Thug Life

The subway was being extra subway this morning and long story-short La Raivenne emerged like a phoenix from the bowels of the train some thirty minutes later than my usual. All in all, per usual in such situations, conversation -aka gripes about transit- was struck with fellow passengers and despite the annoying delay, it was a pleasant ride; I was in good spirits. We had a chuckle when I joked that I was going to tell the motorman to drive like he stole drug money and had both the Bloods and The Crips on his tail, “but safely for us riders, of course“. I was accused of being thug because I mentioned infamous West Coast gangs. I jokingly retorted with my classic “I’m crazy, not stupid“. I don’t know what young blood on the train might be affiliated with an East Coast gang, I wasn’t risking calling one out.

I may have been kidding about the motorman, but apparently the motorman was not because the train then hauled arse in attempt to get something akin to back on schedule. I was only a few minutes late by the clock when I reached my station. At this point I was in for a pence-in for a pound, so an additional few minutes to treat myself to my usual TGIF Starbucks was not going to make that big of a difference. Because I have ordering down to a science, I had already pull out my phone and placed my mobile order for Starbucks before I reached street level.

It’s Friday, I’ve got tunes from my iPod in one ear accompanying me and I’m striding along to my personal soundtrack. I see a gentlemen coming from the opposite direction and we nearly collide choosing to pass on the same side of a street lamp at the last second. I smoothly circle around, barely missing a beat with the music. I hear “Daaayum, g’won witcha thug strut now woman!” in a lyrical masculine Caribbean accent behind me and know it is the man I just passed who was apparently watching me.

It’s not the first time I’ve been told I walk like a thug. I walk hard. I strut. I know this. My sons even mock me on it. Now that spring has warmed up the temps a bit, my cold weather arthritis has eased, and I’m not labored down in heavy winter clothes, my normal catwalk stride was emerging again. I grin to myself, give a little wiggle in acknowledgement of having heard him, but I keep going not inviting further conversation, priorities, I’ve got coffee waiting.

At last I walk into Starbucks. I’m some forty-something minutes past the time I usually enter, so there are more people on shift behind the counter. Lina sees me enter and waves. “Hey Raivenne! I’ve got your food here, your drink is…”

Before she can finish a familiar locced head lifts from behind the espresso maker and I grin. I have not seen Jaymes but once since my return to office and that was back in autumn. We always had bad jokes for each other and it was as though no Covid time had passed seeing each other as we pick right up.

RAIVENNE! I thought you were dead!”

Because I am still plugged into my iPod, it was serendipitous timing that had me right at the chorus of a song, so I sing it. “You cannot kill what doesn’t die!”

Jaymes blinks at me as he finishes an order. I realize he is likely just over a third of my age. The song is not likely in his iTunes, but I am pretty sure he recognizes it. However another customer clearly knows it and picks right up behind me. “Live up to my promise, my full potential realized!”

As the guy and I high-five in musical comradery, I can see when Jaymes makes the connection. “Woman, I know you haven’t had your coffee yet because I’m making it! It’s barely eight in the morning; how are you thrashing to Anthrax?”

“What can I tell you Jaymes? It’s Friday: today, I choose violence.” I say ominously.

He laughs handing me my coffee.”If Death lives in your pocket, please keep him there.”

I grin at the reference to the song lyrics, I was right he did know the song. Still, while I leave murder to crows, I am a Raivenne.

I wink, take my coffee and turn to leave, “Jaymes, you’ve met me. You sure Death is a he?”

As I reach the door I hear the customer who had joined me in singing Anthrax say, “Damn she lit!”

“No, she’s thug!” Lina, who had been passing food orders to customers, laughs.

That’s three thug references to me within an hour’s span. I’m not choosing the thug life, the thug life is choosing me today.

We’ll see how the rest of the day thugs out …


Day 25 of 31 – Let’s see how others are slicing it out today…

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

A Community Doing Good    

I have an email just for shopping. If I’m not actively shopping, when it gets crowded, I select all unread and delete. I was just about to do that when this tagline caught my eye: Don’t want Mother’s Day emails?

Um… Wait… What?

Name something I never expected to see, but have wanted to see, until I saw it? This ⬇

Image Etsy email offering potential shoppers the ability to opt out of Mother's Day and Father's Day email, if either or both of the holidays are difficult for them to get through.

This is perfect for people like me. My parents are long gone and I have no elder figures in their place I wish to honor. This is even better for those whose parental figures have recently passed and it will hurt to be reminded. While Mother’s Day is bittersweet for me, Father’s Day is the day I like to avoid. Yes, my head understands the sentiment that others pour out for their dads, however my heart does not forget it was never my reality. It bothers me just enough that I generally stay off social media the third Sunday in June because of it. There’s only but so much scroll on by if you don’t like it that I can do on an all day celebration.

Thus I know this offer from Etsy is also good for those like me in contentious or damaged relationships that may not want to be bothered by/reminded of such. If we choose to make a purchase for someone, or something, otherwise unrelated to Mother’s/Father’s Day, we can go in ourselves and find something. We will do so understanding the celebration is going to be splashed all over the Etsy site itself, but we go in knowingly and mentally prepared for this. We really don’t need our email inboxes inundated with such, for the next two plus months, to boot.

So yes, I am absolutely grateful to the geniuses that came up with this, and more importantly, implemented it. I give them my sincere thanks for their forward thinking and care on this.

My title for this blog post comes direct from Etsy’s own tagline. I generally thought it referred to their community of small business sellers, their products wares and the good they do. It is wonderful to note that they see the community, aka the world at large, as the people we are beyond the profit margins. I truly hope other places follow suit.


Day 24 of 31 – Let’s see how others are slicing it out this Thursday…

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

On The Fly

Since I got the tiny little travel bug (think Mothra), I try to wake up somewhere that is not New York City on my birthday. This is the time of year I start thinking what am I going to do and where am I going to go. It could be a Bed and Breakfast in New England, a villa in Italy, a casa in Cuba, on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, a hotel in New Orleans. As I said, anywhere but in my apartment. Sometimes depending on where else I might have gone that year, I may not have a choice -aka the money- except be home, such as the year I did Dubai in January and Cuba in July. There was nothing left to disappear come September, yet worth it for those two experiences. Also note, my best friend and I share the same birthday, one year apart, so she’s with me for much of this. Then Covid struck and the choice of do I stay or do I go (I know some of you sang that), was taken from all of us

By September 2020 local restaurants that had open air seating had become a thing, so at least Bestie and I were able to celebrate out of the apartment with another fiend – er – friend. However, by September 2021, I had not been on a out of the City in a year, or on a plane even longer and it showed. I was not risking international, yet so we compromised with a quick jaunt to Las Vegas for a few days. It was just what the doctor and the wanderlust within me ordered. But that was then….

I would fully blame this on having just renewed my Global Entry, but it’s also March. Specifically, it’s past March 19th, it is halfway to my birthday. My passport has not received a new stamp in three years. It’s NOT happy and that travel Mothra is pounding on my door HARD.

I have friends who have begun travelling internationally again, including a known hypochondriac, and following all the protocols, they have been fine. I do have a trip to London, planned for summer 2023, and maybe Japan, oh, but what to do for this year?

  • Local? – as in the on the East Coast.
  • Not so local? – as in the Mid or West Coast.
  • Perhaps international? – as in I still have three continents to conquer.

Decisions… Decisions…Decisions…

Anybody up for a visit from a Raivenne?


Day 23 of 31 – Let’s see how others are slicing it out today…

Slice of Life 15th Annual Story Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

The Anatomy of a Challenge

Over a dVerse ~Poets Pub, Sarah, the host for the challenge, prompts to choose one of the below paint names and use it as the inspiration for a poem:

Trumpet, Tea with Florence, Chemise, Confetti, Goblin,
Mirror, Rolling fog, First light, Hidey hole, Masquerade

We are further challenged to incorporate as many of the words as we can and to have fun. While I can post to my blog at any time, the challenge is only open for two days.

As I responded: Oh, that was said to the wrong person. It is my natural wont when see a list of options with a prompt to select one to try to use them all. 

In other words – thanks for giving me free rein to do what I was likely to do anyway. 😁 And because I am a glutton for punishment, I’m thinking a free verse poem would be easier for this but noooooooo, Muse is all Oooh, look! Sarah posted an extract from Christina Rosetti’s “Goblin Market”, let’s do a glosa! I’m thinking, okay, a tradition glosa works for this, gives me up to forty lines to work all that in. Crap! What did I think that for? Forty lines? Pfft! That’s too many – you can do this in just twenty, c’mon, Rai!

I swear, I can’t with them sometimes – except clearly I can, so I don’t even bother arguing – a shortened glosa it is – I pick two lines to work with:

They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather
Goblin Market – Christina Rosetti

My next challenge: hidey-hole – what am I supposed to do with that? Hmm, grey shades of rolling fog at first light came to mind. For some reason I am minded of latter stages of butterfly chrysalis which are more beige than gray, but it stuck. Ah! chrysalis = hidey hole, butterfly – monarch. A visual of a monarch butterfly flittering among purple heather appears and three lines quickly emerge:

Among the violet hued heather
As she emerge from her hidey-hole
In ochre gown mirrored in trim of coal

Excellent, two items from the list are scratched off and I have part of the required rhyme for the endling line. Oh, apparently this butterfly is a female – okay.

Next thing to tackle: Goblin. How do I work that bad boy in? Ah, bad boy! Goblin’s has scared the butterfly, threatened her if she comes out. That helminth! Hmm, worm… And my opening lines appear:

Swaddled in the rolling fog
his ragged chemise color of bog
The goblin worm had filled her with fright
Dare she show upon first light

Scratch four more from the list! I go back and forth like this, until I I’m satisfied. I have met the requirements for a glosa and worked in nine of the ten phrases. What’s the hold out? Tea with Florence. Now ‘tea in Florence’ would have inspired an Italian slant, but it’s with Florence, something different. While I had thought of a couple of lines rhyming Florence, it would break the glosa form and I did not want to do that. I go back and read the requirements for the challenge and am reminded that the choices given can also be used for the title. And problem solved, the monarch has a name, and the poem has a title! Let’s meet:

Tea with Florence the Monarch

It’s not highbrow, not winning any awards. I’m just having fun telling a story in verse. It’s not bad for an hour and change worth of work.


Day 22 of 31 – Let’s see how others are slicing it out today…

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Good As Hell

While a passport is for ten years, Global Entry is five years. My Global Entry expired a year or so before Covid hit the world. At some point before that, under the rule of Trump, New York State got into a beef with the president over verbiage of a new rule that the state dared to disagree with. Long story-short, the entire state was put on punishment. I could not renew my Global Entry. I wanted to cry the first time I had to stand in the long lines of custom again, so I sighed and (im)patiently waited for the governmental pissing contest to end.

A few months ago, now under a new president and new governor – on a whim, I decided to try to reapply again. The good news: Success! New York State has been let out of the time out corner and my application to renew was accepted. The bad news: it was a five month wait between the day I submitted my renewal and my in person interview was scheduled. So last night, I looked at my list and checked it thrice. I wanted nothing on my end to be a factor of it not being renewed.

The location I chose for the renewal is very secure. I knew this. Getting into the building was a process, getting to floor was another process, getting into the office was yet another. It’s designed to intimidate and does a damn good job of it if you don’t already work in a government office. I do. Some people do not comprehend the meaning of remove all metal items from your pockets, some choose not to. I already knew I was going to be dealing with the latter as stood in queue to enter.

Similar to when I go to the airport, other than my rings and my phone, all my metal accoutrements stay in my purse long enough for me to get through the check point. I put them on once I am past the metal detectors. At least we did not have to take off our shoes here. The woman in front of me was different. She had on metal. Statement necklace and rings. Chain hanging from her jeans. Piercings. Even her sneakers were studded. I inwardly sigh.

She steps up to the metal detector and naturally sets it off. Security makes her back up and start removing gear. But it was the non metal thing she wore that caught my eye.

“Excuse me?” I attempt to garner her attention without touching her. “Miss?”

If there is one thing I know about my voice, it is that it carries. I make an effort to moderate its natural tendency to whisper like a foghorn. So I know I am heard. She’s either ignoring me or, as her second attempt also sets the sensors off, she’s annoyed. I try again, I’m blatantly ignored with a huff and eyeroll. Fine. As she removes more metal, security sees me waiting and signals for me to come around.

Miss Metal steps to block my path. “Where you going Lizzo wanna-be? Don’t skip!”

Excuse me?

For those who may not know, Lizzo is as an African-American singer, rapper, songwriter and flutist. Lizzo also happens to be plus-sized. I wish I had half of the performer’s talent, but I know that is not how her name is being used in this context with me a plus-sized African-American woman who has literally said exactly five words to her total. Hardly enough for her to gauge any singing talent I may have (for the record I don’t have any singing talent – but not the point here).

I’m not offended by the comparison. I am offended by the comparison as means of insult from a possibly recalcitrant, definitely ignorant, woman half my size and severely melanin challenged. That’s me being polite for stupid skinny pasty white chick with an attitude. It’s early Monday morning, people, I haven’t had coffee yet – don’t mess with me.

Before I can say anything, the security guard who signaled me does.

“If that Lizzo comment was supposed to be an insult you’re wrong. She’s not jumping the line, I called her – you’re wrong. And now that you’ve turned around I do think she was about to tell you about the roller you still have in your hair. She’s trying to do you a favor and you attempted to insult her for nothing – you’re three ways wrong.” he looks past her to me, motioning with his hand, “Harry, grab her bins, willya? You can come this way miss.”

Her face goes red in a way that is part chagrin and part embarrassment as I point out my waiting bins to Harry. Either way it’s lovely to me to watch as she feels around in her hair, finds and removes the roller that she has been running around with this morning. I toss my hair back, look at, blow on, then buff my nails on my blouse as I pass her and then go through the metal detector without a hitch. As I reach my Knight in Shining Polyester -aka, the guard who signaled me- he does a bad job of suppressing his grin as he stage whispers, “I gotta admit, I was hoping you’d do just that.”

“I gotta admit – it felt good as hell to do, thank you!” I reply collecting my belongings and wait to be escorted upstairs for my interview.

Twenty minutes later, the woman -sans nearly all the metal I first saw her in- is just arriving upstairs. Interview over I am leaving the office – in all the jewelry I wasn’t wearing earlier because I knew better, a renewed Global Entry traveler once again.

I could not resist it, “Yes, I am 100% that bitch.”

I knew by her face she got the message and I just grinned.

For those unfamiliar with Lizzo’s music:

  • my comment as I headed out was from Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts”.
    I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100% that bitch
  • my actions as I passed Miss Metal the first time were the opening lines to Lizzo’s song “Good As Hell”. The security guard, clearly familiar with the music, recognized my subtler interpretation

I do my hair toss
Check my nails

Baby how you feelin’?
Feeling good as hell


Day 21 of 31 – Let’s see how others are slicing it out today…

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Sounds Springing in the City

I am sitting at a table near an open window at a tapas place. I’m waiting for my dinner companion to return from the bathroom that I know is in the room, in the back, at the bottom of the stairs, in the bowels of the café. It’s a spring day that actually feels like a real spring NYC day. Not that hint of March lion where, just watch, tomorrow will be 20 degrees again just ’cause. No, it’s that warmish spring air that tells you it’s going to stick around.

I hear a cacophony of sounds on the sidewalk and street in front of me. It’s the usual discordant din that is not quite the white noise of living in a big city.

Sirens from ambulances and police cars speeding by assault my serenity as I nurse my large cup of black coffee. Buses and trolleys rumble by. Motorcycles and motor scooters, too.

There’s a group of teenage boys loudly playing rap music and performing what I assume to be some sort of rhythmical dance moves as a small crowd of onlookers gathers around them. Across the street a woman walking down the street spews random profanity at passers-by of her spot in the middle of the sidewalk.

I look up between the tall buildings to the sound of a passenger jet overhead, only to be distracted by the voice of the homeless man asking those who sat at the outdoor tables for any spare change. Some give, some don’t.

Down the block in the other directions the sounds of a musician playing acoustic guitar, accompanied by someone drumming on a large plastic pail turned upside down, wafts toward me. It’s not unpleasant.

Around me I hear the many conversations of the other diners that blur into its own white noise as well the ambient music playing in the restaurant itself.

I find myself smiling at everything and nothing.

My dinner companion returns and a velvet baritone breaks through my pensive listening. “You all right, Rai?”

And on this first day of spring in New York City, listening to the sounds around me, for the first time in a long time I realize something…

“Yes, I am.”


Day 20 of 31 –

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

This Day Needs An Enema

I knew when I saw the caller ID this morning it was going to be a crapshow, but I answered it anyway. Usually I can maintain a balance, but not today. Today I chose violence as the kids say an neutrality and diplomacy were shot to smithereens. And things only escalated from there. I have spent a much too long portion of this day in a mood that can only be summed up by the questions I have asked today. All of which were some various form of:

  • You F-ing KIdding Me Right Now?!
  • How F-ing Stupid Are You?!
  • Don’t Your Knuckles Hurt From All That F-ing Dragging?
  • And You F-ing Thought THAT Was The Best Option?

Today has been a personal and social quagmire. Come tomorrow I suspect there will either be several apologies or a few grudges that are going to be held for a long time to come.

Today might not have been a complete loss, but it certainly was not a win.


Day 19 of 31 –

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

The Oopsies Have It!

I sometimes use my phone to compose posts on WordPress. It’s convenient when I’m not in front om my computer to write my posts. For example, when I’m on the subway and an idea comes to me for a poem. As it’s one Ill have to link to via this blog it made perfect sense to start it here. One less step to do. Yeah, not quite.

Convenient as it is, it comes with with a few problems. I am not the world’s best speller to begin with, I’m prone to grammar typos and don’t forget my adoration of dangling participles. Most of which I don’t catch until after my post has been published. And oh, let’s not talk about the autocuumber – I mean autocorrect. That charming little helper that constantly insists I have no ducks left to give, yet will occasionally decide in a food post that I had fuck a l’orange for dinner. Oopsie!

Add in that my fifteen words per minute typing cannot possibly keep up with my fifteen hundred thoughts per minute mind. I drop words mid sentence. I know I thought them, but the fingers do not reach my keyboard in time before other thoughts and words crowd them out. And le pièce de résistance: big fingers – little keyboard. I’m constantly hitting the c, v, b, n, or m key when all I want is amspace. (<– like what just happened there – oopsie!). Using my phone for drafts is convenient, but a recipe for disaster.

Especially the times when I was not done composing posts, and did not want to lose the work done thus far. At some point I accidentally managed to hit “Publish” because that button is too dang close to the dropdown menu where “save as draft” is hidden. I know the app designers emphasize posting, but it’s bedeviling as all get out when drafting. Because naturally, once I have realized that it’s live, I don’t want to trash it, so now I am scrambling to edit my accidentally published post, only to have hit “update” instead of “save as draft” in the process – yet another oopsie(!). This especially galls me for I constantly tell my students, “If it’s a mess in draft, it will be a mess live. Submitting it will not magically fix anything FUBAR.” Goodness knows this mess of a blog is proof of that. It’s bad enough when working from my PC. It’s especially true for me when composing on a mobile device.

All that to say, so, if you happened to see my first, second, twenty-second, failed attempts of what probably looked like an incomplete or an incomprehensible posts for the few moments it was up before I could fix it, I apologize.

Day 18 of 31 – Come see how the rest of us are slicing it up this Friday!

Slice of Life 15th Annual Story Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

So Burnt

I have semi-personally been trying to find the joy in life again, in peope. Oh, I’m doing an okay job of faking it until I make it, but right now? In this exact moment I am simply burnt the fuck out.

And I’m torn…

– in my sorrow for the shit that’s happening in Ukraine. The sanitized politics that’s being parsed out as news over here versus the sensationalized what’s supposed to be coming directly from there on top of what I hear from my colleagues. All of which means everything and nothing as I try not to fret and fear over the fact that I have not heard from someone I personally know there in over a month. An erstwhile colleague, he went home when his mother became ill not long before the world shut down because of Covid. We remained in spotty contact mostly via email. He lives in the Holosiivskyi raion (a district in Kyiv) and would be among the men now in uniform fighting for his country. I fully understand, I am far from a priority now. I don’t know and won’t know until he can find a moment to reach out.

– in my exasperation over Prince William who tells the world with a straight fucking face that only Asian and African countries wage war. That Europeans just don’t do these things and he’s surprised by the situation in Ukraine. Are you fucking kidding me?! England has a track record of poaching and taking by any means necessary, under the sweet term of ‘colonizing’ a mile wide and an ocean deep. I find this particularly galling as England recently celebrated Commonwealth Day the partnership of 54 nations, mostly made up of countries that were previously part of Britain’s Empire because I’m so absolutely sure not a single one of those 54 nations ever had a British gun fired upon them. Yes, Prince William is a grown man, but still, boy if you don’t go sit your selectively blind arse down!!

– in resignation along with these allegedly warmongering Asian and African countries, as well as Black Twitter, who are all sitting back, looking around with “you SEE this bullshit?” expressions. They are understandably side-eyeing a world at large that is seemingly losing its shit over Ukraine while also wondering where the fuck was all this concern for them when it was people/countries of color being invaded?

– in enmity with the state of Florida and their “Don’t say Gay” bill which would ban “classroom discussion about sexual orientation or gender identity” for primary school children in the state. What that fuck is this reverse “Field of Dreams” bullshit? If you don’t say it to the kiddies then LGBTQ won’t exist. Yeah, good luck with that. And how long before someone amends the ban to include middle school, or high school?

– annoyance and semi fear of my own city, in fact – most of this world, with its relaxing of Covid restrictions. Every one is so much of a rush to behave as though everything is back to “normal”. Yes, I am so sick of having to wear a mask 12-16 hours a day when I step out my house to go to work, and/or try to have something of a social life again. But I much rather be sick of a mask, than be sick from Covid. Vaccination does NOT equal immunization. Less likely to become so sick from Covid that one might die, does not mean one won’t get sick. It most certainly does not mean one won’t be a carrier regardless and transmit it to someone else regardless. We [the world at large] are not anywhere near ready for what we once knew as “normal”. Especially for those at risk who genuinely cannot take the vaccine. Do they get relegated to become some form of agoraphobes to better protect their health from a world that demasked too soon? I’m waiting for the Covid numbers to once again start rising as more masks get lowered.

– in a form of self-induce ambivalence where I get through my days in a state of “I’m fine”. In the Venn diagram of me for the most part I really am fine in my little bubble of the world. But in another part of me there is this powder keg of utter helplessness within that feels like it is going to explode any fucking second and it’s slowly expanding over space. And the thing is even I am not sure if that explosion will be in egregious rage, in sinking depression or in an apathy that is borderline socio in self protection. Because I know what happens to me when I try to be everything to everyone. I’ve gone the self-martyr route and it was a bitch digging myself out of that emotional quagmire to allow myself to be happy. I cannot do that to myself again. I’m justifying to myself why an upcoming pleasure trip to Atlanta in a couple of weeks is sorely needed. Yet, I’m also chastising myself because I feel like a whiny little brat when I know I don’t have it any where near as bad some of my locals who are truly shouldering some heavy burdens in which I can do nothing for them but be emotional support – it’s enough for them – I know it is, and yet it’s not.

I’m trying to give myself perspective to keep all my petty shit together and get through the daily, but it has been so fucking hard. I’m just so burnt with outside forces playing havoc with my inner equilibrium right now.


Day 17 of 31

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers

Amused and Bemused

I enjoy placing the credit/blame of my creativity on Muse. You loved it? “Thanks, Muse was good to me.” Could’ve done without it? “Yeah, Muse was on something, too bad.” It matters not to me, nor that bossy chick.

Yes bossy. Yes chick.

I mostly tend to refer to Muse in the feminine because of Greek Mythology and the Nine Muses. Even so, every now and again it is certainly a masculine voice I heed in the other classic definition of Muse as a personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative.

I get an idea in my funny ol’ head and it won’t go away until I at least start a chunk of it. Especially in writing. Muse does not give a single frack that it’s three in the blessed morning. I can/have/will be tired as all get out, just about to drop off into the deepest of REM slumber and BOOM an idea will strike. If I’m extremely lucky Muse will let me jot down a few notes and return to sleep. Most of the time, I’m not that lucky. I am no longer surprised to see I awakened and over an hour has passed because Muse whispered and enforced dominance over me.

It happened again last night.

I am a part of several writing groups. As voyeur reader with most, more active with others. Last night, I went through my usual routine: laid out my clothes for the next day, checked my lights and locks, ensured the stove was off (even though I had not turned it on since Sunday – go figure). I was in bed, under the covers, doing a final look with one of my groups when a prompt caught my eye. It was a cute prompt; I could see it going in different directions. I looked forward to reading whatever soul who took up the prompt would do with it. As for me, it was now after the witching hour -this is normal bedtime for me shush(!)- I plugged in my phone to charge, turned off my lamp and tucked in for the night.

Can someone please explain to me how Chapter One, with my name as author, got posted some forty-five minutes later?

Participles are dangling all over the place as though it’s law, wrote Vesuvius Man instead of Vitruvian Man, but there it was – out in the world in shiny glory. How did this happen, again? Yeah, you’ve got it. Dang Muse made me get out of bed, get on my computer, start typing and did not stop until I pressed “Post”. Worse, it’s Chapter One – implying there is more to come and now I’ve got to fulfill on that implication.

Wait. What the…? Dammit! Stop snickering Melpomene!

I already have three WIPs (works in progress), out there. Two, half-finished poems, an idea for another, plus a mental Fort Knox full of plot bunnies. All of them are clamoring for attention. And now this? Not to mention being at the literal halfway point of the annual Slice of Life Challenge.

No one asked my permission! As if Muse ever does. Sigh.

Yes mistress…


Day 16 of 31 – let’s see how others have hit this apex point today….

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge

15th Annual Slice of Life Writing Challenge
Two Writing Teachers