Her Left Heart Foot

Her heart was beyond heavy. It was crushing. It was a stone heart; impeding the negative expansive pressure of her lungs. With each inhale it bared down a little harder. It was tearing her asunder. Ripping through ribs, intestines and arteries it wanted to fall out of her. It wanted to leave her. Instead it settled in her left foot. Unable to leave her fully, her statue of a heart resided as far away as possible. It made her walk with a limp, almost dragging her left foot behind her.

Three months had passed since she lost everything, everything you could imagine. Her parents, sister, brother, dog, goldfish, car, bicycle, clothes all burned in front of her eyes. It was a spark and then nothing. Her parents didn’t have a will or money or life insurance.

“What’s up with the limp?” asked her one friend.  A 18-year-old semi-goth, emo, confused boy named Hunter.

“It just happened,” Georgia said.

“Can you walk on it?” He asked.

“No.”

She really couldn’t it felt like it wasn’t a part of her anymore like it belonged to her stone heart and she was not privy to use it anymore. She imagined the heart was still red. Maybe it wasn’t stone maybe it was a ruby, maybe it was still something precious as opposed to something you kick when you’re bored and walking or you curse at when it hits your windshield on the highway.

Georgia sighed deeply and looked at her left leg and contemplated the usefulness of rock. Besides the biblical use to kill people it was a powerful, yet ever changing anomaly. Water over time could etch it a face. It formed mountains and canyons. It could destroy everything in its path. It was solid, reliable and strong but only for so long. It was intriguing to Georgia, who still worked her job at Dairy Queen because she still felt tied to the town her parents made their home. She worked at the Dairy Queen since she was 16 and 5 years later she viewed it the same. It was a job that afforded her very little but she never had grand dreams, in fact, she had no dreams. She never has. Not even whimsical dreams that made no sense. When she slept, she slept. When she was awake, she was awake. Her days were solid and reliable.  

Since the fire, mornings had started to become different. She’d wake startled, she’d wake exhausted. She still wasn’t dreaming but her left leg started to become stiffer. She decided to go to the doctor. Months passed and the doctors could find no reason why her leg wouldn’t work. They said it was mental, passed her along to a shrink. Out of sight out of mind. Georgia knew it was her heart. It was infecting her leg. She’d let her heart run wild and it wasn’t for love, it was for loss. At nights, before bed, after she’d brushed her teeth, she would grieve for her family. Hoping her grief would release her heart back to her. Hoping emotions could turn stone to flesh.

Waves crashing on rocks have been known to create. The ocean, daily, pushing back can change the course of rock formations. A year had passed and Georgia could use her leg again. She went to a community college to start on becoming a nurse. She got a job at a hospice. She was a bright light in some people’s dark, dark seas. She smiled a lot more and even had a dream or two. Deep within her though she felt bits of rock still floated around her heart, waiting in her pericardium. She followed a slow path, became an EMT instead of a Nurse and from there became a fire fighter. She was even a engine driver. She took a lot of slack from the men but she gave it back. She proved herself and over time she even met a man. It was the only man who had been there for her when her house burned down. It was Hunter. It was a new Hunter. Gone was the long, dyed black hair and metal tees with long sleeve fishnets. Gone were the leather spiked wrist cuffs and giant boots. When she ran into him at the grocery store, she didn’t recognize him. He went off to college. He came home in a suit and tie. She had no idea he was a blonde with eyes as green as emeralds.

They caught up over coffee and then dinner and then in the bedroom. He went back to his job in the city. He was an advertising guy. Pitching and creating. It was a good fit for him. They chatted on the phone every day. He wanted her to move to the city. She could fight fires there. It didn’t feel right to Georgia. They visited each other often but the relationship became frayed. Georgia found a loose thread and pulled it until there was nothing left. They loved each other deeply but distance became mountains and there was not enough of an ocean in Georgia to move it.

Her heart was heavy, crushingly so. She felt it changing back to stone as though her life was borrowed, on reprieve, out on bail and it was time to return, to pay her dues to not avoid the inevitable. Her belly swelled and she wondered if a good person would tell Hunter. Her stone heart rested in place. Her belly kept it still, for now. It labored her to feel its weight and each breath shocked her. She told Hunter. He rushed to see her. They argued. He demanded she move. She demanded he stay. He accused her of trapping him. She accused him of lying to her during heated moments. He blushed. She sighed. He left. She thought it was for the best.

When the baby came everything shifted. Her face had changed, her heart remained stone, but she felt stronger. Hunter came to the hospital. They named him Forest. Georgia hurt. There were complications and she had to stay in the hospital two weeks. When she got out Hunter and Georgia had their final battle.

“You take him,” she said.

“What?”

“You live in the city, you have a better job. I work long shifts and even worse schedules. I’m risking my life. He’s better with you,” her heart wasn’t in these words. It had settled in her left foot. It was rock, not even red this time. She felt there was no bringing it back.

“Come with us,” he pleaded. His eyes were begging, desperately but Georgia’s eyes were inconclusive.

“No.”

Georgia left. With her stitches, her broken body, her stone façade she ran with gusto. She ran until she bled, until she screamed, until everything caught up with her. When she fell, when she stumbled, when she no longer had the strength, she looked up at a full moon, at familiar trees, at the remains of a house. She ran home. How could she not have realized everywhere she lived was within 2 miles of home. They never did tear it down it just served as a warning to the other houses, to the neighborhood. She was in her backyard. Children had done horrible things, weird rock formations graffiti, bible quotes. Something that resembled voodoo. Georgia used the last of her strength to stand up and reach towards her home but her legs went stiff her heart went cold.

“Don’t be a chicken Billy.”

“I’m not a chicken I just don’t know why we’re doing this!”

“Bock bock bock bock bock.”

“Sammie, c’mon this is dumb. We’ve already been through the creepy burnt down Miller house.”

“Yeah and you cried and covered your eyes the whole time, Billy, like a little baby.”

“So?”

“So, you didn’t see what we saw.”

“Oh yeah? And what was that?”

“Go see for yourself.”

Billy ventured into the decayed home. Plant life had started to reclaim it. Stairs lead to a half roof where birds and spiders had gathered. He placed one foot on the stairs and it broke, trapping his foot. He screamed.

“What is it Billy? Too scared?” They yelled from outside while laughing like jackals.

“I’m stuck assholes. If you don’t help me, our parents will ask where I am!”

“Whatever, serves you right disturbing that house.” Billy’s face went blank.

“What?”

“We never went in the house Billy. We just walked you around the porch last time. Our parents taught us not to disrespect the dead.”

“Are you kidding me? What the heck is wrong with you? Why would you force me to do this then?”

“To see if you would. Bye Billy, we’ll tell your mom where to find you. You’re going to be in trouble.”

“You sons of bitches,” a phrase he heard his father use. “Get in here and help me!”

The silence grew eerie.

“Guys… GUYS! SAMMIE.”

Panic rose up into Billy’s throat like vomit. He struggled and squirmed and fought and the gashes on his left foot grew bigger. He pried and scratched at the stairs until they gave way and he was free. He limped out the back determined he could cut through the woods and avoid getting in trouble. Sammie was going to pay for this. He’d get him in trouble at school. Just you wait.

He never saw a statue in the yard before. They messed around in the yard a lot because of the woods behind it but there was never a statue. It was of a naked woman, taunt but round with hair flowing back, away from her face and shoulders. She was reaching for the house and in her left hand was what looked like a burnt match. Billy limped over, caressed the statue. He ran his fingers over thighs and arms and when he touched the match he realized it was a real match and it ignited. His eyes grew wide, his finger burned; he looked the statue in the face for the first time. The eyes were real but gray, they blinked and Billy grew stiff, his heart grew cold.

I Am No Wil Wheaton

At my core, I am a writer. It is what I strive to be, it is what I desire; it is what makes me happy. As time passes and I come up with projects and put them aside, start short stories and never finish them, apply for freelance jobs and never get them, I realize my energy is misappropriated. Aside from having a few publications and short lived reporter jobs, I have not really pursued my dreams I have settled for what pays the bills. When I begin the journey of publication, manuscripts and submissions, I am overwhelmed. I feel I am not worthy.

For 2 years at the Emerald City Comicon, I have sat in the panel titled “Wil Wheaton’s Awesome Hour.” From Star Trek, to ingenious writing he has captivated me. Here is a man who has reinvented himself, a family man, a man who cares for his fans. While 3,000 of us squeezed into a room just to hear him read us excerpts, answer questions, and regale us with witty remarks, I laughed and beamed and realize I have no leg to stand on.

I am no Wil Wheaton, and here is no great matter. This is my call to action. I may not be Wil Wheaton but I am Leila Regan and while a part of me feels all that can be done has, a part of me knows that I am a different type of writer from everyone else. Wil Wheaton, you have inspired me to get back on the horse. To submit until I bring writing into submission. I want to write. I want to be published. I want my words to grace the pages of a book. A solid book people can hold in their hands. It will be time consuming and hard and become a unpaid second job, but I have to give it an honest effort, I have to write and be read.

The pen is mightier than the sword and I will use my pen to stab at pages and eke out stories and fall in love again. While Wil Wheaton has shown me his strength it has renewed my strength in myself. I am no Wil Wheaton but he forged himself and I must do the same. 

To Be Continued ...

The crisp fall air punctuated the moment, an exclamation point with every sharp breath.

“What happened?” he squealed.

Her breathing was even, slow drags in and out off an invisible cigarette. Her heart rate didn’t elevate. But she had started out so fervent.

“Something was chasing me.” Flora said.

“Well what is it?” Jeremy asked. His voice was two pitches too high.

As Flora examined the broken bones and oozes that was once a creature she came to no definite conclusion.

“Something.”

“Well is it dead?” Jeremy had been driving the car, looking for flora when he struck the thing. Flora bolted when it showed its ugly mug to them the first time during an evening make out session in the woods. While in the backseat of a warm car, something shook the vehicle. Not aggressively, just slightly. Enough for Flora to notice, enough for her to wipe the condensation off the window and look outside. It was something, something unfathomable.

“Pretty sure it’s not getting back up, how fast were you going?” Flora exhaled and was delighted in the steam of her breath accenting the navy blue sky, illuminated by blaring headlights. It was like her breath was trapped by the headlights, unable to progress. She notices the thing produced no such vapor.

“Hey shouldn’t this carcass be giving off steam if it’s oozing like this?”

There were too many questions aimed at Jeremy and he couldn’t dodge them all. His mind raced and words came out in hurried breaths. Trying to get as much information out at a time.

“I was worried about you. I was driving pretty fast, wasn’t really paying attention.” He paused, pregnant. “It should be steaming. The flesh looks weird.”

Flora’s mind watched the carcass pump the last of its vital juices. She watched the hard, cold ground resist the poison before accepting and absorbing.

“I…” She thought how not to make Jeremy’s voice rise to yet an even higher decibel level. “I think it was dead before you hit it.” It sounded ludicrous leaving her lips.   

Jeremy’s mind went into overdrive and started rejecting her thoughts, she had no concern, maybe she was a part of it.

“What like someone just threw a dead thing in front of my car?” He put his hands involuntarily on his hips. “Oh no, wait, maybe it’s a remote control dead thing and someone is getting a rise out of us.”

He swiveled his hips, shrugged and made an annoying pppffffttt sound. Disbelief is a weird thing.

“Mocking me is not going to make this situation any less confusing.” Her voice was mellow, clinical. “Should we take it with us? Maybe take it to someone who can figure out what it is? It WAS following me.”

“I’m not putting that nasty thing in my car. Just leave it. We can bring someone back to it. It’s fairly large; I don’t think anything is going to take off with it.” It might have been a dog or a wolf, neither could place its face. Flora looked it dead in its milky whites but couldn’t place anything else.

“Okay, well then I guess we should probably get out of these woods. Would you mind taking me home?”

With senses returning and his high voice diminishing, Jeremy became focused, once again on Flora.

“Well, we just went through a traumatic experience, are you sure you don’t want to, maybe, talk about it or get a coffee.”

Flora glared at him,

“You truly have a penis, don’t you?” Her voice finally raised and curled and kicked with venom.

He laughed and tried to put his arms around her as they returned to the car.

Their voices were carried up and away, above the trees, the cold air compounding on it, crushing it, forgetting it.

“Don’t touch me,” Flora spat.

The car spitted and turned, started and moaned. The dead thing passed under its axles, untouched.  Headlights streamed, emphasized by the chill of air.  Dirt and rock crushed under slow moving tires. Dust was tossed and lost in the slight autumn breeze.

Night fell harder, becoming a consuming darkness. The car was long gone. The dead trees stirred as movement was found within them.

Eyes spied the dead thing, demolished by man and their machines.

“Lucky, what happened?” A deep voice uttered into the black. The voice reached down and scooped up the annihilated, indecipherable creature and cradling it to its chest, the voice sauntered back into the welcoming woods, back into the black.

Dealing with Rejection - From an aspiring writer’s perspective

***** I wrote this a long time ago as a mantra to remind myself and have a system in place for when I started submitting pieces. What this article does not mention is that print media is dying, all "writing" jobs require years of experience or pay you jack and you will eventually live a life in debt, alcoholism and working jobs that don't really afford you a career. *****

Not everyone is going to love your writing style; in fact there will be some people that will hate it. These are the cold hard facts of dipping your hand into writing. You may work hard and long on a piece only to have to thrown back at you with numerous red marks. You may get flustered that a piece didn’t come out the way you wanted it to, but then get compliments on a job well-done.

There is never an easy or clear way to know if what you did was exceptional. The key in writing is to learn from your mistakes. There are very simple measures to be taken before you can deem yourself worthy of a writer’s title.

1. READ. You have to read to understand writing. Read everything, from magazine articles to novels to memoirs. Read articles on how to write, read articles on how to read. Read articles from magazines, newspapers especially journals you are even considering writing for.

There have been so many cases where a writer submits one of their favorite pieces to a magazine or journal only to have it thrown back at them, because it doesn’t fit the magazines persona. Unless you have your own magazine or journal you have to work your writing into the style and flavor of the proposed literary medium.

2. STUDY. This does not mean to analyze your own writing, but instead to work with someone else more experienced than you to help you understand why that paragraph doesn’t work or why that sentence doesn’t make sense. Never let your eyes be the only eyes to read your piece before it is submitted.

Don’t just work with someone and make the corrections they suggest. Ask questions; understand why you need to change something why that opening lead doesn’t work, why your piece comes across as stiff and boring. Learn so you won’t do it again in the future.

3. PROOFREAD. By the time you’re ready to submit a piece you should almost be able to recite it. You’ve got to read it over and over again until you’re so disgusted with the piece you’d almost rather set it on fire than submit it.

With proofreading it still helps to have numerous eyes reviewing your piece. Pass it around let professionals and friends read it. If it’s going to be published there will be a lot of different people from different backgrounds perusing it. So make sure everyone can understand the flow.

After you go through your own personal hell to submit a piece, don’t get offended if it gets returned to you and is deemed unfit for publication. Most big publications get so many submissions it’s very rare for anyone to get in depth comments about why their piece does not match the magazine or journal.

However, some people are out for blood and they will rip your piece to shreds. Once again don’t take it too personal, pull the constructive criticism from the nastiness.

In short, writing is a lot about growth, change and adaptation. Try not to take everything personal and develop your craft. It’s a hard, dirty, frustrating job, but somebody’s got to love to do it.

The Definition of Blog

 

According to the Oxford Dictionary a “blog” is a personal website or web page on which an individual records opinions, links to other sites, etc. on a regular basis.

Some key words to pull from that – personal and opinions – a blog is something that took me years to be convinced was a good thing. I thought blogs were fads and they would slowly fade out. But they haven't and though I hate the name of them, I decided to start one (or two) to better exercise my demons.

I actually liked my wedding and created a blog to discuss my Hawaiian roots, my love for my furry caramel shadow and wedding frustrations, ideas and enjoyments. Working for a wedding company I come across a lot of really cool ideas for wedding and just having a wedding helped me to utilize some nifty things. I also use this blog to vent about the frustrations and issues I had with planning to help any bride-to-be out with their upcoming nuptials. If you don't like me being open and honest about my experiences or you think I'm not being grateful or respectful here's the beauty of blogs, you don't have to read it. This blog is about me and while it is open to comments and I do appreciate hearing peoples thoughts (I love a good debate when it's backed by facts), if you find my personal opinions, thoughts and emotions to be rude, overbearing or “too much,” you can click that little red “x” in the upper right corner and read no further.

My second blog is dedicated to my writing. It's where I'll be throwing up my thoughts on my writing career, my ideas, even some short stores or perhaps dreaded poems. While I do like receiving comments and I will not turn down anyone’s suggestions on writing skills, tactics or a good site for telecommute jobs, please do not tell me what I should be doing with my life. Please do not advise me on how to better my life and that I can reach my goals if I only believe and, you know, actually try.

The truth: I love my life. My life is freaking rad! I just married a amazingly, perfectly weird and wonderful man, I have a pooch who is my life, I have a job that takes care of me and has provided endearing, wonderful friends and I have a life outside of work full of family, friends, concerts, movies, comic books and love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.

It's my blog and I'll vent if I want to. Let me throw my pity party, bridezilla explosion or wailing wisdom around and get it out of my system.

Thank You.

What’s in a Degree?

I find going to school to be a great privilege and opportunity. I have two degrees an Associates and a Bachelor’s. I’m a little obsessed with school. I would love my masters. More importantly I’d love to go back to school for 5 years and get my J.D. and get my masters in intellectual property law. I have lofty goals (still intact).

My major is in English, my minor creative writing. It took me years to settle. I initially was shooting for psychology then it turned to marine biology and finally rested on the haunches of English. I would have preferred journalism, but it wasn’t offered at the closest university where I was living at the time. I drove an hour and a half one way for 2 years to finish my bachelors. That defines my dedication to school.

One of the few pictures of me actually doing what I love.

My degree has not allowed me any jobs – my reporter jobs were brief, my magazine jobs were short-lived. I am not an editor or a reporter or even a copywriter; I am a writer only because I choose to be one. I’ve sat back and heard one of my cousins mock me. Heard her tell my aunt that she thinks an English degree is a useless degree. That if her kids chose English as a major she wouldn’t pay for their college.

It’s a dark time for those who think the pen is mightier than the sword. With no jobs out there and even less jobs in journalism, making headway towards a career has been slow and painful. Whenever I think I’ve gained a footing on my career I slip and fall back down into the canyon of wannabe writers. Unless you have experience, there seems to be no starting footholds in advertising, reporting, writing, newspapers, etc. Sure, you can intern but at 27 and a newlywed, I need to be able to pay my bills. I have an insane work ethic, being without a job makes me uncomfortable. 

When I expressed to my husband that I was upset that I’m 27 without a career, He told me to get one.   Like let’s go grocery shopping, bananas or apples? He told me to get a career and not let them fire me. I started crying.

From FailBlog.org - http://work.failblog.org/

It seems like the only option for English majors if you can’t make it in the advertising, publishing or journalism field is to get your masters and teach. Here is the problem, I’m not a teacher. I don’t want to be one. That is the one career path I put dynamite near the opening cave mouth and destroyed.

So what’s left? Keep working low-paying jobs trying to etch out a career? Quit? Go back to school? Whatever may come all I need is for it to pay the bills and not destroy me with soul crushing boredom, bad scheduling and harsh coworkers.

Fail is a Four-Letter Word

“It is our failure to become our perceived ideal that ultimately defines us and makes us unique … No specific job or career goal defines me and it should not define you… Whether you fear it or not disappointment will come. The beauty is that with true disappointment you can gain clarity and with clarity comes true conviction and true originality.” - Conan O'Brien

As a child I wanted to be a writer. I was encouraged in this endeavor. Winning some essay contests, some publications in college, interning at a daily newspaper in college, working freelance for said newspaper, landing a part-time paid job at a bigger local daily newspaper, and eventually (after a divorce, move and re-evaluation of life) landing a full-time reporter job at a weekly newspaper.

When I was fired after only 3 months from my “dream” job of making a living in journalism, I felt robbed. I felt like perhaps my lifelong goals weren’t sufficient. I felt defective. Never mind that journalism was going the way of the buffalo and the printed word was becoming the typed word which will eventually become the telekinesis word, just wait, I have faith.  I was devastated and doubted myself, my abilities and swore off writing saying “I wasn’t good enough.” I worked jobs that were in no way related to my dreams, but they paid the bills which is more than writing ever did for me.

This is going to be my writing outlet. I’m sure there are writers who will snub my accomplishments perhaps I chose love over career. I didn’t fight to write. I didn’t put writing at the forefront in my life and that’s fine. Writers always seem to have an elitist air about them. I’ve watched my short stories get battered down by “veteran,” published writers and I’ve watched editors correct my pieces down to a nub full of errors. Maybe I don’t deserve to be a writer. Writing is glorious and I love it and I can’t see my life without it. I will continue to write and put my musings, thoughts, short stories, ideas, advice and survival on this blog. Hope you can see past my shortcomings.

With failure grows the ability to endure, I’m planting my seeds and trying to weather life’s storms.