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The write habit.

Currently, my student loan payments are around $650 a month. They haven’t all started yet (as I have four different companies to pay back to) but I set up the second one this morning. Meaning, and this is if my hours at work stay pretty much the same, that half of my monthly check will go to paying back my undergrad career.


I’ve been trying not to let this overwhelm me, but treading over this kind of water gets tiring after a spell. Then I had a change of heart.

If I’ll be paying for the next ten years for my degree in English Writing, I really owe it to myself to be writing much more than I have been.

Yet another kick in the pants to get my creative juices flowing.

I’m paying for this talent I assumed I had. Let’s at least put it to work.  



I have a job now. 

Prepare to be bothered with blogging and fictive writing once more. Guilt is now over since I am part of the workforce.

I’m back bitches. Get stoked. 

Job Tension


I found a job as a staff writer with a company in Chicago and am so stoked about it.  I’m so nervous with my application and my cover letter is a jumble of oh-please-oh-please-please-hire-me. 


I really want this job and don’t want to screw it up.

[nerves nerves nerves nerves]

gahh I hope I get it.  


Things [6/11]

Today I spent the day with Things. 

With forks, the refridgerator, the refried beans and the rugs.

With the sheets and the shoes, towels, lemons and limes.

We spent our time together. 

I told them jokes, shouting from my desk as the job searching wore on and on.

They didn’t so much as snigger.

Things do not make very good audiences.

I told them about my uselessness, my failure, my fucking stupidity and shame.

I assume their silence was attempts at condolence. But that might just be the way they laugh.

Books are good listeners. They don’t mind being brought into the bathtub as one tries to relax. They don’t complain when they are thrown to the floor so you can dunk your head under. Get your hair wet. Test yourself.

They count with you as you hold back, tick back the seconds. They applaude with the water droplets when you fling your head back and can’t take the burning in your lungs.

They clap. You bow. “That was very good” they congratulate.

The soap dish is less impressed. It does not wish for change. It holds soap, not your head. You cannot curl up into it and hope to shrink. “Use the sides of the tub” it insists. “My problems aren’t yours. Be as small as you want to be there, but not on me.”

The front door opens: That means a new thing has arrived.

What will new thing do?

Does it smile and talk? Does it wonder where you are? Does it call out? Does it wonder what is wrong with you? Why is your face red? Why won’t you talk back? Why do you ask it to leave while you change? It has seen you naked before. Confused the new thing waits in the living room.

{ you are alone again. alone with the things }

Till when? 

Can it understand tears? Or sounds of rage?

Or is it like the toothbrush? 

More things. 

Louder, bigger, softer, smaller. More. 

More things. 

Tomorrow I will spend another day with the things.

And maybe become one of them. 


Motivational Note to Myself #1

You can write.

It’s one thing that makes you feel as if you are really speaking. 


making a difference. 

you love the moments when you have to go back and correct your spelling mistakes, although it annoys you at the same time. 

you feel inspired to record, rewrite, adapt and tell about the world you’re in.

its not a mistake.

its not a passing phase, it’s something you’ve loved your whole life. 

along with red hair and being witty. 

part of your bones and how you want to  be remembered. 

you are a writer. 

so write. 

[ If I continue this series it will no doubt be sloppy. Sometimes that’s alright. ] 

Decemberists Lyrics are a good way to personalize any gift.

I called in emergency girl talk today, and it was worth it. 

Nothing quite like sitting on the carpet, throwing book titles back and forth like a game of catch while for once not worrying about what the company thinks of the mess, or when you’ll get to eating dinner. 

Hugs after gifts are pretty good too. 

Turns out she also tumbls and we’ll [hopefully] have a blog together. 

It was a relaxing way to end a high-intensity day. 

What’s left- calzone, project free tv, bed.


The Write Talk

Part of my self-created Independent Study curriculum was to reach out to publishing houses, faculty and alumni of the university and virtually anyone who could give feedback on the technicalities of publishing and writing in the adult real world. My advisor, in his infinite wisdom and not at all jaded perspective shot down the idea, telling me that “seeking publication for your work is not a worthwhile and intellectually rewarding endeavor.” He then promptly instructed me to send him 10 pages of my manuscript per week, which we would discuss one day a week whether or not he had read them or not. Reality seemed to favor that he not take the time to read them. I put up with this for about a month or so before deciding that I was not getting what I wanted from the experience and starting looking elsewhere. I began contacting professionals without his permission.

The process was a good deal slower than I thought it would be. I had to create a stock letter explaining my plight and then find a list of people to send it to. Then hope that whomever would respond and would agree to some line of questioning about writing and publishing in the real world. Then create questions, and the list goes on and on. It ends with about 14 alumni who were willing to talk to me and I was proud with my progress.

The letters weren’t exactly what I expected. Most alumni cried wolf of the world for writers, their signs of DON’T DO IT could not have been clearer. Some were quite pleasant, but without real knowledge of the publishing world. Two of these alumni were the exception, and one I had the pleasure of speaking to today.

Fran Stewart is a wonderful woman. She insisted we Skype chat about writing and publishing rather than email and the face-to-face contact was such a nice experience. She made me feel better about writing than I have nearly all semester. We laughed about books and bees and she agreed to look over my work. The woman is so sweet and kind, I really felt revitalized. Like the sun finally showed up.

I can’t sing enough praise about her. Enough drabble- check out her website and believe me


If this is what it’s like to have a mentor, it’s kickass.

Suck it current Independent Study Advisor.

I will publish my book.

Count on it.  

Monday- Counting Down

Today was the first day that when I looked down at my schedule and realized my days of undergrad are actually winding down. I’ve had a countdown going on my calendar for at least forty days, but this one (27th) is the first that had any weight to it. I’m running out of mondays. Hardly four weeks away til graduation. It’s not even real yet. 

If it weren’t for my job interview [that I think I nailed] today, I would think this semester is never-ending. But I guess it’s all winding down. Its to the point where three to four things are planned for all of the remaining days. Plans are somewhat coming together. Events are falling into place. I’m running all out of free time.

Good thing updating tumblr takes no time at all.

Idea- To get in the spirit of writing everyday, I’m wondering whether I should commit to a schedule of posting 300 word segments a day. A means of at least creating something. I’m hem and hah about it for a while then probably commit. Stayed tuned. 

Senior Portfolio Project

——-This is me rummaging through my hard-drive to put together a sampling of my “best and most original” writing pieces for the Senior Writing Award Application.

The boy is helping me. In the process he’s making me feel more confident about my writing with every posted instant message. 

There are worse nights to have. 

[I like words. I like writing words. It’s nice that someoneI like likes the words I write.]


Get ready.

I have quite a bit to update, but not quite yet. My wait in La Guardia coming back home allowed me time to organize a series of blog updates I intend to write highlighting certain parts of my trip to NYC. They will be posted in no particular order but will be coming soon. Let’s say tomorrow [best laid plans and all that] 

In short the trip was awesome. but more on that later. 

sleep. pillow. now.

Ode to an almost pet-

Last night I did not come home from work with a goldfish.

There was a chance I would have been able to, but it was snatched away from me by the ROTC cadets in charge of the ROTC Ball my catering company served last night. As centerpieces, each table had an elevated scotch glass filled with water and inside it swam a guest of honor fish. Then, before the catering staff had a chance to descend upon the filthy tables and each claim a special pet, the hosts gathered all the guppies and went off without a second glance.

Our guess is that they were thrown away, or eaten alive by the various exceptionally drunk cadets, all of whom had impressive amounts of wine and time while at the Ball.

Poor fishies. One of you could have lived in my room, swimming near my colored pencil collection and opposite my standing lamp bookcase. There you would have lived out the rest of your no doubt very short life, circling again and again the same small bowl. I would have been your friend, to drop small bits of food flakes down on you when I thought you looked peckish, or have read you the stories I wrote at my desk if there was any a time I thought you looked bored.

Your death would have been sad, but I would have enjoyed the time we spent together, and remind myself that a two-day life of a free goldfish isn’t that bad [assuming you made it that long]. A proper toilet burial would have commenced, sweet words would have been said, and a final flush would take you from me permanently. Down the porcelain drain to the next world.

But I would think of you. When writing, or watching streamed shows, or even just reading leaned back in my desk chair, I would occasionally look to the spot where your bowl had been. I’d remember fondly whether you’d swim clockwise, or counter, or what particular pebble you seemed the most fond of. I would miss you and have valued your place in my world.

I am sorry we never got to meet. I hope you are safe, and if not, had reached a peaceful end. Goodbye imagined goldfish. I do hope you weren’t swallowed whole.


Getting back to my roots-

Evaluation time-

I began a Tumblr with the singular hope that it would get me to post more often. That much has come true, as this bizarre community has stirred in me the need to reblog and post as many wonderful things as I can. I’ve been mutated I tell you, and now spend a considerable amount of time trying to find new and exciting images to post. Thinking of it though, that isn’t the exact reason I wanted to start a blog in the first place. I did it so I would get in the habit of writing. Re-posting pictures of cookie dough and gold fish is not writing. It’s providing eye candy, and while I enjoy being a sugar-high dealer this blog may not be the place for it. Thusly, from now on, all images and awesome cute things will be posted here. Fortune Cookie Muse will be committed to my writings and own creative work.

A few ideas came to me recently about how to test myself creatively. I’ll share them soon, but I believe I have a commitment of 30 Things to finish. Afterwards I’ll let you in on my newest scheme. Till then bloggites!

Parking Lots of Snow.

He slammed his shoulder into the easily stuck exit door off the side of the dorm building and the streetlight lamp flooded the stairwell. She grimaced in the light but followed him outside. Something crawled from her stomach to her throat, warming as it went. Whatever it was, she was getting excited. 

It felt so scripted in a way, the first winter’s snow flitting through the air as they raced hand in hand to the library. Her paper would be printed soon, double/triple checked for obvious spelling errors and slid neatly under the office door of the professor terrible enough to assign the paper for the last day of term. She would clap her hands stereotypically and enthusiastically together in a completed way and he would smile and wiggle his brow in a I-always-knew-you-could-get-it-done-even-when-you-didn’t-think-so. Then he’d kiss her fingertips, nod his head toward the direction of his car, its windows buried in snow and cut off from the view of passing strangers.

 To sneak off somewhere public, to be away from the world.

A band clearly too cool to be heard by major audiences and confined to the college radio circuit was softly playing an acoustic cover of something as they both clambered into the back seat. He spread the University of Michigan blanket across the cold cushioning and was the first to remove his shirt. They wiggled and wrapped themsleves around one another; ankles, knees, elbow and fingers holding tight to the other and snuggled under the blanket. The van’s heater finally kicked on and  hot air and breath began to fog up the interior. The DJ switched songs midway through his first to interupt with a public service announcement, read by Morgan Freeman, about the terrible nature of animal abuse and what you could do to stop it.  

She murmured something, her words lost to the flesh around his neck. He pulled away, held her face in his hands and asked what she had said. 

"This moment is perfect"