Awarded the chance to share.

Tamara, who writes Little Conversations, shared a blog award with me:

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My thanks to Tamara, as this award gives me a chance to think about 10 things that describe who I am as a person and a writer. The award suggests 10 secrets, but don’t our secrets reveal our person? Plus, as the award must be passed on to others, I can share links to a few worthy blogs I read on a regular basis:

The Writing Vein
Monpon
Writing, Reading, & Reflections
Mama C and the Boys
House of Sand and Fog

Now, to 10 things you might, or might not, care to know about me:

1 I vacillate between thinking I have something to write about and wondering, who do I think I am?

2 My first collection of short stories was written on a small spiral notebook about a young crush with curly red hair. If he only knew….

3 I believe in Karma, what goes around comes around. If I’m kind to my writing colleagues, I hope they will be kind to me.

4 I’m often a cynic when it comes to politics, religion, and facebook.

5 I write morning pages every day. While I love them, I haven’t deciphered the difference between the purpose of them versus my personal journals. Maybe the latter fills up faster with rants and raves.

6 I write “looking forward to working with you” way too often in emails and letters. There must be an alternative.

7 I’d rather have strangers read my writing than my own family.

8 Margaret Atwood has been one of my favorite authors, ever since I read The Handmaid’s Tale and The Edible Woman.

9 My mother always wanted me to write a book about her. I wonder if she would haunt me from beyond if I really did.

10 Writing blog posts takes me much longer than I think it should. But, then, I’m a perfectionist at times.

If you made it through these 10, you’re very kind (good Karma headed your way).

Why I can never join Facebook.

There’s email, my cell phone, the Redroom, my blog.
SheWrites and Lulu and WriterMag.com.

All day,
I log in,
Check in,
Sign in.

I refresh email, hoping.
I check stats, wondering.

I sign out.
This is ridiculous, for crying out loud.
I sign back in.
Just one more peek.

I can’t be bothered with Facebook, or Twitter.
I don’t want to know who’s looking to be my friend, or not.
I am busy.
Obsessing.

About me.

Postcard Fiction

I’ve heard of flash fiction and very short shorts. But today I learned that flash fiction can be broken down into a whole other slew of sub-genres and tiny word counts.

  • A drabble: 100 words
  • Nanofiction: 55 words (these are complete stories, people)
  • And, my favorite…Hint fiction: 25 words (if you think you’re up to this type of challenge, here’s a contest)

On SheWrites.com, several women writers have formed a group: Flash and Micro/Fiction & Nonfiction. Each week there is a theme, and contributors post their best very, very short stories. You have to be a SheWrites member to participate, but SheWrites is a great resource for and community of women writers.

This week’s theme: Postcard fiction, 250 words or less. What can you write in 250 words?

In 246 words, here’s my story (and I’m sticking to it):

_________________________________________________________________________

She didn’t look so old three days ago.

I stopped by her apartment after work for our usual Wednesday evening coffee date. She just got back from her mall walking and said she had gotten an eye-full at the Victoria’s Secret display.

“I don’t think their hardware could hold together much of my old body.” She laughed hard. “I’d be a nightmare in satin!”

She talked, while she buzzed around the kitchen. She washed out a juice glass and her favorite coffee cup. She grabbed a cup for me and turned on “the tea kettle.” She dropped a few teaspoons of Foldgers in our cups, then topped the grinds with sugar.

“I put a little extra sugar in yours, honey. I know you like it sweet. That water’ll be hot any minute now.”

She was vibrant as she danced in and out of the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through her patio doors.

But now, laying there in the hospital bed, she looked old. Her hair had gone white. It was gray before, but now it was definitely white. And the skin on her arms seemed looser. Maybe it was always that way, and I just never noticed.

I pulled back the sheet and found her hand. Ice cold. I lifted it to my cheek to try and warm her fingers. She breathed deep.

“Is that you, honey? Is it Wednesday already?”

She turned to me. I smiled and tried to hide the fear in my eyes.