulgurites. Rick liked it more than I did, but I was happy to tag along, so- “
“Wait,” Aurora interrupted, smirking. “What’s a fulcrum thing?”
“Fulgurite,” Duke corrected. “It’s petrified lightning.” Aurora’s face was still blank. “It’s what happens when lightning strikes sand. Uncle Rick said it was like a permanent record of the path of lightning on earth, and the fulgurites are hollow, glass-lined tubes with sand stuck to the outside. We went to the beach for that specific reason all the time, but this time, we misjudged when the storm was going to hit and we were on the sand when the lightning struck.” He looked away from Aurora. “There was no car accident. I was struck by lightning.”
Laughter erupted from Aurora. “No way,” she argued. “There is  no way you got fucking struck by lightning.” She shook her head and took a drag of her cigarette. “We would have known about it.”
“I made Uncle Rick promise to keep it quiet. I was embarrassed and so was he, and we were afraid my deadbeat dad would hear about it and try to get custody or money or both. I went for all these tests on my brain after and I was afraid you’d think I was crazy or weird.”
Aurora was sad. “I would never think anything like that about you.”
“You might have when you were seven.”
Aurora tossed her cigarette and stepped closer to Duke. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it was like twenty years ago.”
“No lasting side effects?”
Duke shrugged. “They were monitoring my moods and sleep pattern for a while, but then they stopped. All I have to prove it even happened are some really light but crazy scars on my back that sort of loop to my chest.”
“How come I’ve never seen them?”
“They’re really light, like I said. You have to get pretty close to see them.” He cleared his throat and didn’t particularly care for the way Aurora was looking at him, like she’d never really ever seen him before. He wondered if she was changing her mind about him. Duke decided he didn’t want to know, so he decided to change the topic of conversation. “What are you doing Friday night?” Duke asked.
Aurora blinked twice and refocused.

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On the beginning of an adventure (possibly).

Published November 14, 2019 by mandileighbean

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I’m the worst. Not only did I miss another Wednesday deadline, but I didn’t do any of the things I said I would in my last blog post. If I want to be fair, I was on vacation in Florida with my older sister and her family, so I prioritized my time with my nephews and niece. Instead of running and blogging, I played games and helped with homework and watched movies on the couch with the greatest little humans on the planet. Another consolation is that I didn’t do too bad with my diet and to be honest, I’m getting back on track this week. The only reason why I didn’t run this morning was that I slept
H O R R I B L Y last night and it was FUCKING FREEZING this morning. Tomorrow is another day, and if I can stay within my calorie limit and exercise 90% of the time for 21 days, voila! New, healthier habits!

And I had reason to celebrate while I was on vacation. The Friday I left (November 1st), I received an email from Professor Joseph O’Connor letting me know he was informally recommending I be placed in the Creative Writing Master’s Program at the University of Limerick! He told me he reviewed my application, which means he read my original writing and thought it was good enough for me to continue working on the manuscript. The author of one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read saw potential in my writing … holy shit.  The official offer came the Friday I was heading home (November 8th) with a scholarship offer! This time next year, I could be in Limerick, Ireland, working on my writing and living a different life. There are just a few things I need to figure out:

  1. Finances: student loans? Grants? Scholarships? Home equity loan? Pension loans? I need to figure out how to finance this trip, since I’ll be taking a sabbatical from work and will be without a paycheck for an entire year.
  2. Sabbatical: speaking of, before I get too excited and before I start making all sorts of plans, I need to make sure my leave of absence is approved. I have to make a formal request and write a letter to the superintendent.
  3. House: if I get the money and the permission from work, what will happen to my home? The mortgage will still need to be paid. Do I rent it out? Will that affect my insurance? What if I can’t find anyone interested? Do I sell it?

So there’s still some figuring to do, but I feel like I’m on my way. In the meantime, I should get some writing done. And I want to make a note of how absolutely wonderful and supportive everyone has been, especially my coworkers.

Stay tuned, friends.

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On stars and herons.

Published October 16, 2019 by mandileighbean

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I saw a shooting star and a beautiful, proud, elegant egret egret when I was walking the boardwalk this morning. Naturally, I wanted to know what those two sightings meant – you know me, always looking for signs. The first website I found was a blog with questionable credentials, but it said: “Shooting Stars symbolize Good Luck, A change or big event is coming towards your life, it can also be a symbol of endings. … They can also be a symbol of reaching one’s ultimate destiny” (source). I immediately thought of all the personal and professional upheaval from last year, and for the plans I’ve been making recently (the trip to Ireland, starting a new manuscript, and getting mentally and physically healthier). I wanted this to be true and somehow verifiable, so I hunted the internet for a more reliable source.

According to HowStuffWorks.org, “Shooting stars, also known as fallen stars, send streaks of light across the night sky before burning out into a point of inky blackness. Superstition has it that simply spotting one of these stars as it falls can bring good luck, though the rationale behind this custom changes based on who’s telling the story. Some cultures claim that fallen stars represent souls that have been released from purgatory, allowing them to finally begin the ascent to heaven and peace. In Britain and other areas, a shooting star represents the soul of a new baby falling to Earth, ready to begin a new life [source: Murrell]. Either way, the shooting star is said to possess a bit of magic, which means positive vibes and good luck for anyone who happens to gaze upon one.” This makes me happy because I could definitely use some good luck. I’m trying to get my work published, I’m trying to study in Ireland, and if I’m being really honest, I’m trying to fall in love. Hoping the falling star is really a precursor to good luck and prosperity, I kept reading. “Some shooting star superstitions can affect your life without any action on your part, but the type of luck you end up with could depend on something as random as where the star is positioned in the sky. If you spot a fallen star on your right, it means good luck, while one on your left indicates misfortune will follow. If you’re quick, you may be able to shift position as the star travels in an attempt to change your luck [source: Dillon]. Shooting stars also bring luck on the road. Spot one while on a trip, and your voyage is guaranteed to be a success [source: Goldsmith].” Luckily, the shooting star I saw this morning was in front of me, although it did fall to the left. But optimism is the new cynicism, eh? Let’s make being happy cool again. I’ll start by ignoring half of this explanation.

I kept reading (I’m a nerd; it’s what I do) and found some tidbits that could make for really interesting short stories. For example, “Counting the stars may be a good way to pass the time on a clear night, but superstitious folks should skip counting in favor of other pastimes. Counting the stars has always been considered a surefire way to bring on bad luck, and some legends state that if you attempt to count the stars in the sky, you’ll die when you reach 100 [source: Dillon]. Some believe that this superstition stems from ancient people who worshipped the sun, moon and stars, while others argue it’s a more recent custom [source: Roud]. Of course, with at least 200 billion stars in the galaxy, it’s likely that you’d die of natural causes well before you could get very far into your count, lending this superstition an air of credibility [source: NASA].” I don’t think I’ll take that risk; I’m bad at math anyway, and I like just looking up at the brilliantly lit heavens and thinking about how weird and wonderful it is just to be alive at all. But imagine if that actually happened, like if there was a stretch of shoreline where countless people had died because they’d stretched out on a blanket and tried to relax, tried to count stars. Imagine other people heard about the phenomenon but didn’t believe, only chalked it up to urban legend, so people started trying and testing it out and BAM! People keep dying. That might be a good start of something….

Another section had to do with “Love in the Stars,” and it said: “It’s well established that attempting to count the stars can be unlucky or even fatal, but one superstition holds that it’s OK to count under very specific circumstances. According to folklore, only an unmarried person looking for love can keep a tally. Even in this case, the unmarried person can count a maximum of seven stars on seven consecutive nights. If you do this, the first person of your preferred sex that you shake hands with on the eighth day is the one you’ll marry. For those struggling to find the one, it seems like a harmless way to not only locate love, but also a chance to finally count the stars without fear of inviting bad luck into your life [source: Radford and Radford]” (source).

To add to the good omen of seeing a shooting star, I was P U M P E D to find out that egrets (more commonly known as white herons, apparently) are also signs of good things to come. According to a YouTube video (which I know is not the most reliable of sources), “This great bird, talked of throughout ancient history and many cultures, is also commonly known as the Great White Heron. … A double headed Heron in Egypt is symbolic of prosperity. As a Chinese symbol the Heron represents strength, purity, patience and long life.” I found this information to be reassuring. Even though I am not Egyptian or Chinese, I have been working at becoming stronger and relying less and less on validation from others. I have been working at becoming purer and removing people and activities from my life that make me or keep me toxic. I’ve always been patient even though it mostly drives me insane. It took me two years to find a full-time teaching job after graduating from college. It took me two years to publish my novel after completing the manuscript. It took me two years to close on my home. It seems like two years is my typical wait time for things, but I’m not keen on wasting any more time in finding love. Though the heron also symbolizes a long life, I don’t want to wait forever to be loved. I think being hyper-focused on fostering a romantic relationship has hurt my writing in the sense that I am constantly distracted and prioritize being with potential partners over writing alone in my room.

So the key, as always, is balance. How do I balance being a productive writer with being fully connected to other human beings? There is some isolation required in being a writer, and I’ve read countless interviews with authors of varying degrees of success and fame who acknowledge that the writing life is a lonely one (though just how lonely depends on extenuating circumstances, I guess). But as the year 2020 nears, I’m going to work on loving and trusting myself, and going just a little bit fucking Gatsby.

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On routines.

Published October 11, 2019 by mandileighbean

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So I’ll be completely honest – despite all the declarations I made in my last post, I am still having a hard time with prioritizing writer … which explains why this week, I’m not updating until Friday (which I have no cutesy, alliterative title for). But every day is a new day, no?

And I have been *thinking* about writing. I have a couple of ideas for a couple of new projects kicking around and with the help of a particularly awesome beta reader, I’m sure I can make them all realities. And I do some of my best thinking while walking in the mornings. Every morning, I wake up between four o’clock and four-thirty and I immediately make my bed. I’ve read time and time again that developing both a morning and evening routine helps with anxiety, and that incorporating the making of your bed is essential. I wrestle with the sheets and tug the comforter until it’s even, and then I head downstairs and change into workout clothes. I make sure my wireless headphones are charged, turn on Amazon Music and Map My Run, and take off for just over two and a half miles. I walk the boardwalk just a couple of blocks from my home. My pace suffers when I brave the shadowy, far ends of the boardwalk, but my brain never slows. I feel enchanted by the moon glittering on the water when it’s full and hanging low in the sky. Sometimes, an egret will be poised with magnificent dignity in the water but more often than not, I’m praying to avoid the skunks which seem to overrun my sleepy, seaside town at particular times throughout the year. When I get back home, I shower and eat breakfast before doing my hair and makeup. I grab my lunch from the fridge and fill my thermos with coffee, and then I’m out the door and on my way to work.

I’ve tried to get to work early enough where I can write, but as of late, I’ve been having trouble meeting that go. I’ve been lazy and slow-moving in the mornings. It’s a goal to incorporate writing into my morning routine since reading is a crucial part of my evening routine.

What about you, dear readers? Are you night owls or early worms? Let me know! Do you have any tips for a solid morning or evening routine? Feel free to share in the comments!

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On writing reunions and summer reading.

Published July 18, 2019 by mandileighbean

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The beginning of July has been wonderful. I love the intense, dry heat as it is an excuse to be lazy and spend hours floating in a pool with a book in hand. I’ve had a slowly but surely diminishing pile poolside, and I’ve been nearly perfectly happy. It’s been difficult for me to carve out some time for reading during the school year that’s not dictated by my professional obligations. I’m hoping the I’m instilling reading habits in myself over the next two months or so will spill over into the Fall.

Nora Ephron wrote:

There’s something called the rapture of the deep, and it refers to what happens when a sea-diver spends too much time at the bottom of the ocean and can’t tell which way is up. When he surfaces, he’s liable to have a condition called the bends, where the body can’t adapt to the oxygen levels in the atmosphere. All this happens to me when I surface from a great book.

It’s been a long time since I’ve joyfully suffered from a literary case of the bends, far too long. I need to rediscover my love of reading and read in the totally immersive way I used to. Like in college. I always try to tell my students that they’ll never have the kind of time they have in college ever again to encourage them to use it wisely and selfishly. I read and read and read. I always had my nose in a book, whether it was for class or for pleasure. And I didn’t care if people thought me lazy. I didn’t feel a pressure to be doing something more constructive. Hell, if I’m being honest, I didn’t feel a pressure to do anything. While it’s true I had less responsibilities and was physically located in an atmosphere very much conducive to my bookworm lifestyle, there was something else at play that’s harder to articulate, a kind of freedom I worry I might never find again.

Anyway, while I was in college, I was reading A LOT of Stephen King. I had gone to see him read once or twice, had forced all my roommates to watch adaptations of his novel, and was head over heels, exclusively reading King. My love affair turned intense during my freshman year. I was living on the sixth floor of an older building on campus with four other young women. Our dorm room was huge; it was two large rooms (one for our beds and one for our desks) and there was a private bathroom through the room with our desks. It was also across from the laundry room and was where all the other Honors students stayed. There were parties and fun, but for the most part, the people I saw on a daily basis had their heads on straight.

I came home after class one day, super excited to continue reading Lisey’s Story by Stephen King. It was engaging and enthralling, and I was hooked. All I wanted to do was lay in bed and read, and I had been looking forward to doing so all day. But when I entered the dorm, I couldn’t find my book. It wasn’t where I had left it, which was where I always left it: on my pillow. When I turned to circle dramatically in despair and disbelief, I found my book in the clutches of my roommate Charlotte. Charlotte was a talented, gorgeous, intelligent, and wonderful young woman, one of the best roommates I had at college. I loved her. But I was pissed she had my book (but not as pissed as I was when she ate my cookie and left a note saying “Sorry, but I needed it,” but I guess that’s a story for another time). When I told her I was in the middle of reading it, she asked to finish the page she was on. I consented, and she placed a bookmark in the book. Charlotte assumed we’d be able to read the same book at the same time. I had my doubts.

But what a wonderful experience. I was ahead of her, so she and I could talk about what we were reading while I did my best not to spoil anything. She used a bookmark and I dog-eared my pages (I’m a monster, I know). When Charlotte had a bad day, I set up a “bool” hunt for her just like the ones that appeared in the book. It was a radical, inclusive way to read to literally share a book with someone, and I cherished every second of it.

Reading, though a solitary activity for the most part, can be an impactful and communal activity (hello, book clubs!) and I feel the same way about writing. Last week, I was able to catch up with elegant, fashionable writers I met a few years ago in St. Augustine, Florida at the Algonkian Writer’s Conference. We talked about our triumphs and tragedies pertaining to writing, and discussed why we keep going despite the disappointments and rejections. It was a much needed afternoon and I cherished every second of it.

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Joanna Elm

Joanna Elm, accomplished author and one of the attendees, chronicled the excursion on her wonderful, absolutely wonderful blog which you can read here.

So, I’ve been reading and I’ve been writing. I’ve sent a finished manuscript to five literary agents and five small presses. I’ve also begun working on entering a few contests.

And I’ve reached out to the University of Limerick and am still gathering all the necessary information to live and study there for a year.

Hope all is well with you, readers. ❤

On the ups and downs that inevitably come with change.

Published April 24, 2019 by mandileighbean

Hello, readers! I am super elated to be writing to you from the Sunshine State when I am taking in copious amounts of Vitamin D and time with family, both of which are essential to maintaining good health.

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I know I am not telling you anything that you don’t already know, that you haven’t already experienced firsthand, but the universe in an incredibly fickle place, my friends. Like the late great Frank Sinatra once crooned, “You’re riding high in April / Shot down in May…” because that’s life. I was feeling optimistic about my life and the direction it is heading in until I tried to be honest with someone I loved and the person was dismissive and manipulative, and then I attended a beautiful wedding where I had so much fun I am still sore (and maybe even still drunk), but there was an empty chair beside me. I am on vacation but flinch when I pass a mirror. This all may seem melodramatic and stylized, but E.L. Doctorow once said, “I am led to the proposition that there is no fiction or nonfiction as we commonly understand the distinction; there is only narrative.”

So what’s a girl to do?

Life changes moment to moment; nothing lasts forever and the trick is reminding myself that I believe that’s a good thing. There needs to be some kind of karmic, cosmic balance. You take the good, you take the bad, and then you have the facts of life … right? As corny and clichéd as these quotes may seem, I really think it’s an essential part of survival. People grow and change, so why shouldn’t circumstances? Why do we have this desire to nest and be stuck and comfortable and complacent? Isn’t the discomfort with the progress?

I’m thinking about change (and by extension, the lack thereof, I suppose) not only because of events in my personal life, but because of happenings in my professional life as well. This blog post is supposed to be all about change, like I’m supposed to discuss how my writing has evolved. I had a really wonderful conversation with my creative writing students a couple of weeks ago. It ended with a student-teacher they are convinced is a pimp and a werewolf with some stunning and compelling evidence (he was in a three-piece suit with a pink shirt underneath, with impossibly voluminous hair, and his hands were covered in silver rings which, according to my students, kept him from changing into his true self, a werewolf), but we also talked about scrutinizing our past selves. One of my edgier and more alternative students shared photos on her old social media accounts, where she constantly wore beanies she now dislikes and drew cat whiskers on her face with eyeliner. She was absolutely mortified by the fact that she had gone out in public like that, that people had seen her. I confessed some of my more embarrassing juvenile blunders (as in dressing and looking like the lead singer of My Chemical Romance for an entire year, on purpose) but luckily for me, there was no social media. I think there was MySpace, but everyone was new to pasting ourselves all over the internet so none of us really had anything to be proud of, and now, we all have something to be ashamed of.

But the conversation got me thinking of how we change as time marches on and how more often than not, we’re embarrassed by our past selves. Is it because we’re older and wiser? Or are we just adapting to the social norms and continuing to conform? Don’t you think there’s a certain kind of fleeting bravery in teenagehood, where we truly don’t give a shit and are thereby truly free? Either way, I believe it’s a universal experience to look back at something you were super passionate about and cringe. It happens to the best of us.

This happens when I look back on my first novel, Her Beautiful Monster. That does not mean I am not proud of that novel, because I most certainly am. I think it’s entertaining as hell and there are some turns of phrase in there that are beautiful and fresh and remind me that I have talent. However, at the same time, there are passages that embarrass me. I was so naïve to the whole business of writing, and as far as my personal life goes, I had yet to experience any of that character-building stuff known as heartbreak. I was too young to know better, and sometimes, I catch myself believing that ignorance really is bliss. The more I read, and the more I get to know other wonderful writers, I can feel defeated, like it’s never ever going to happen to me. On my worst days, I tell myself my first novel was a fluke, that the publisher was young and desperate like me, and it was good for the moment but that my writing career has no real longevity. I don’t have any real talent and people were just being nice.

My writing since that first novel has evolved, and that makes me happy and proud. I’m not looking just to entertain, although I hope that will always be my main objective. I have some important things to say, some wisdom to impart, and I’m more cognizant of my process and choices. That last bit is a double-edged sword, though, because I can get in my own way. Instead of letting my hands fall to the keyboard, or instead of just putting pen to paper, I overthink it and make my storytelling more complicated than it has to be because of some critique someone offered years ago.

“Moody Blue,” my second completed manuscript, might never be published. And that would be my own damn fault. I sent it out too early and without any real revisions. The first draft was a god-awful mess. This summer, I might change the title and send it back out, see what happens. Or should I just focus on this new story that I’m working on? It’s so hard to tell and on any given day, I can convince myself that either option is best.

I am so fucking annoying to myself.

But let me end on the positive: my writing has evolved to become more unique to me. My plots are better developed and my characters are more authentic.

Will it be enough to get published? I wonder…

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