Random Channel Surfing

Meeting him was a calm sea after the storm. the quiet moments after a gun blast. Meeting him was the salve for her burn. the refreshing cool water trickling down her trachea. Meeting him, meeting him, meeting him. She was the raging sea -- waves crashing, tide rising, despair and moaning washing onto shore. She was the pulling of the trigger -- taut, then unwound, the crash, the boom, the crackle and thunder. She was burning, pining,  desperate for him. She was parched, thirsty,  needing his sustenance in her life. He was all this and more. She  was all this and more.

And how these two things are related. This year is interesting. And I don't mean interesting the way people use the adjective to describe something indescribable or suspect; the way people use the word when they're trying to be polite and give voice to a feeling or emotion they feel is offensive; the way the characters in the book Room use it. I mean "interesting" in that it's given me a lot of food for thought. This year has been one of growth and self-exploration. I've learned a lot about myself in terms of what I want and need, and the thing that's really struck me the most is that a lot of my creativity is dependent on my travels. Ergo, if I don't fly, my imagination won't soar. (Cheesy. Yes.) I have a theory for this: I do a lot of people-watching when I visit other cities or countries. I think my favourite part of traveling is probably waiting at the terminal before boarding my plane. And it's not because I'm not looking forward...

Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo. *cue fanfare* And... It's off to an okay start. I had three story ideas, so I decided to write all three. I don't know if I'll keep that up, but for now... it seems to be working. I mean, whenever I feel inspired for one, I'll write that. When creativity for that story is zapped, I'll start working on either of the other two stories. It's interesting because my approach to this exercise is very non-committal. All I want is to write the 50'000 words in thirty days. Past that? I don't really have any real drive or motivation or impetus. It's all about the numbers for me, baby! So I don't know if it's because I'm only going through the motions with this: Whether it's because I want to be able to say, "I've written a book!" or really if it's because I'm feeling slightly pressured, but... that's how I'm approaching this year's NaNo. Plus, let's not forget the fa...

I really did try to be better writing-wise. But, as is always the case with me, real life got in the way. Janis and Wyatt got married on July 23, so the week leading up to that was hectic. After their wedding, I tried to catch up on household chores--this means I reorganized the stuff in my room and did a lot of cleaning--and caught up with friends after work. So. No writing. Anyway, I can make a thousand and one excuses, but the fact remains: I didn't keep my last promise. I have a habit of doing that, hey? Still, I feel that my writing work ethic has improved in that I'm actually writing. Since my last post, I've started two drafts and I've started pre-editing my novel. If that isn't progress, well then I honestly don't know what is. Baby steps. Baby steps. Also, I'm reminded of an uncomfortable truth I shared with my Mellie a year ago: I have another, more pressing, issue I need to attend to before I can follow the rest of my script. I'm try...

Hello? Anybody there? So. I know it's been a while... much longer when you consider the fact that the posts I made back in April were recycled (see here ) and had been in my drafts since 2013 (see here ). The last real blog post I'd made was the one I made on March 4th to commemorate my 30th year of life. So. I'm feeling sheepish? Yeah. I guess that's the right word. I'm feeling sheepish that I've hardly written a figurative peep in months and the shame that goes with the sheepishness is only amplified by the fact that I had grandiose plans for my 30th year. Lame, yes, but I really did. So. The only reason I can think of attributing to this radio silence is that I'm in--yet another--writing funk. It happens to me quite often I'm finding. A result of my high, high, high as the sky  hopes for my writing career and my monumental fear of sucking. The fear is real, guys; I kid you not. So. This is my first attempt at improving my situation. So. I pl...

She arrives first; sped-walk most of the way, really, and fidgeted for the seven minutes she had to wait for him. She took a hold of a nearby newspaper to keep her hands from shaking, reminding herself to be cool be cool  and forcing herself to take several deep, calming breaths, continuously looking up the moment anyone walked through the door. The anxiety kept building and it was beginning to make her fret again. Peering out the window for the first time since picking up the paper, she saw him on his bike; his camel-coloured satchel at his side, his white helmet bouncing the sun's rays like a ping-pong ball, the white of his shirt momentarily blinding her. Fearing she'd be caught gaping, she turned her back to the door, choosing to feign indifference when he walked through the door. Still, despite her best effort, she blew her cover the moment she heard the door open and she caught herself looking at his worn KEDs shoes. And when their eyes met (hers shy and eager, his ...

She doesn't know whether the resentment she feels is valid. She knows that he did everything in his power to help her; is aware that he's put himself out for her; and yet, she resents him. She resents that he believes she needs his help. She resents that he knows she'd be lost without him. Most of all, she resents that he didn't choose her in the end. It's never easy when one person loves more than another. She's proof that things don't ever work out the way we want them to. She watches him walk away, her gaze faltering slightly when he reaches his wife. She bites down on her cheek, willing the traitorous tears to stay in their ducts. She feels his eyes on her and, when she meets his remorseful gaze, she feels the anger rise up like lava in an active volcano. She turns on her heel, leaving him, leaving the life she dreamed she'd have when he'd choose her, leaving her old life in ruins. She walks with purpose, her heels click-clacking on the c...

I just finished my first short story. It's very short. I think that's about the only definite thing I can say about it, seeing as I'm not overly keen with the actual story or writing. Still, I want to keep my writing mojo going; I don't want to fall into a weird habit of not writing and then having to re-work those creative muscles back again when I finally write my novel. Because I want to make one thing clear to everyone -- especially myself -- NaNoWriMo taught me that I can write a novel. It showed me that I have the stamina and perseverance to write every day and to actually form a narrative. Knowing what I do post-Nano, I know that it's only a matter of time until I write my book. However, I know that I have to work hard to keep writing. I might write a little bit every day on this blog, but it's rarely a short story. In order for me to improve as a storyteller, I know that for me, personally, creative writing is the way to go. So, although the story I ...

Now that November has come to a close and that I'm not obligated to put fingers to keyboard and write, I'm in a weird mood. I wrote the 50 K so I am a winner , but I didn't finish my story. I had about seven scenes left to write, including the conclusion, and a handful of unfinished scenes to complete, but in my quest to attain 50 K words, the story fell by the wayside and I'm left with an unfinished tale. And now, a day after I reached 50,293 words, part of me feels compelled to visit Adia and Nate and Brendan and finish their story. Tamara asked if I would finish my story, given that I want to keep writing. To be honest, as tempting as that idea is, I think I'm going to wait to finish it. NaNoWriMo makes the Wrimos (the name they use for anyone who participated) promise they'll revise their novel in the "Now What?" months, January and February. Waiting until then will be better because I'll be looking at my story with fresh eyes. I'm not en...

November 30, 2015 will go down as the day I reached 50K words after a thirty-day endeavour to write my first novel. November 30 is also Lucy Maud Montgomery's date of birth. As anyone who knows me can attest, I've always wanted to be LM Montgomery.  Having achieved this goal, I feel like I have a leg up on my writing career. 

This month is National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo. I've been a member of NaNo for close to five years and have attempted to start writing a novel three times already. Each time I started writing my novel, however, I would give up because the words felt forced and the story wasn't flowing and I was too hung up on how awful everything was coming out. Instead of just letting the words flow through, I was fixating on my shortcomings and, regrettably, gave up a few paragraphs, sometimes sentences in. This year, Tamara and I decided that we would participate and that we would write a novel by the end of November. In this case, a novel is the equivalent of 50 000 words and, so far, I'm at 36 666. SAY WHAT?! It's funny, but the story is flowing and the characters have a life of their own; they're behaving in ways I never intended them to and they're doing things that are morally repulsive to me. I love it! But I think the reason why this story is f...

Fine. I'll admit it: I didn't submit the essay on Sunday. However, I did start it. I also decided the order in which I'd present my information. I even set time aside to work on it on Sunday. But , I didn't submit it. And it's not because I didn't want to pay the submission fee--at least not entirely. The reason I didn't submit my essay is because I didn't like what I wrote. I didn't like the style or the flow or the subject matter or the structure or the syntax or the blah blah blah. I didn't like it and I felt embarrassed that I thought I would be able to win the essay writing competition when the essay I'd written was nowhere near good enough. And the thought of sharing what I'd written made me nervous and nauseous and I'm starting to realize that part of the reason why I don't submit anything that I write is because sharing my writing makes me anxious. Not to mention that, as of yesterday, I realized that posting anyt...

I promised Char that I would submit articles and pitches to magazines and literary journals. This was in 2013. Ask me how many submissions I sent out. Okay. How many submissions did you send out, Marcela? A big fat a-zero. Yep. I didn't submit any. And while I felt vaguely guilty for not following my dreams and letting down a friend who wants to see me succeed, the guilt wasn't enough to propel me into action. Awful. I know. But an opportunity has come up that is making it hard for me to stay in this whole apathetic state of mind; I think I've found the perfect opportunity to submit an creative non-fiction essay. And while I don't know what I should write this essay on, I'm excited that I'm confident about the fact I'm going to submit an essay to one of Canada's feminist magazines. I mean, there's no wishy-washiness; just complete confidence that I'm going to be proactive about my literary aspirations. And it's liberating.

To fill the void. To numb the pain. To feel alive. Whatever the reason. Who knows. Who cares. Whatever whatever. He used me; (and like a fool) I let him get away with it.

she keeps getting told she ought to have told him how she feels but she did tell him in the way she held his gaze in the way she said his name in the way she stroked his arm in the way she smiled at him she was exposed to his x-ray eyes she was honest and transparent and vulnerable and got nothing for it he took her admission of affection and threw it away like       it                meant                               nothing she keeps getting told that she ought to have told him how she feels no one knows she did

He supposes he should be grateful to her; after all, if she hadn't called off the wedding, they might be on their way to an unfulfilling life where he loved her exponentially more than she could ever love him. Right? Because the fact is this: He always loved her more than she could ever love him. And it's true what they say, love is never equal. One person will always ( always ) love more. And he was happy being that person; she deserves that level of devotion; she deserves that kind of commitment. And she seemed to agree up until 13 hours ago. Thirteen. Unlucky number 13. If she hadn't confronted him on the eve of their wedding, he would have continued assuming that she was happy and sated. But no amount of love he feels for her will ever be enough. No matter how fiercely committed he remained to her, it never measured up. The imbalance was too great and she felt the enormity of it all on her slender tan shoulders. She knew, much sooner than he did, that they w...

There's a look you get and it makes me fall in love with you. Sometimes, it's the face you make when you're embarrassed. When the rosy hue in your cheeks darkens and your eyes adopt a vulnerable quality that betrays the tender soul you have. When it's clear you feel naked and exposed; when I can see who you really are before you hide behind your sarcasm or wit, your charm or your grace. That's the face I see before I fall asleep and dream of you. Other times, it's the face you make before you say whatever it is you want to say. When you motion with your hands; clawing, grasping, trying to pull the elusive words from thin air, your speech stuttering because the thought you want to express fills you with so much passion, you don't know how to vocalize it. When you gently bite your lip, your eyes to the sky as you try to articulate the point as best you can. When your inability to make yourself understood helps me read you better than I ever have before....

And it's not because I don't feel anything for you anymore. In the quiet of the night, I can still admit that I care for you. I deny my feelings only when a mutual friend asks me if I still care for you. Deny deny deny. Deny it so well that I convince myself that all I felt for you is gone. That no remnants of you remain in my heart. And it's not because all of my questions have been answered. I still wonder what was going through your head all along. I still wonder what I did to push you away, or if you ever pulled away at all. I sometimes self-sabotage. Did I do it again with you? Self-sabotage is a funny thing, isn't it? I've done it so many times it's a reflex now. And it's not because my issues with how things played out have been resolved. I fantasize about what would have happened if I'd stayed away from you from the get-go. I still wonder what might have happened if I'd acted braver, or if I'd been more honest with myself. I admit tha...

I can pretend that you love me. I can imagine you walking next to me. I can picture you kissing our children goodnight. I can see, in my mind’s eye, the expression in your eyes when you propose. I have a very vivid imagination. So vivid. So vivid it often tricks me into believing — nay, assuming — that what I dream in my wake state is my reality. I have a very vivid imagination. I wish I could pretend it away. I wish I preferred reality to my own imaginings. I wish I wasn’t haunted by what I picture before I fall asleep. I wish I couldn’t visualize the way I do. But I can and I do. I have a very vivid imagination. It’s something I have to contend with.

The plumber came by yesterday and fixed the leaky faucet in my bathroom. I used to lie awake in bed, listening to the drip -- drip -- drip . I obsessed over it. Knew its rhythm. Allowed it to lull me to sleep every night. The faucet wasn't always broken; it took months for it to break. I could see that it was weakening over time, yes, but it broke all at once one day and, really, there was nothing I could do to fix it. It was a nuisance. Constant, unavoidable, and a pain. It was audible; it kept me up. How could I sleep when there was a constant noise not even one room away? I tried to ignore it most nights, cranked up the music as I read, or put in a movie to drown out the drip -- drip -- drip . Nothing worked; it always made it through somehow and it always kept me up. It became part of my routine, this noise. I anticipated hearing it at night, needed it to go to sleep. I started worrying that if I were to get it fixed, sleep would be impossible for me. I resisted for months,...