Quill & Claw/Pen & Paw

Considering elsewhere I've listed my favorite books here on these pages, I think I'm going to approach this with immediate memory and forethought. That list was pondered and milled over by several months of research, narrowing and narrowing my literary stupidity into one, fine, focus. Hey, I admit it. I like to read. But, well, my tastes are rarely sophisticated. I even, on occasion, will listen to country music. Remember, I grew up on a steady diet of Stephen King as a teen. And since I discovered him, like, after all of his really good books were published, it was easy to find reading material. And I tried to find other books that kept me interested, but the pacing, the verve never really caught on for me, so I was forced to branch out into books that weren't that scary. Sure, I tried Dean Koontz, and he was okay. But, when I tried to read the second one, I noticed that the plotline was pretty much the same as the first. As was the third attempt. Then? My belove...

Unless they are me, of course. I don't have many scars, however, so I really have to rely on my tattoos in many ways. And, since I've been known to hack a yarn or two, the tattoos, I'm thinking, are the way to go.  Today's writing challenge is talk about my tattoos.  So I guess the one who started this challenge is a millennials. I remember in the 70s, my babysitter got a tattoo and it was something of a scandal. Now? When I'm at the gym and there's men in various states of undress, I've noticed a specific pause when I DON'T see a tattoo. I have to ponder. Is he a mere youth? Is it something who a fitness model? Are they just broke?  Cause tattoos, being unregulated, are fucking expensive. I actually like to think I was ahead of the curve. I remember discussing, over coffee at Paris on the Platte coffeehouse the kinds of tattoos and where they would best. Now, understand, I have severe body image issues. I always have. And, experienc...

This is in interesting one. I find that I keep listing individuals as "heroes" when I'm diligently inquired about such things, but I realize, frequently, that perhaps there is an inherent disconnect between someone we admire for their pluck, and those we just find plain, damn interesting. Take, for example, Walt Disney. I've listed him as a hero and I believe that to be mostly true. For those of you who seem to avoid adverbs on social media and can only think in absolutes (like so many who installed 45), 'mostly' means 'not entirely.' Yes, another adverb. Learn to see them. Ahem. Walt did something I could smack the shit of him for. Literally. I could punch him in face, repeatedly. Strangely, not for his supposed anti-Semitism. That's too nebulous. Only one real book mentions it. No. What makes me irked? He turned states' evidence during the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC), making sure anyone who was trying to unioniz...

Assuming, of course, that money is no object, because, after all, aren't we dealing in the wonders of idealism here? We are. This is supposed to be making me write. Not bogging me down with pesky realities like trying to find a job. Strangely, knowing the way my noggin works, however, I don't think language would ever be an issue for me. It might be for my husOtter, just because he's one of those kinds of men that read Klingon and understand 42 different dialects. But can't utter a single word. That would be okay, in all actuality, we'd survive, but I might have to do all the talking if a ninja attack would arrive, ya know? That being the case, of course I'd live wherever there is a Disney, afterall. California would be my first choice, but, yes, I've been there and I already have a ton of friends. It is so much like my previous home in Colorado that transitioning SoCal would be a breeze. But what about not having Disney? Now we're tal...

Okay, I usually like to keep a distance, here, when I compose. The less you know about me, the more you can see who I am through my authorship. Like, for example, yesterday's topic for writing challenge. It asked for me to describe my first kiss AND my first love. Yeah, no. Just can't go there. Sure, it exists somewhere, but, no, I just can't write about that. Too private. But, the pause of yesterday led to today. Today's topic was to author ten interesting things about myself. Since yesterday I left you in the lurch, I figured I should, at the very least, try to find those ten moments that work on the definition of who I am. Maybe, for those out there in readership-land, you'll understand a bit more of where I'm coming from. Here it goes. The honest truth? I don't find myself very interesting. But, then, again, I have to live with this yutz all the time. The clothing choices, alone, kept me away. I look awful in white. 10.  I went to colle...

The back of the chair was wooden, a gnawed frame that held two green cushions that formed the part where you, well, sat. The color was ubiquitous in the 70s. I remember seeing it everywhere, that much I do remember. The foam within those cushions was horribly firm, as if the modern chemicals of today, harbored by secret Ikea chemists, had not been discovered yet. They had a wire frame, as well, that had worn through where the cushions rubbed up against the black wooden frame. The arms were held up by a series of small, carved posts, simple pieces that were created with a spinner and carving knife. For some reason, I recall these were also quite gnawed as well, as if the family dog had elected to redecorate. But the fact was, the dog was small thing, according to the pictures, so I have no idea how he could reach the armrests for a decent munch. This color, only solid. And uglier. I don't know why this horrid chair comes to mind. I was lighter then, able to sit at the top of t...

Dang. Has it been so long since I've written? I'm not sure what came over me. Normally, there's a stress to write and I don't like that stress, so I cut myself from the authoring stuff, here. So I'll see a movie. Say I'm going to write about it, but time passes and I get all stressed out. It's not like a have a public. Maybe if they were banging at my door, I'd feel worse and, ergo, more motivated to post something up on there here boards. I'm going to try, I really am. I noticed two trends over the past 2017. I wrote, for sure, when it came to fiction. I really did. That part was a breeze. And so was meditation. When you wake up, every day, and attend a job where the adults talk about wanting you dead-okay, not with those words, but swinging Trumpisms around like rocks from a slingshot, the stress is increased even on simple things like, what you can eat or not eat for lunch. 2017 became a big stress ball since that fucking election. That's w...