Taking Back Control

We are fastened to one another by fraying knots.

Mottled steel. I want to rid myself of you.

Shrug you off like a winter jacket on the first day of spring.

Breathe relief into the heavy air as I feel you slide away from me.

I don’t want you to be happy, I don’t think you deserve it.

But is there even a you to begin with? Are you sentient? Are you real?

Because you are not true. I know that much.

I know that you can make me feel unworthy and small.

I know that you have the power to change me.

Shift and model me into whatever your will suggests.

I know that this control you have over me is no one’s fault but my own.

I know that life would be much cleaner, much healthier without you.

You whisper insecurities in my ear then shout them to the world.

You tell me it’s not enough. Nothing I do is enough.

I reach for happiness and feel my fingertips graze atop joy’s ruffled edges. Just as quickly gone. You’ve pulled me away, back to reality. Back to misanthropy. You stunt my happiness in ways you’ll never care to know.

You will take and take and take until I am a husk.

An empty shell awaiting orders from its owner.

Because eventually you will own me. My person, my spirit, my life.

You are a festering sore upon my back. You cultivate deeper into me with each passing day. Each passing hour.

This is why I must bid you farewell dear ego. For it is no one’s fault but my own. These deep seated cries of sorrow you sow.

I cast you away from my soul, as I have so many times before.

No longer will I allow you to live at the forefront my will.

No longer will I let you inside my common sense or rational thoughts.

I will leave you stranded and wondering what happened.

Alone and desolate.


But how long will it last?


When the Word-Floors Collapse

A pressure that is dainty but daunting wiggles in through my ear disguised as hopes and dreams of a rewarding future.

I wish I could tell you why I am so frightened of it.

I wish I could explain why I am terrified of the words that pour out of me like syrup globs over big round pancakes. The way they fall out of my brain and into sentences and paragraphs and stories.

Because the prospect of them dropping into the meaningless places, the void, frightens me the way the fox frightens the chickadee.

The idea that these floors upon floors of connected words will end up meaning nothing. That the anecdotes are flat and the meanings meaningless leaves a pinprick hole in some subterranean part of me. I can feel it expanding. I can feel it growing.

And the words are plummeting into this black hole now. Lost to the bottomless anxiety of the deepest clefts.

So I put fear around it all.

It sort of encapsulates my person like a blanket tossed upon the shoulders of a nearly drowned woman.

The terror shrouds me.

But I manage to push it down or pull it out or maybe I just banish it away to a nowhere place just long enough to rid the dark self-doubt from my mind.

Then I begin to regurgitate the words once more.

I remind myself that I am not my fear. I am not my insecurities. The words are terrifying as they fall out me, but they are also my liberator.

The You’s of Yesterday and Tomorrow

Once upon a lifetime, you were never tired. Minutes passed by like molasses through a sieve; long lasting and bittersweet.  You didn’t know that one day the easiness, the jovial adventures of youth would flit away like tissue paper pieces caught in a windstorm. Altering and shifting ever so slightly so you wouldn’t detect the change until years later. You didn’t know that life was so delicate. So defining.

You were wet cheeked and waiting for trouble. You had faith. Not confidence, more of a conviction for the unthoughtful standards which surrounded you.

You were beautiful. Fresh faced, energetic—never dog-tired and dragging your body from A to B as you do now. You were filled with lifeblood. You exuded it through tiny pores upon your glistening skin.

You were oh so positive. Dappled envy and the want for material goods had not yet sullied your go-getter attitude. You bled eagerness.

You look back on these days not with bitterness but an unbidden appreciation.

Because despite how able and animated you once were, you decide as you sit and sip coffee this early morning that you wouldn’t trade it back. You quite enjoy the person who writes these words today. You now have the confidence to take this realisation and lay it out, spread it along the various nooks and crannies of your life, let all the past and future you’s see it.

Life is defining, and the actions of the past have prepared you, primed your inner and outer self to be melded and shaped into a future person. Days, years, lifetimes past have initiated the process and it is your job to continue the construction until there is nothing left to construct.




He rests his weary mind. Sleep no longer comes easy to him. Not after the crash. 6 treacherous months of sleepless nights, of sleepwalking days. Of the two an unbroken knot of repetitiveness.  A constant state of sameness. Moonlight is bellowing through the slits of double sided fabric hanging on the windowpane. Ethereal particles of light catch his eyes, reminding him he is alone in this world. He wants to put his brain on pause. Bolt close the thinking parts and shut off his eyes. He wants to turn it all off. A warm tendril of breath. A tepid wisp of air across his lightly gowned chest. Whispering voices. “Hang in there.” “We love you.” “Come back to us.” If only he could. If only he could sleep.


Funny Fans

I once wrote silly stories. Laugh out loud stories. Stories that could make a reader giggle uncontrollably while the other occupants in the room looked at them as though they were crazy. I use to have a system that worked about 90 percent of the time when attempting to come up with the funny stuff. The rule was this; if it makes me smile it will make others laugh. You never think you are as funny as you actually are so this theory worked well most of the time.

Somewhere between all of the life and the work and the worries and the achievement the funniness has slipped away. It seems that one day I had it and the next day it was gone. Like ice in a glass on a hot day it has melted into me. Forever melding with the other writing things. The seemingly more essential things. Literary guise. Strong metaphors and slick sentences.

The thing is, funny is difficult. Especially funny writing. It is not an easy feat to make a person laugh but also make them think, wow, that was a well written piece—this is a rarity on its own. To throw funny on top of that!? Pure genius. I don’t know how well written my funny pieces were becasue usually when I look back upon my older work I think of it as awful dribble. But my mom tells me it was damn funny, so that must count for something.

I don’t think funny is completely lost to me. Well, at least I hope it isn’t. It may take some work getting her back and on page but I am confident that I can do it. It will be an interesting experiment to mesh the hints of hilarity that I once sprinkled so generously throughout my work with my now more ripened writing style.

Tell me, who are some great authors you know of that have mastered the art of funny? Drop me a comment so I can do a little research in my quest!

Nails on a chalkboard…that’s the mood this morning.

This morning I wake up and the worries of the world, no, the worries of my world stick to the front of my brain like a sloth to its tree…hmmm, that didn’t quite hit its mark did it? Like my daughter’s candy-glue fingers to the public bowl of toffee treats? Like my daughters candy-glue fingers to the whitened wall? Ah what about, like the tiny bit of tinfoil wrapping to the smarmy butter stick. Ugh, you know what, today is just not my day.

Anyways, the worries consume me. They eat up all of the joy and excitement I am supposed to have at this time of year. It is all of the normal things I worry about. Like business and money and how to possibly forge my way into the writing world when I have absolutely no qualifications to do such a preposterous thing. You know, the usual. It is not as though I am worrying about the extraterrestrial beings that are invading Earth or anything direr than that. I suspect my worries are quite similar (in a roundabout way) to those of anyone who woke up this morning with worries swimming through their brain’s wavelengths (perhaps a bit better?).

A deep sigh releases from my chest. My fingers keep pounding these keys looking for some kind of an answer. Some kind of release from the tightening sensation I’ve felt in my chest since opening my eyes this morning. They search for all of the things I want out of this life but seem to be finding impossible to gather up. The solution must be out there somewhere. In some deep recess of imagination or future thought or intention. It must be floating aimlessly; hoping and praying that sooner or later I will get my shit together just enough to reach out and grasp its concept. Put the pieces together and get the plan formulated to action. However right now, right here as I sit in this Christmas clad living room I cannot fathom even the smallest morsel of what this scheme could possibly be made up of.

At least the clinging anxieties of this morning have ebbed since placing my fingers to this keyboard. They will likely emerge again when I am driving or playing a game of Monopoly with the kids or shovelling snow from the driveway while cursing under my breath about all of the god damned fucking snow, but I suppose that is for later torment.

Maybe the trick of it is to find that release and work it regularly. Write out the worries. Sing out the stress. Draw out the disturbance. Everyone has something and the beautiful part of this strategy is while we are releasing these ill at ease feelings we are practising our craft, perfecting our craft. Carrying us closer to the endgame. Bringing us to where we want to be.

Read to me, you.

I wonder. I wonder, if you and I were to read the exact same line of poetry would we see the same thing? On the surface, yes. A linear stroke of verse written to satisfy collective logic. A sentence.

But deeper down, where irrational thoughts rest like tadpoles in a still pond  I suppose it is most likely that the words are made up of biospheres. They are unlike each other at all. They have different meanings, different shapes that take base from one brain to another.

The significance of one sentence, loose and languid may fall upon my subconscious like raindrops popping on cement. While sticking sternly, unrelentingly to the wall of yours for later use. For later amplification.

Ideas will worry away in some inside tunnel, diverse and hot, forever wandering if not quelled with common sense. They wrap themselves around the way we walk as we mull them over in our thoughts on the bus, at the party, in the supermarket checkout line.

One line of poetry can make a difference. It will change me internally. Capture a small part of my existence never to be returned. While these words breeze by your eyes like the white feathers of a dandelion on the air once they are touched to a child’s lips.

I have come to realize that it is the words who decide. They choose their captors; sinking their sights into unsuspecting souls who are merely looking for a quick read, some rouge knowledge, a bit of word to tide them over until their next fix.

One piece of small familiarity is all it takes. An acquaintance of time or space or person or feeling or language, and the sentence has taken you as its own.

This is why reading is such a miraculous thing.

Ideas transferred from one paper, one screen, one diner napkin old and coffee stained to the mind’s eye of the reader. Instantaneous, infectious. Soapsuds bursting under a running faucet, ideas pop and float into the atmosphere slightly changing the way we forever imagine life to be.

For me at least.

How about you?


A notebook by the bed would be nice

Lindsay is lying in bed thinking about topics to write about. She really really, truly, really wants her blog to be hip and pop and fresh but sometimes she feels her writing is missing some vital element of…She can’t quite put her finger on it, perhaps, pizazz.

So most nights, this night included, she rests in bed for a few minutes thinking over new and interesting things to write about.

The snow outside is drifting downwards in tiny specs, Lindsay does not let this fool her though, if this keeps up by morning the city will be nearly snowed in. Hmmm that won’t be good for business, Lindsay worries, but she pushes that thought from her mind. Stressing too much about work and snow and money and having to drive on treacherous roads puts a bit of a damper on the creative process. So she shoves the idea to a corner of her brain where she can rummage it up flap it out for later use.

But what to write about? What to pizazz them with? What words to use to wrap ideas around her readers brains? What subjects to sprinkle out upon conversation’s floor? What stories to tell?

That’s it! She’s got it! By golly gosh she’s gone dog gone and done it!

What a fine-looking first sentence, she thinks, as the words skip over her thought process like pebbles across a glass lake. Oh yes, this is good. So good! Lindsay is reveling in the pure pleasure of having thought of such mastery of her craft. Oh how glorious it feels to have done something well.

And with that thought sleep swims up from the place she keeps it in while the daylight hours shine and slowly pulls her down into the depths sleepy-time dreams.

The alarm clock rings at 4am sharp. Generally Lindsay wakes up a few minutes before the melodramatic droning of the alarm begins but not this morning. This morning she is dreaming about being locked in a reality TV show where she must sing Christmas carols in outlandish fashion to gather points in which she must horde in order to buy her way out of the house to freedom. If she does not get enough points by allotted time provided she will be promptly consumed  by Ed Sheeran. So needless to say, Lindsay has got to lay off the hot chocolate before bed time.

In any case she is excited to wake up because there lingering in her memory is the fact that last night she had rummaged up the greatest blog topic of the century and this morning she is going to bring it to fruition. It’s going to be awesome man.

She lays stock still. She is quite sure if she refrains from making any sudden movements it will come to her. The idea was huge. Colossal. There is no way it won’t come to her. Right? Any time now it will surface. First, nothing but the tiniest tip will show itself over the immense surface of the oceans which lives in Lindsay’s imagination. After she has deftly hooked the beast she will begin reeling it towards her, every inch closer it comes the more detail of the thing will be made clear. Eventually her fully shaped, fully beatified idea will be waiting in front of her, waiting to be written out for the peoples reading enjoyment.

She waits.

She waits some more.

Come on. Lindsay says in an anticipatory tone. Much like the tone one uses when waiting for the john on a morning following chili cheese dog dinner night.

Nothing. A stagnant tundra of nothingness is all that fills Lindsay’s brain this cold and dreary morning. She pulls herself out of bed and towards the coffee pot. She begins to brainstorm. Back to the drawing board. Square one.

She manages to piece together some convoluted piece of weirdness about writing and planning and forgetfulness but it just isn’t what she had hoped for. She wanted pizazz, she wanted grandeur. She wanted that damn idea she had come up with last night. She will have to keep a notebook by her bed from now on she thinks. It is the only way.

Lindsay’s only consolation on this morning of non creative accomplishment is the knowing that tomorrow is another day. Another blank space to fill. Another post to write. Or, more accurately—because Lindsay learns her lessons when need be—another post to copy down from her notebook from the night before.

The nothing things are really something wouldn’t you say?

The nothing things are quite possibly
My favorite things to write about.
The little things
So difficult to describe
I must still time for a while.
Allow the words
To wrap around my tongue a bit.

The smile on a child’s face. No,
Not the smile, the transformation of happiness.
The split second
When the eyes brighten and enchantingly
Turn luminiferous. The utter bliss
Is wordsmith fodder.
An odd encounter.
A second thought.
The nothing things are the lovely things.
They give me hope
For later days. Softly stroking

My ancient wrinkled ways.
For to take the time
The precious stints of minutes passed
To appreciate the nothing things
The little things
The infinitesimal things
The lazy things
The daily things
The things that are the normal things
The nothing things, which no one sings
Leads me, 

Chaperones me on wings of dogged words
To perceive the more important things.
The heavy things, the gleefully retched things
The boisterous infectious things,
That rings around abnormal things.
The nothing things are commonplace  
Perhaps common to a fault.
Yet every single nothing thing
That lives in nothing space
Has an unseen something thing
A story, to
Be told.


Walk it off baby


I am making my usual rounds through dew dampened sidewalks when a phone chimes lively inside of my pocket. I’m about thirty minutes into my daily walk and I’ve built up a pace. I do not so much decided to ignore it but simply do not acknowledge its reality. My joints are well oiled from the natural lubricant of movement and they feel strong and able and willing. My arms swing slightly by my sides giving me momentum to travel forwards.

I walk because it clears my brain of the worry clouds which often muck things up in there. There is a lot of that. My imagination is on overdrive as of late and walking calms it to only a minimal hum. I can deal with humming. Humming won’t drive me nuts. I walk for the solitude of the matter. When I walk, I slap on some headphones and turn up whatever audiobook I am listening to at the moment (right now it is Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaids Tale) and I fall deep and uninhibitedly into the plot. The story clears away the stress that presses down on me, the same kind of stress that presses down on everyone. It allows me to mull things over and that gives way to the pea green sprouting of ideas, activating the forward thinking part of my brain.

When I am in the solitude of a daily walk, while my feet pound dirt clad walking paths, while the branches of trees reach down to greet me as I move deftly under them and the crisp air shrouds the exposed skin of my face I am bucolic. The hastiness, the cram of the daily grind is set to some invented side and an expressive feeling of simplicity slides through me. Before life became so impossibly important. Before newscast articles painted huge red exes upon our brains forever marking us in their forever ways. I walk a little faster now and the boot clop sound of a well-worn shoe smacking against ground sends me trance side.

I am so happy here. Maybe happy isn’t the word to use because I am often happy elsewhere too. The feeling I have for here, this universe I find myself in while I am walking, is something altogether different. It is not to be shared. It is its own entity like the space inside a snow globe. It cannot be touched.

I am grateful to have this time to move and think and listen. And that is just one more thing that glasses over my thoughts as my feet move forward on my daily walk.

Chocolates in a bag

The woman’s face is wizened. Ripened from years of talking and laughing. It must be from laughing, or smiling at least because of the wrinkles which huddle around the corners of her mouth; all tiny sideways smiles themselves.

We make eye contact through the glass of my passenger side window. The Chinook winds cause her to squint and pull a hood up over her head. Oh for shit sakes, I mumble trying not to move my lips in case she is a lip reader, what the what is this now?

I busy myself by touching imaginary buttons on my phone. Busy people are unapproachable because they are too engrossed in whatever they are doing to speak to other humans. Or maybe it is because they have such a vital and important air about them. Or maybe they give off the undetectable stench of standoffishness. Or maybe it’s just that the brain is intuitive enough to detect that this person simply does not want to talk to you. In any case, this woman’s detector sensors are broken.

However she does not approach my car but the one parked behind me. I stealthily slip out of the driver’s seat to slink into the store without having to engage. Human contact, ugh. I hear a, “Oh thank you!” coming from the woman who sits in the vehicle to my rear. Her voice peaks at the end of the sentence as if she is partly asking a question. Something rectangular dangles from her fingers, she seems hesitant to touch it. As if it is slathered in goo.

The old woman gives a courteous nod of her head and moves on from the exchange. I realize I am staring, thus, I am caught. For being so seemingly delicate the woman moves with great agility towards me. A similar rectangle bag-box hangs resolutely from her fingers. She is upon me within seconds.

“Oh hello.” I say as I note that she has noted me noting her approach.

“Merry Christmas Dear.” Says the woman. Her voice is as you would expect the voice to be of the elderly. The bag-box dangles in the air. It begs me to take it. “Oh, what is this?” I say with too much question upon the question. She nods her head, inaudibly saying, don’t worry it’s not poison. And is that what I think? Am I so jaded from this damaged world that I would actually envision a lovely grandmother figure giving me a bag of fatal toxins in the Walmart parking lot?

I take the bag because it would be rude not to…No, correction, that is not why I take the bag. I take I bag because this little old lady’s eyes bore into me like a drill bit into origami paper. She smiles and says, “God bless dear.”

Ah I see, it is the pious on duty—spreading the word of Christmas to any unsuspecting soul who will unquestioningly take presents that are tossed in their general direction. Candy from a stranger. The bag is filled with stories about faith and the Lord Almighty and chocolates and a hymn printed out on a piece of yellowed paper.

I plop one of the chocolates in my mouth with one last lingering thought about poisoned apples and whatnot but push it away. I hope that one day I too can believe in something so unwaveringly, so devoutly. I smile and pop another chocolate in my mouth. Maybe one day.


And then love happened.

Hand on mouse, fingers hovering over a keyboard. Ready. Waiting. Ideas tumble out of my brain. Vortices of possibility twirl towards the 4am sky. 80 words to go. Will that be enough? This morning my thoughts have tuned to love and in my core, at the very base of me, I know that not any amount of words or finely tweaked sentences will be enough to bring these thoughts to fruition.

Devotion is an enigma wrapped neatly in decorative papers of blue and gold.  We tie bows around love like it is a package that once passed along will provide some predestined shroud of unending happiness. The very idea of falling in love encapsulates us. It is somehow protective simply in its impression. Let us fall. Fall from where? Fall from one intended to another? Fall from a tall building and have hope that the recipient of our ultimate adoration feels that same way we do. Heroically coming to save us from our plummet.

Some of us do get lucky. Some of us, somehow, in the cosmic wilderness of modern day romance find the love we had sought out for. It begins with shyness. Everything does. The coy wariness of perfect strangers meant for something more. Lightly fingering our way through the idle and awkward moments of the first few years of the togetherness. We will whisper wants to one another. Furtively, with a nonchalant air about our words because God forbid our new and shiny dearest thinks us odd.

We silently chant mantras of normalcy and routine ourselves. We are super-human people with no foibles or flaws because that could be undesirable and if even one of these idiosyncrasies flops to the surface, this tentative thing, this love thing, will surely wither and die. It is a wonder any of us survive the initial staging process. However, after an undetermined amount of days, weeks, years, millennia moves past we become easier, more ourselves. The weirdness leaks out onto the floor whether we like it or not. And the floor hasn’t been mopped up in days. The cautious stroking of yesteryear has evolved into a weighty hand on familiar skin. A comforting presence among the constant chaos of the everyday.

This love will manifest itself in the tiny places we never think about. It is the intense light between the bulb and the shade, only those inside the lamp’s protective cover can understand its brilliance. It is brown leaves pressed delicately between the softened pages of an ageing book. It is a blanket placed over chilled shoulders, a promise of warmth when the room seems subzero.

Love is not grand and glorious. It does not lift us up out of the depths of depression or carry us over the puddles of sadness which accumulate over a lifetime. It is not like the songs say. It does not fix our worries but usually causes us more worries to worry about. It is not magical or almighty.

Love is small and sacred. It is to be nourished. Grown from nothing over a lifetime of trial and error and strife and hardness. Love makes the difficult certainties of life a bit easier to live with. Love gives us the courage to try the new things. Love holds us tight when the new things do not work out as we had planned. Love comforts. Love soothes. Love does not define who we are but grows alongside us as we determine our unique paths in life.

Love is not our life preserver but the warm cup of coffee after we’ve fought off the flood. And if you should be lucky enough to find this sort of love, do not take your fortune lightly. Know that it is delicate and rare and beautiful. Hold it carefully and cherish it always. And in turn, it will have you too.


Being human is a strange and scary thing


Everyone wants to be just a little bit freer. Free of the worries which cloud over us like rising waves out of a stock still sea. Free of the pain and the sorrow which soars inches above our head allowing us to believe we have just barely dodged it. It circles round. Free of the tiny things, the ones we do not know are doing us harm. The head in the sand things. The turn your gaze to another things.

We want to be taken as well. Take your freedom and stuff it, says us. Roll it away to darkened corners. We do not want the heavy weight of decision-making upon us. We do not want to create or to resolve or to amend. Life has an abundance of idea-men already and autonomy is far too overrated.

We want to be in charge. We want the reigns.  The power, the prominence. We want, we want, we want too many materials to name. Want becomes need because the line here is thin. It is emaciated from eons of manipulation.

We want love. Light, luscious, luminescent love. Take you away from your own personal horror love. Save you love. We bargain for this love in friends, fans, mistresses, men and children. Dogs. Especially dogs. Dogs are not truth tellers—this is why we love them so.

We are all experts, yearning for a pat on the back. We know it all. We do it best. We say it perfectly. We are always right. If we are not, we will die. This is obvious from the strong personal vigils we stand yelling about our ultimate rightness to all those who will listen.

We are humble. We want to be humble. So fucking badly. We want to stand in a public square, baring our soul to those who seek it. Allowing strangers to touch our tarnished humanity, let go of the fear which holds us back. We want to be okay. We want the other people to see that we are okay. There goes the humility.

We want faith if it comes with statistics. We want happiness if it comes with a bit of pain. (Not too much pain because that would hurt.) We could use a little more sadness if it comes with tactful sexual allure. And we want it now, but only in small slices because we cannot handle a lot of anything at once.

We want our mothers, without their philosophies. We want fame without talent. Prestige without having done anything at all. We want blood while keeping our hands clean. Beautiful smiles which obscure the malice that lies beneath. We want strength without training. Exploration without danger. To experience life without living.

And each day we grapple with these morbid thoughts of want versus need. We jumble them, mix them into a giant bowl of universal subject matter. As we lay them out to dry, frightened for what we might discover, we forget that this is our impermanence we organise so deftly within our imagination stations. We look it over. We stare into its abyss wondering how to work it all out. How to consolidate this mass of mess in just the perfect way so it will come out inline with what all the other humans are doing.

So it will be undetectable. Desirable. So we will fit in. So we can simply be.


The Plight of the Sensitive Smeller


The smell of grease fat lingers this morning from the previous night’s feast of fish and chips. Tiny whiffs of scent hang in the air like the surprise fun-bags you find at novelty shops. Except rather than discovering fanciful prizes upon opening them, these sacks contain a swift punch to the nostrils. A walloping of the senses.

I hate weird smells. Can you tell? I’m so anal about it. My roommates (and by “roommates” I mean my kids, husband and sister in law) must get SO annoyed with me. I am forever asking, “What is that disgusting smell?” or yelling in top rage mode, “WHY DOES THIS HOUSE STINK ALL OF THE TIME?!”

Sometimes I wonder if it is me that smells. I will slink away to the bathroom and attempt to check my various body parts for ill-smelling indicators but that never works. If the horrendous smells were in fact coming from my person I’d never be able to tell. I would have already become accustomed to my reek. The ripened aroma would have already amalgamated with my skin follicles. I would wear it like a child wears her favorite Halloween costume, for days and remorselessly. I would bathe happily in my stench never quite accepting the dismay I was putting those I love through by simply standing next to them.

This revelation leads me to believe that there still must be something extra that is stinking up my home because I can in fact smell it. I will begin rooting around under furniture, behind tables, like a hog roots for truffles. I am on a quest to find the sought after tang of insubordination. For one beautiful moment I believe the smell might have dissipated. I have opened the windows and currently all I can detect is an unsoiled breeze blowing in. My heart is aflutter by the seemingly mystical properties which have vanquished the horrendous odour from my abode. A single tear drops from my eye. I am free.

However my happiness is in vain. Somewhere in the depth of my senses there is a tingling. It lazily alerts my brain that the smell has not truly left but lays in wait. There is rests. “Soon” it teases as the plot of this ever thickening joke on my senses evolves.

Alas my friends, this is the plight of the sensitive smeller. It is a sad and pathetic tale but one which must be told. So next time you encounter someone whose nose is particularly in tune with their surroundings, remember these words. Have sympathy. Agree that, yes, there definitely is a revolting stink in here. And most of all assist them in their hunt for the aroma in question because, as our sacred scent-detecting mantra goes: A smellers search is never through until the smell is found.


Another post on writing and junk, you’d think we were all writers or something around here…weird.


The power in our small bi-level home surges as I hit the SUBMIT button. Wait, was that a sign? A message sent from the great beyond? My skin turns to gooseflesh. I think of Grampa Bert, my all-time favourite storyteller. Maybe? Bah! Hogwash. It’s an old house and the electrical in this bitch sucks. I guess it is more likely that my brain, the soft part that need constant reassurance, is really just teeming with anxiety over the new flood of rejection messages I will be receiving in two to eight weeks. Prepare yourself, rejection is coming.

Side note: there is a fly in this room right now. A FLY IN DECEMBER! Its buzzing is infuriating not only for the distraction but for the sheer perplexity of its existence.

I’ve begun sending out stories, essays, blurbs and whatever else a publisher may want to take a look at. I’m like a teeny-bopper clad in fluorescent pink and the personality to match—look at me, pay the attention to this gal over here!

A few days ago my sister-in-law asked me why I write online. Well she didn’t come out and literally ask me. We were talking about writing and I naturally assumed she wanted to know every possible detail of my writing career so I willingly divulged my secrets…that are no more secret than my dirty erotica writing forays.

I told her that I write to obviously become rich and famous because, you know, that’s what all art is about. Duh. But as a secondary motive I write to simply tell the stories that are buzzing around (like this damn December fly) in my brain. It seems as soon as I drag one out and place it to word processing document another one begins to unfold into reality.  The more I write, the more stories are waiting to be written.

I think about reading stories that stick with me for days, weeks, hell years afterwards. I will remember images or a plot twist or the simple construction of the first sentence, the hook, and I realise how essential the written word can be. Stories entangle our imaginary lives with reality giving us the perfect amount of unrealistic expectations to keep us moving forward and striving on. They feed our waning imaginations. The older we grow the more fiction we must consume to keep our brains hale and hearty.

Great literature from the past, blogs posts, short stories, online magazines, a funny Facebook post; we read and write to connect with one another.

The idea that something I’ve written could affect someone like this intoxicates me. I could be like an imagination doctor! To think one story, one sentence even will stop the reader and make him say, “Hey, I never thought of it that way.” It is a mesmerising goal to reach for. If I can write one blog post that someone reads and thinks, “That is exactly how I feel too sometimes, at least I’m not alone.” I’ve scored the big one.

I’m a peopley person. What can I say, I love them humans. And I’ve obsessed over writing since the beginning of time, my beginning at least. Writing and the human condition fit hand in hand. Or existential crisis in existential crisis. I guess it depends on how you’re looking at it, where you’re positivity meter stands at the moment.

So I’m going to keep on writing, keep on submitting my work and rejection messages be dammed! I’ll wear them down eventually…or I’ll get better I suppose. Whichever comes first.

I’ll show ‘em, I’ll show ‘em all! One day you’re gunna see my name in lights!


The shiny things have distracted me again.

My eyes part to the sound of an energetic whirring that is coming from my right. The sound seems to be magnified in the otherwise dead quiet of our bedroom. It drones merrily, LLLLLIIIIIIIIIINNNNNDDDDDSSSSSSAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY (but not really because in the morning ones imagination is soft and pliable, it will believe anything). It nearly jumps from the ledge of my bedside table.

I wish I was the kind of person who did not need an alarm clock. You know the type. Those people who boast that they are so in tune with their own body, the internal clock which lives somewhere in their brain—or maybe it’s their foot, you know, to get them moving—anyways, it wakes them without incident every single morning. Yeah, I wish I was like that.

Alas I’m still using my trusty cell phone (like a sucker) perched to the side of my bed with a message splayed across it saying, “GOOD MORNING!!!” in what I have come to believe is a seriously passive aggressive pre-dawn text revulsion.

The street is speckled with hundreds of tiny multi-colored lights. Cheer bottled-up into filaments the size of a cat’s claw. The radio serenades me with Jingle Bell Rock and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus because it knows that is what I want to hear this fine and frosty morning. Obviously.

I had toyed with the idea of writing something profound this morning. Wowing you with my inexorable insight, my glass-windowed vision. I imagined exhibiting my heartache, my unrequited culpability, up like a farmer does his heifer for market. I would try to sell it to you, get it into your brain and out of mine. Pass the pain along. Share it among the healthy folk. Or, perhaps, the unhealthy ones. They will gobble it up faster. No questions asked.

I was thinking of showing you the guilt that sometimes claws its way to the surface and spills over the top (because it is over the top) in ill at ease times of aforementioned heartache. The times I let down those I love and those I do not love in a cataclysmic foray of disappointment. The times I must deliver the bad news, the stuff of plugged ears and dull faces.

I could have wrote, this morning about misery and mountaineering. I could have turned it all around and shone some upbeat and blinding light of positivity into the murky thoughts that sometimes cloud my better judgment. I could explain (in my very best self-help voice) that if we shoot for the sky we will reach the stars.

I might have slid words together like children gliding down an icy knoll. Content with jibber jabber and momentary answers to questions never asked, at least not by me. My prophet days are probably still ahead of me, oh how I will profit one day.

I could have carved it all out upon this word document and felt lighter in the end. I should have tossed it down intending to leave it where it lay. Rid myself of the word plague I struggle against everyday. Instead the flicker of pink and green and red and blue lights dance just off the flank of my vision. It distracts me for the times being, it is shiny and bright. Familiarity hugs me, and what kind of monster fights against hugs? I guess the lights will do for now. I’ll preach tomorrow.




Some days I am afraid. I am afraid to start writing each morning for fear of discovering I no longer fall fast and deeply in love when placing pen to paper, finger to key, idea to world.

Some days I am afraid. Most days in honesty, panic strikes long and unabashed as I ready the babes for their school time escapades. Am I enough?  Can I do right by them? Will my guiding hand be strong and kind enough to chaperone them around life’s sadness and hurdles?

Some days I am afraid. Afraid of the tiny soloist who lives in the deep of my character and sings stridently about wasted opportunities. Rejections. The awkward moments and the ill-advised decisions. He will remind me of former days and he does not quiet. He does not calm.

Today I wake with a different type of fear dripping from my better judgment. Afraid that the fear which drives, the fear which pushes me to places I once imagined never gracing, will leave me lonely and lackluster.

For it is not the fear that holds us back—that keeps us indolent. It is a lack thereof. It is an emptiness in that place that gives us butterflies when dreaming of future days. It is a hole in the fabric that weaves together our motivation in all things seemingly impossible. It is a gap in the driving force that gives us grounds to reach into the farthest depths of our will for the people we love. It is desolation upon our plain of imagination.

It is this loss of motivation, this loss of fear that scares me most of all.

We tell ourselves that the fear is what we should fight against. The fear of this and the fear of that is what is holding us back. I have come to disagree. It is the fear that keeps us going. It is the fear that tells us we will never be good enough. Never be strong enough or smart enough or happy enough. It is this terror of “not enough” that keeps us striving. It keeps us living.

I suspect the fear will forever live somewhere just beneath the surface, and in hopes of eradication it will remain just out of reach. But close enough to keep me lively. Incentives towards growth. An aid in personal evolution. So I will hold my fear close at hand and continue to do the things which scare me.


I’m just a rambling (wo)man.


I grab my phone and punch the Facebook icon for the twentieth time this morning. What am I looking for? I have recently come to learn that I am addicted to Facebook. I use it as a substitute for food and cigarettes (my last two addictions) when I am in need of some sort of security blanket consoling. A melancholy gloom hangs precariously above my head. At least the coffee is strong this chilly December morning.

The hymn of the worry wort has sprung forth in my brain and it rages methodically for a tune to harmonize with.  I have learnt over the years how to calm this beast with writing and visualization techniques. I visualize myself stomping, setting aflame then doing the Salsa upon the grave of my worrying tendencies.

What I really find works though, is the innate knowledge that I am smart, resourceful and confident enough to get through whatever it is which is causing me concern. This works fine, when it is controlled variables that are directly affected by my actions. Making money and career advancement for example. My theory does not work as well when it comes to human beings. We are a fickle bunch you know.

I find my uncertainties blossom into thousands of rampant eddies of thought and anxiety when people pleasing comes to mind. People Pleasing: my kryptonite. I’ve gotten better over the years at saying no to those I love. I have come to understand as I grow older that the happiness of others does not solely rest in my hands. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible to make everyone happy. It simply cannot be done leading me to believe, in some twisted way, that I am a failure. This is the vicious circle of People Pleasing.

Yet even as I type these words there is a minute inkling in the deep of my soul that says this is an untruth. Beyond all of my better judgement, the hundreds of self-help books I’ve scoured and the confidence building courses I’ve endured, I still feel the innate urge to fall down flat so those I love can walk over me towards their happiness.

What a convoluted thing to write, I know.

Look guys, I know it seems like I have it all figured out here on this blog where I write slick sentences and pretty poetries but I’m just trying to unravel the mysteries of life too. I suspect that this is pretty much what every other messed up human onboard this ship is driving for as well.

We all have our foibles that make us “not perfect” and I would like to believe that most of us work tirelessly towards a healthy future. But until then, I think it is important that we give ourselves a millisecond to sit back and enjoy the journey.

Sometimes life can feel like a rambling blog post (much like this one I’m constructing right now) it keeps moving erratically and is impossible to organise. It will feel like you are running out of time to wrap things up into the neat and tidy bow you’ve imagined for it. I think it is important to remember that not everything can be tied up tidy every single time. Not every problem has a straightforward answer. Often when we sit back and leave it lay how it has fallen, these are the moments we can truly appreciate the truth in what we’ve created.


Progressing is key, it is time to delve into the deep.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”
― Anne LamottBird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

If I could choose just one quote to love more than any others it would be this one. If there was one group of words which summed up how I usually feel or at least how I want to feel about life as a writer, this group would be it.

Unfortunately (or I suppose fortunately) for me there are far too many astounding humans quoted every damn day to choose just one as a favourite.

As I meander once again through the shallow waters of script and sonnet I can feel myself wading dangerously close to the deep end.  Currently I splash cheerily, absent-minded, in superficial thoughts. Words flow easily over my toes and out into the beyond. I think little of these sentences I scroll because little thought is required. It is all rhetoric. Pretty prose echoed agreeably as I spill it from my soul. Thoughts on life and love and being human. These are the easy things to write. They are safe but with little substance.

My words today will not strike any profound cords in those who read them. They will not rummage up memories which have been tucked away for safekeeping. These sentences are not dangerous. They will not provoke any deeper wondering or wake the harboured yearnings of moments lost to oblivion. They do not strip away the beautiful fluff we humans shield ourselves with to protect against anything weightier than the daily grind. Instead my words today will gently settle down upon you, resting easy while a war still rages beneath the surface.

There is an itching in my brain and it is growing stronger as my confidence as a writer ripens. I know it is not feasible to continue to write from this comfort state in which I currently live. To grow we must go out on a limb. We must use our doubt as a parachute and fall into the unknown with the tools and the belief that we will thrive against all odds. If we stay in this place of ease, the art of the matter will halt and nothing new will emerge.

There are many projects, ideas and visions I can so clearly see in my minds-eye. They will require hard work, resolve and a promise to write real and true – which is sometimes the most difficult requirement of all.

It is just a matter of finding the resolve to shut my eyes tight and jump, without reservations, into the deep.


I nearly broke my perfect streak!

I tried to cheat this morning. *Sigh* I tried to cheat and hide it from you guys. I tried to hide it from myself – mumbling under my breath that it would be okay if I did it just this once. I had justification. Ugh I disgust myself.

Moments ago I found myself surfing through my Google Docs. I was looking for something that hadn’t been published that I could pass off as my daily post. I was literally about the CHEAT! I’m having a bit of a panic attack here. Well not really, it’s actually more of an attention attack so you’ll just have to excuse me while I let this pass.




Okay, so why did I almost do it?

Well like I said I had justification. Since starting this writing project I’ve mustered up the wherewithal to take a look at some of my unfinished projects. And some of them (not all of them, let’s not go crazy here) are actually pretty good. They need some spit shining and a few rewrites but I want to try submitting to a few publishers. Again. This is actually a big deal because the mental and emotional trauma a writer endures while submitting their work to hundreds of publishers only to get rejected over and over again is pretty heavy stuff to say the least man.

So my plan was to sluff off my daily post and work on more pressing matters. But isn’t that sort of defeating the purpose Lindsay? *She types to herself in a borderline psychotic break sort of way.

The entire point of this thing is to warm up my writing skills. Isn’t getting this inspiration/guts to delve into the publishing world again only proving that my new writing habit is working. Why would I stop now?

Plus, 100 words a day isn’t difficult. Look, I’ve just got down over 300 in the few minutes I’ve been mulling this over!

Thanks writing friends, you guys are sure swell to talk to.



Do you ever feel the pressure of waiting projects and overlook the process? Tell me what helps keep you on track and maybe I can adopt some new methods so I don’t try to cheat again!