Tag Archive | moving

First Rejection & Snow

Jan8

Of the year. And it’s fine, it’s part of the process. It’s fine. I read somewhere once that being rejected just means your story has not found a home yet.

What hurts is that in the midst of the s**t show of the last few years, I lost both my physical log and the computer log of where I had submitted which stories.

In the rejection letter they were absolutely both extremely professional and kind. Especially since I had apparently submitted that story to them in 2021.

Sigh.

So many emotions are swirling in me right now. A morass. Not because of the rejection of the story. It will find its home.

And it hit hard because I’m trying to find my footing in my new home. Most of that is working through the mental state that I arrived in. My home is still in disarray, and when I lay in bed and close my eyes I see my old room. My old life.

Friday night & Saturday morning we experienced our first snowfall that stuck. My son still calls California home. Sunday we went to lunch with my niece & her family, and I borrowed a shirt for a wedding next weekend. Wednesday I put my kid on a plane to our old home to visit– and I’m hoping he gets on the plane back 12 days later. I’m hoping he doesn’t get into trouble.

I’m also looking forward to time without him. Time to make a freaking mess of the house so I can put it together the way I want to.

My words are messy, but they are coming out. I’ve got 2 stories I’m working on because well, messy. I wrote a poem.

I talk to my bestie on the phone everyday. She’s still in Cali, and is my backup with the almost adult boy I’m sending out there. I miss her. I have family here but haven’t made friends yet. I also don’t really go anywhere– haven’t even been to the library yet. I do recognize the cashier at the Dollar General, but I’m sure I’m just another face in the day to her.

Well. This has gotten a lot more personal than I thought it would. Hope you don’t mind. My brain doesn’t feel as messy.

Until next time, my lovelies!

When it isn’t about the thing…

Aug16

So I follow @hannahnicolemaeon TikTok. She has a series of what I just thought were skits — Assistant to the Villian, and they have gotten me through some really dark days. I am so happy that it’s actually a book that will be coming to a shelf near me in November. So excited for her, and also excited to support it.

Now she has a brilliant marketing team. They sent out gorgeous promo boxes and I started seeing them pop up on the Tok. Kewl! Then there was a contest to get one, but my phone wouldn’t let me enter. Google don’t like doing that kind of stuff from the Tok or an evil villain is holding me down. Or would it be a hero being a dood? One or the other. A chance popped up again, and again I was blocked. And again.

Then there was a book club and the first 50 would get a free ebook. I was, miraculously, right at the very beginning but… Again. Blocked at every turn. Couldn’t follow the link thru Tok and it wasn’t available thru the actual app the club is on. So once again…

And I lost it. I was on lunch at work, sobbing in my car, trying to get myself back together because it was time to go in. Red eyes and snotty, but I eventually did so. Thankfully the guys I work with are kind of oblivious.

Now here’s the thing. I. Don’t. Cry. Over. Not. Having. Books. End of story. Never have. Do I really, desperately want to read it? Yes. However, I don’t even know if it’ll be any good. Never read anything by her. Want to support her, interested and wanting to bring some sunshine back in my life, yes. Absolutely. But I don’t cry over not being able to buy books. If I did, it would be waiting for a new Anne Bishop book and never have I ever.

WTH?

Talking with my sister Mary, who btw I’m running away to in about a month, put things into perspective. Dad died and I’ve been running and fighting so hard since I haven’t had time to grieve. I’m leaving my home. I’ve been here 13 years, and in Cali all my life. Said goodbye to SF over the weekend, and my beloved Pacific Ocean and now I’m crying again. I’m trying to pack up my home and don’t know how to do this.

On top of all that I can’t write. My tongue has been leashed, at least for another month. All the hurt and anger and so many more emotions that need to come out but I promised to hold it in. And when I can’t speak my truth I don’t write it either. Actually I probably should. It’s not like I have to show it to anyone, right? But will I have any time.?

To be honest, I have been feeling like I just have to live in Hell for a while, then I can escape.

And again, not the fault of the author (hannahnicolemae) or marketing team of the book. I am so excited for her. And to be very honest, I have been blessed with ARCs and marketing treats from Rie Sheridan Rose and if you haven’t read her series with Jo what are you waiting for???? Steam Punk greatness is what’s waiting for you there. She also has spooky books, just in time for fall.

I Don’t Know

Jul2

What I’m doing and it’s getting pretty obvious.

Let me explain. That would probably help, right?

Or maybe I should flex my description skills. It is one of the areas I lack, or need more practice with. The Lazy Writer, remember?

Bare bones edition: I am trying to figure out how to pack up a 3 bedroom home that my father lived in for 20+ years and the Princeling & I have lived in for 14 years and move away from the area I’ve lived for 20-ish years.

Possibly the state I’ve called home my entire life.

Probably.

More than likely.

Now, let’s add to the stress of our hapless heroine. The last time time she moved it was in a hurry-+ clothes and toys shoved into trash bags filling up the trunks of 2 cars. She was able to go back later and grab a few precious items, but not all.

Now, of course, everything is precious. And not just to her. It isn’t just move, trash, yard sale piles. There’s also FAMILY pile, stuff the family might want. The problem is,  well, family.

Sometimes it feels as if–+ well, I put it this way. If I let everyone have the things they asked for there would be nothing left. Not a stick, not a stone. Not even the stuff that belongs to me & my son.

I just threw some stuff in the trash. It unfroze me for a minute. But there’s also a fear of… What if someone asks for it? Let’s be clear: this stuff wouldn’t be sold in a yard sale and belonged in the trash. My insides twist and turn, knot and release.

And the creative ideas are popping like bananas but I have energy and/or ability to function in the single digits. I’m scared. I’m frozen. I haven’t had a chance to breathe because hits just keep coming and yea, I still need to grieve as well.

I started writing prose poetry to work on my feelings. It’s working. I’m getting out the vitriol and it’s helping me heal and remember family is family and I do love them. They love me too, it’s just other things getting in the way.

It’s supposed to be 108 today. I’m not going to be doing much out in the garage until much later. I got started…. And that’s half the battle.

Home-sick

Aug11

I am homesick.

For my little bitty apartment, on Sesame Street. The one with not enough plugs in the kitchen, or counter space. The one where the windows didn’t always work quite right, and the screen door was falling off it’s hinges.

You know the one. The one where my son grew up. Where he ran around a big looping figure 8 around the chair, did his Yo-Gabba dance (a galloping, thigh slapping dance) the first time. The place where Brian, Ray and I were invincible. A family.

Safe. Together.

I called over there today, asked what a 2 bedroom would cost. I know that a 1 bedroom would be just a little bit too small for the 3 of us now.

But I want to go home. I don’t know how I’ll do it. I don’t know how… because almost all my money is going to daycare and gas. But I’ll find a way.

I told Brian tonight, on the phone, that I want to go back. That I need to go back home to sesame street. There’s no back yard for Ray to play in, but the rent’s do-able if Brian starts working fairly quickly, and it’s central to bus lines and stores and parks and all sorts of stuff.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

Stability

May20

Not that anyone is reading, but…. The move is on for Saturday. Brian will be with us until next Wednesday, then I begin my life as a single mom living with her dad.

Again.

Sigh.

The good thing about it is that we, Ray and I, will have stability. Stability. I love that word. The curving hiss of the s, the sigh of the a, the soft “buh”, and of course ility is fun no matter how you slice it. The word is full of contradictions which serve to balance it out.

Stability means a schedule, which Ray thrives on. Stability means being able to pay your bills off, and still have money left over for essentials like diapers, juice and of course, books.

Stability means not having to worry, or fret. Fret is another word that sounds like it is. Small and full of sharp, pointy edges. Worry just goes round and round, kind of like the action of worrying itself.

So. Things will be rough. And hopefully I’ll have more time for you, my dear readers…. But for now the box bug has gotten hold of me.

And I’ll try not to worry and fret.

Talk soon.

Wyn

Changes they are a coming

May10

So. I am getting ready to move out of my little apartment. Ray and I are going to go and live with Dad for a little while.

Ok. I’m lying. It’s probably going to be a long while.

In a way, I’m dreading it. Getting Ray used to a new home, a new routine, life without his daddy… Well, it’s going to be hard. And I can’t just foist him off on other people. I’m his Mom. This is my responsibility. No one elses. Except, maybe, Brian’s.

But there’s a lot that I’m looking forward to. I love talking with my dad, love being around him. And I think this will be good for him too. He’s admitted to having some issues with depression lately. He’s a people person. Which makes sense– he’s one of my favorite peoples.

And lets not forget the back yard. Oh thank heaven. I’m really really looking forward to coming home from work, feeding Ray, then throwing him in the back yard and letting him run off his energy. Bath-time, then bedtime. Yay!

The only part I’m really dreading is the transition. Ray is a high-octane type of child. Dad is 83. Here’s hoping Dad’s patience and love and kindness don’t desert him, and maybe even rub off on the little ‘un.

So. The month of May is going to be moving month. I may not be writing as much this month, but you’re going to be in my thoughts. Keep us in yours, too.