So I have whinged incessantly about having no vacation time in the states. Going from my four weeks in Australia to two weeks back here has literally been killing me. And while I rejoiced over my recent week off, it really wasn’t enough. I have one other week up my sleeve, I was planning to go away in September but the way my life is flipped around at the moment I’m not certain that will pop. Regardless if I go anywhere or not…
I need more time off!
Yesterday during my daytime slaving period, a lovely boy approached my desk with, “Ummm… excuse me, Gretchen? We were just updating some systems and we realized you’ve been in there with two weeks of vacation… but you should actually have three…”
Three! Three weeks of vacation!! That means I have TWO MORE this year!! Praise the LORD blog tribe!!
I’ve been so busy cheerleading, that I can’t even be shitty about no one letting me know this sooner. I don’t even want to go anywhere. I just need more time off to do nothing. I mean, when you live in New York City, you develop an entirely different idea about what “doing nothing” means. I could use a week to wander in and out of a few museums while zooming up and down to the park with the puppies and banging out chapters.
I’m debating taking a week next month, and another week in September perhaps.
Props, yo. Not only do I have a dope Writer job… I have a dope Writer job that actually gives me vacation time! Oh life, thank you for delivering friendly surprises on days when I need them the most.
Tossed in here and there. Happy Monday blog family.
When the tears come again, she’s thankful for the reminder. There’s this physical contact of it that takes her back to a previous comfort that more than one doctor described as, “Just not good for you.”
Before him, she would bathe in salt water and count stars and dream of you. That all went away the first time he hit her. She knew you weren’t there to stop it.
She knew you would never have changed any of it – even if you could have.
But you couldn’t do the things you promised, that’s why you left.
Something about a bruise tells her that it mattered enough to leave a mark. Most instances pass without a trace. Comings and goings of plans that never happen with people who don’t matter.
You mattered though, that’s the one thing she will never forgive you for. The one impossible thing.
He lives in Brooklyn and does drugs, fixes cars, drinks cheap vodka. The last time she said she was finished, her elbows bruised from the impact of catching her fall in an awkward position.
Sometimes she considers you something similar to that. Something that that caught her fall in an awkward position. Only instead of walking away bruised that time, she floated for fifteen years. Until you went away. And when you finally did go away, you took everything with you.
I’m backing and forthing with whether to novel or novella.
Content isn’t the issue, I’ve got words galore. But as I painfully carry on with the editing process, I’m wondering if I would like to chop chapters down so they slap a bit harder.
Don’t get me wrong, my book is bite-y as fuck, as is. I don’t want there to be too many tangents in it though. I like to fish for emotions from a reader using hard, sharp, short phrasing. Jumping around from topic to topic in this particular style creates a somewhat confining land that makes your head whip back and forth, line for line.
I think novella might be a better place to really punch with the style I’m working with at the moment. So I’ll probably spend the weekend cutting back pages.
In other news, a group of tourists bowed to Frankie during one of our walks today and started to speak to him in Thai. Although now and then someone would throw in an, “I love you! I love you!!”
After that, a woman sitting on the corner jangling a cup of change gave both of the puppies pats and talked about how beautiful they both are until we wished each other well and continued separate ways.
Whenever I consider living someplace else, I know that I’m just not ready to give some things up. Thus I am sitting tight. Especially until I finish this latest pile of writing I’ve done been on about.
New York City chews creatures up and spits them out. Some of us love that so much, we always come back. Or, in my instance, we immerse ourselves in rooftop worlds dipped in the central intestines of Manhattan.
I’m broke blog family. It’s ironic that I’m broke, because an angst driven Uni student might call me the 1% and throw paint on me or something. But… like… I live in midtown (insert enormous wide curling grin).
My rent literally exceeds double of what the average monthly mortgage payment is in the United States. Most humans claiming to be rational beings might interject at this stage about “Rah rah, New Yorkers… rah rah money… rah.”
But you know, something about surviving here – manifesting the world that I have – brings me a satisfaction that is truly difficult to describe.
As a little girl, with four big sisters, I always envisioned my life based on a boy. I would find and meet a boy and he would take care of me and we would be happy. I’d stay home feeding babies and writing stories while he went out and earned bread.
This could not be any more inaccurate when it comes to my life. Two weak ass husbands have come and gone and in between their coming and going I have continued to educate myself and seek opportunities and refuse to snap in half regardless of how awkwardly my world has been twisted and bent.
Suddenly I’m a self-sufficent New Yorker, sure there’s no money in my pocket… there’s dry-cleaning that’s overdue… and a warm feeling in my stomach over being chewed up and spit out by this gritty city once again.
I couldn’t be more pleased. I <3 this town.
When humans hurt me, I move. And the worse the hurt… the further the distance. My initial 2002 departure to Australia was sprung by a dapper physicist with glassy green eyes who ran my heart through a meat grinder.
He’s married with two children, I still get the occasional email. (more…)