Paper Plane

I want to right my wrongs.  I want to fix things.  I broke them and now I’m trying to put the pieces back.

The plane ride is smooth.  The flight feels effort less.  Like the metal body of the plane is weightless. We weren’t traveling in a machine, using power to get from point A to B, we were being carried by the air.  I couldn’t help but picture those paper airplanes you make as a child.  A white paper plane wafting through the air on a sunny summer afternoon.

I go over everything I want to say.  Every apology I need to make.  Some I already wrote in the message I sent you, but there’s more, so much more to be said.

The airport is busy.  The plane empties and its temporary inhabitants clamor to grab their suitcases from the baggage return.  Families, reunited, hug and laugh. People are greeting each other, and group by group leaving together.  I sit down.  There is no one here I recognize.  But I’m sure that there will be soon.  I’m sure you’ll come.  So I wait.



Coat, hat, gloves – I mentally checked them off as I slid them on.  The heat in my car wasn’t working and it was cold outside, a fresh snow coating everything.

My footsteps trailed behind me in the snow like a forgotten friend and for a moment I had the urge to step back into them, follow them back up the steps into the house.  But I had to do this.  I had to say goodbye.  Tomorrow I would be in a different town, with a new house to call home.

The car rumbled to a start, loud enough to alert everyone inside that I was leaving, but no faces appeared in the windows and no one came outside to stop me.  So I backed down the driveway into the night.

The cemetery was covered in a hush and fresh unbroken snow.  Nothing stirred there except for me as I walked through the graves, my flashlight showing me the way.

I was starting to wonder if I’d forgotten the way when my flashlight revealed the curved top of a familiar gravestone.

Snow had piled on top and around the stone, but the carved letters were still visible.

I dropped to my knees in front of it, my fingers tracing her name.

“I miss you.”


I’m rewriting my novel.  Well, trying to rewrite my novel.  The truth is, I’m not even sure where to start.  I have at least three different versions of the story, a bunch of notes and a few half-written scenes as well.  Overwhelmed doesn’t even cover it.

When I started this story I was fourteen years old.  That was six, almost seven, years ago!  I don’t even remember where the idea for the story came from or what my end goal was.  Part of me wonders whether I should just junk the whole thing and move on…  But I can’t do that.  So much work went into this story!  Even though it’s not cohesive and all over the place, I just can’t delete it.  Besides, the fourteen year-old me would be very put out.

So slowly, very slowly, I’m reading through all the versions of my novel and am attempting to make an outline.  And do you know what I’ve realized?  My story has no plot!  It’s a novel without a point with a lot of fluff.  Well written fluff, but still.  I guess plot lines weren’t really high on my list six years ago.

How do you rewrite a novel that doesn’t even have plot or a direction?  Because I have no idea.

Help.  This project may or may not be the death of me.

A Love of Autumn

“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” ― George Eliot

Who else loves autumn?  Because I do, I really really do.  The days are shorter and the air has that cool crisp smell to it.  And the clothes!  It’s the season of layers.  Boots and scarves and sweaters and sweatshirts with hoods – Fall clothes are the best clothes.

There’s apple picking and pumpkin picking, hay rides and corn mazes.  Hot apple cider and pumpkin pie.  And you can snuggle on the couch with a blanket and a hot cup of tea without cranking up the AC (I will not give up my hot tea for summer even if it kills me!).

How could anyone not love autumn?  It’s the best time of the year.

Book World

Have you ever been so immersed in something you that forget about everything else?  I mean, you still remember to shower and put on deodorant, eat breakfast and go to work, but you forget other things, the little things.  Things like emptying the dishwasher, making your bed, putting gas in your car, plans with friends, hobbies, etc.  They’re suddenly not so important.

That’s me right now, all because I bought two new books from Barnes & Noble (A Dance With Dragons, the 5th books in G.R.R. Martins ASOFAI series, and Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler).

I’ve been so excited that I have two shiny new books to read and sniff (I love the smell of a new book, don’t judge!) that I have completely neglected my writing.  I haven’t written a thing in days.  And my poor car’s gas gauge is on E.  And while I love how I can give myself wholly to a book, I think I need to learn how to better exist in the book world and the real world at the same time.

Does anyone else have this problem?

The Stages of Post-Game of Thrones Recovery

This is perfect. I’ve done all of these steps several times. The nerd in me had to reblog.

Three Chic Geeks

post got

Game of Thrones Season 3 is over, and it has been quite the doozy. From “You know nothing, Jon Snow” to “Dracarys”, there have been awesome moments of ships setting sail, moments of triumph, and moments of watching everything fall apart in front of you. So whether you’re still emotionally scarred from the Red Wedding or already starting to feel those Game of Thrones withdrawals, we’ve put together an outline of what to expect at each stage of post-GoT recovery.

Note: The stages contained on this list may or may not reflect unhealthy ways of coping. We don’t know, we’re too blinded by our feels. 

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Do your hands
know every inch,
every line of me?

When we lie tangled
your hands
trace my skin
thumbs always caressing

eyebrows eyelashes
nose cheeks chin
lips ears neck

arms hands fingers
ribs bellybutton hips
thighs knees ankles

Do you know them all?

Have you
memorized the feel
of me yet?

My smile under your
my breath against
your neck
the rise and fall
of my chest

Is every piece
of skin
that your hands
have unfailingly retraced
etched permanently
in your mind
the way all of you
is in mine?

10 Rules For Writing By Elmore Leonard

Out Where the Buses Don't Run

In honor of Elmore Leonard, who passed away yesterday at the age of 87, I thought I’d post the rules for writing Leonard compiled in his now-legendary New York Times essay, Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle.

Rules #3 and 4 are ones I stick to pretty adamantly. I’m not a big fan of verbs like “growled” or “snapped” being used to describe dialogue, when “said” perfectly sums dialogue up. And #10 just might be the best rule, outside of “show, don’t tell.”

Thank you, Elmore Leonard.


WRITERS ON WRITING; Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle

These are rules I’ve picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I’m writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what’s taking place in the story. If you have a facility for language and imagery and the sound of your voice…

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