Writing Exercise #56

She loved that he tasted like tea. They acted a little like they weren’t sure how this would go; like they’d never been this close before. But they had. This was how it used to go: they would bare their souls to each other and then make out like teenagers. He tasted like black tea and when she buried her face in his neck, his smell was like an awakening.

He smiled at her, she at him. Familiar faces, kind eyes. They had both seen each other cry. He kissed her and she kissed him. His five-o’clock shadow was a little rough on her skin and later she would feel the heat from his whiskers on her cheek as she drove home. The tension that usually filled the air around them had evaporated and suddenly it was just the two of them, unchaperoned by the reality that usually kept them in check.

They finally stepped away from each other, the spell broken, the night suddenly cold again. “No frost tomorrow, clouds coming in.” He said. “Yeah.” She replied. She always wanted more from him. “It’s past my bedtime.” She said. “Talk to you tomorrow.” He replied.

Disappointment and the aching need for his touch curled around her like a scratchy blanket as she pulled out of the parking lot. His headlights in her rearview mirror for a few blocks and then gone. She willed him to call her, to tell her that he needed her, had to have her, wanted her to meet him somewhere…anywhere…but the phone stayed stubbornly silent beside her as she drove.

She realized that in the deep seeded friendship they had; would always have, they were equals, but anything more than that and she would be the one who loved more. She hated that her tears tasted like pity but she smiled and thought again how she loved that he tasted like tea.


4/6/2011: Five Minute Stream of Consciousness Exercise

(Documenting thoughts as they occur – this may or may not make much sense…)

9:49am: I was laying in bed last night trying to sleep. Thoughts kept rushing into my head about past jobs and things I would have liked to have said or done, things I can obviously do nothing about but obsess over anyway. I thought about what I would have liked to have said to my last boss at the newspaper about how insane she was. But when I think about that kind of thing I have to also think about how I let that situation or person make me feel so crappy. If I were a lesser person, maybe I could put blame on other people and leave it at that but ultimately; aren’t we responsible for what happens to us? Aren’t we accountable for how other people and situations make us feel? My Mom always says that you can’t control what people say or do to you but you can control how you react. My Mother is a beautiful genius.

So while I lay there pointlessly regurgitating past arguments last night (as I do most nights) it comes to me…I must have something missing. There must be some little naive thing in me that everyone else “gets” but I am clueless to. I try to be self-aware but the reality is; there must be a vibe that I put out there that must be just like kryptonite to Superman.  I feel like I’m missing the micro-chip for “playing the game.” I mean, aside from just working hard and learning…why do I also have to deal with office politics? Can I just say here and now that I don’t care? Why can’t we all just be who we are and work like adults? I don’t really want to have to play any games. Aren’t we a bit old for that by now?  9:56am (a little over five minutes)


Hey there! Thank you for stopping by. The reason I decided to start a blog…and fill out a business license application tonight is all due to Steven Pressfield and he has no idea. I am currently reading “The War of Art” by Mr. Pressfield and it has been the floaties on the arms of my bravery. Check out this site:


This blog is mostly a place for me to try out my short story ideas, post random thoughts and just write. I have an order entry job in a fairly normal office and it is draining all creativity out of my life…which is actually what I think these jobs are designed to do to avoid any rebellion within the group.

I am married to a great guy and we live in an old farmhouse in WA that is under constant renovation. It is also the house in which he and his ex-wife raised their kids. They were married for 25 years. He is 13 years my senior and in 2008 at 34 years old, I became a step-grandma. I skipped a whole level…that is cool right? No. Not cool. I don’t even have any kids of my own. It’s so unconventional but it is my life and for what it’s worth…I love my life. It’s not as unconventional as his ex-wife wanting to be “Besties” with me but that is another story for another time. We have some pets…Margie is our three-year old Shi’tzu and who I named my new business after: Margie Ink. I hope to use this as a catalyst to my writing every day…it is a business…writing is my part-time job. Theoretically, and according to Mr. Pressfield, I’ll actually write every day if I think of it as a “job” and that I am a “pro.”  The book should be called the “Art of Obligation” but that might have been a turn-off to some folks.

Anyway…Margie is our dog and since blog rhymes so nicely with dog, I stuck with the theme and named my new blog after her as well.  We also have an outside cat named Penelope (Penny), a rabbit named Beatrice (of course) and our newest member, a rescue cat named Mae Mobley (After the character in “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett.)  http://www.kathrynstockett.com/ She is a 9 pound cat so my husband, who, since I’m naming everything, is named Carl, calls her Moby – as in the infamous whale but that is just because he likes to pretend he doesn’t like her. (He does.) Carl is also a huge inspiration to me…but that is every day and in every thing…not just following my heart.

So that is about all there is to tell for tonight…I hope my blogs help me improve the quality of my writing techniques and skill. I also sincerely hope that whomever (if anyone) actually reads any of my writings that they will honestly and without hesitation comment and critique whatever they want to. I am unafraid of critique and over the years have often re-written my own short stories to the point of three or four different endings. This is my new part-time job…day one; complete.