2 posts tagged “writing makes me irrationally happy”

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I hate it when I actually like my own writing.  It makes me positively stupid.  Like margaritas, only worse, because I have nothing but my own girlishness to blame.

The worst thing?  Not knowing if my chosen audience will enjoy or not.  What if I spend the next few days blissfully imagining oohs and ahs, only to hear, "no thank you?"

*sighs*

But I do like this one.  For example:

I looked at the first. It was a pink pamphlet depicting flowers in a verdant field. Red text read: NOW THAT YOU'VE STOPPED BREATHING.

I could have a bad day because:

1. I'm still sick
2. I had to wake up at five thirty to comfort my son
   
3. The house is a wreck, and we have company coming (?)
   
4. I feel like I'm going to puke (slightly repeating point one, but also different)
5. I have a headache that could comfortably both cover all of Texas and give birth to Athena
6. My son is also sick
7. Did I mention the house/possibility of company?  That only gets canceled under dire circumstances, and I'm waiting until noon to decide how dire things are.  There's this history of me canceling everything just for everyone to feel fine after lunch.
   

I could have a good day because:

1. I'm ignoring the above list and writing, because I feel like it.  I came up with an awesome first and last line for my short story.

Tasty morsel of the story:  (warning- UNEDITED!)

    The cement under my face felt unnaturally warm. For the longest time, I lay there, marveling at how warm the sidewalk felt compared to the cold tingling in my fingers. The sun glared harshly against my eyes. I blinked, hard at first, and started to come to a realization. I was laying in an alley under the noon sun. Why in the world was I laying in an alley?

    I noticed that I'd been holding my breath and I forced my lungs to work. It felt harder than it should have been. My hands were still feeling cold, so I tucked them under my stomach and tried to focus. Why was I here? The last I could remember, I'd been out celebrating my engagement. We'd gone to a few clubs, and eventually the night had drawn on too long and we'd been waiting for a cab. I'd been holding my hand out, and this creepy goth girl had been yelling at us and bit my wrist, and...

    There was nothing there. I just couldn't remember. It didn't seem like my friends to just desert me. It didn't seem like me to just desert them. Everything felt so misshapen and weird. I finally mustered the energy to sit up. I looked at my hands, which were cold and blue. The veins in my arms looked like cerulean spiderwebs. Even my feet had taken on a decidedly deathly pallor. I looked at the grisly green bite mark on my wrist. Odd.

    That was when it hit me, like a ton of bricks. I'd been laying in a pool of what appeared to be my own blood.