Purposeful Confusion

We reached an equilibrium, she and I. She grew sharper and more like the old Cal, and I found a comfort with my life I’d never really known. I grew a beard, a long, long beard. I made dyes using the food stores and used them to paint images on my clothes, on the floors, and on the white crates in the storage pods. I dictated stories and journal entries into the Ring’s computer. Some were true tales of what I’d done, while others were complete fiction. I didn’t say during any of my dictations which stories were which. I rather liked the idea of someone finding the Ring long after I was gone and being totally confused.

Darkness Between the Stars (Eaters of the Light Book 1) by J Edward Neill

Exhausting Existence

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Being two different people is so exhausting. I’ve taught myself to speak with two different voices and only say certain things around certain people. I’ve mastered it. As much as I say I don’t have to choose which Starr I am with Chris, maybe without realizing it, I have to an extent. Part of me feels like I can’t exist around people like him.

 

 

Chris and Maya walk through the gate, and my stomach gets all jittery. I should be used to my two worlds colliding, but I never know which Starr I should be. I can use some slang, but not too much slang, some attitude, but not too much attitude, so I’m not a “sassy black girl.” I have to watch what I say and how I say it, but I can’t sound “white.” Shit is exhausting.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

 

A Queen Through It All

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Cameron holds his grandma’s hand as he leads her into the living room like she’s the queen of the world in a housecoat. She looks thinner, but strong for somebody going through chemo and all of this. A scarf wrapped around her head adds to her majesty—an African queen, and we’re blessed to be in her presence. The rest of us stand.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

June 4th is Cancer Survivors Day

Why I Hate Parties

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I get lost again as classmates and teachers that I don’t know are discussed. I can’t say anything. Doesn’t matter though. I’m invisible. I feel like that a lot around here. In the middle of them complaining about Denasia and their teachers, Kenya says something about getting another drink, and the three of them walk off without me. Suddenly I’m Eve in the Garden after she ate the fruit—it’s like I realize I’m naked. I’m by myself at a party I’m not even supposed to be at, where I barely know anybody. And the person I do know just left me hanging.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

More Than A Hashtag

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Something’s bugging me. I wanted to ask Uncle Carlos, but I couldn’t for some reason. Daddy’s different though. While Uncle Carlos somehow keeps impossible promises, Daddy keeps it real with me. “You think the cops want Khalil to have justice?” I ask. Thump-thump-thump. Thump . . . thump . . . thump. The truth casts a shadow over the kitchen—people like us in situations like this become hashtags, but they rarely get justice. I think we all wait for that one time though, that one time when it ends right.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

February is Black History Month

Who Do You Believe In?

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“Bullshit. You know my dad would help you out.”

He wipes his nose before his lie.
“I don’t need help from nobody, okay? And that li’l minimum-wage job your pops gave me didn’t make nothing happen. I got tired of choosing between lights and food.”

“I thought your grandma was working.”

“She was. When she got sick, them clowns at the hospital claimed they’d work with her. Two months later, she wasn’t pulling her load on the job, ’cause when you’re going through chemo, you can’t pull big-ass garbage bins around. They fired her.” He shakes his head. “Funny, huh? The hospital fired her ’cause she was sick.”

It’s silent in the Impala except for Tupac asking who do you believe in? I don’t know.

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

Becoming a Real Writer

Like many bibliophile and bookworms, I have been wanting to write a book for as long as I can remember.

When I was a kid, before I was able to read, write or even recognize letters, I made my mother a book. It was a folded piece of paper covered in drawings. While my mother accepted the gift in the same manner that she accepted all arts-and-crafts projects (like most parents). What I remember most clearly about this moment was my own inability to get across the importance of this act – I wanted to make a book. A real book.

My career has involved writing professionally, in some form or another, since the early 90s. I am particularly skilled at technical writing and report development, which is about as far removed from fiction (or anything fun to read) as a human being can possibly get.

As much as I enjoy searching out information, verifying facts, identifying needs and creating documents that present the appropriate data in a useful and accessible manner, a part of me still wants to be a writer. And, like most aspiring writers, to my mind being a writer…a real writer…means writing fiction.

I don’t often make regular original postings to this blog because my life is busy and I don’t have time to really sit down and write (edit) a proper post on a consistent schedule. Since I spend every moment on the bus, and during my lunch hour, reading; I decided to fill this blog with quotes. Do you want to know who I am? What I’m about? What I’m interested in? Take a look at these topics, authors and quotes. It works.

Yet, I’m not spending enough time on creative activities. I can’t seem to carve out moments to focus on music and fiction, and I’m not willing to reduce my workouts at the YMCA or my time spent with family. Work and commute time are inflexible – they are what they are (as everyone knows). So, the creative stuff just wasn’t happening.

Until now.

There are a few projects I have been slowly chipping away at. Recently, I spent two weeks making them top priority (read: temporarily reduced time at the gym and early/late nights). One of the results is the Wild Raccoon Farm blog.

Wild Raccoon Farm is a work of wishful fiction, which is more of a writing technique than a genre. It is both a networking tool, created for the purposes of finding other writers interested in Intentional Communities, and a very scheduled fiction-writing exercise. It is updated every Wednesday and Saturday.

Thus far, this project has worked out. I have been able to find time to write and I have had plenty of ideas to write about. It feels good to dive into fiction again. In fact, I feel like the creative part of my personality is sighing with relief and uttering a heartfelt “Finally!”

Whatever the outcome, it feels right and I guess that’s the most important part of this project and the experiences that come with it.

Writers Wanted at the Wild Raccoon Farm

I have launched a fiction blog!

Actually, it’s Wishful Fiction blog and a community building/networking tool. If you have an interest in, or a blog about, fiction, Wishful Fiction, intentional communities or farming, I invite you to connect with me on Wild Raccoon Farm.

Most recent posting:

Orchard Air and Errant Children.