really, it's time!

It's time I take my writing seriously, seriously. It's been 2 years since I had the biggest smile on my face from graduating college with my BA in English: Creative Writing. Right now I'm resting my head on my chin feeling disappointed. Sort of. I use the fact that I write a children's blog for my job to justify that I am doing some kind of writing. It's not bad though. I prefer it to all the writing I do in my head that never makes itself on paper. By the way, here is a perfect custom writing service essay.ws

Yesterday my thoughts on writing became clear. I was killing time in a bookstore trying to get a feel for which wedding magazine was going to have something inside that I hadn't already seen in the piles of others that I've wasted too much money on, when I decided to move to another part of the bookstore (reference section). Facing me was a fat copy of this book:

I did some reading and immediately thought, "This is what I need! I need to know the market! Once I know who I'm writing for, I can write!". But is my writing novel worthy, I asked myself. Will I ever write anything longer than 10 pages? What kind of book/style of literature do I want my name attached to when I'm published someday? Who do I write for, or want to write for?

Pretty valid and long answered questions I had going on up there. I tried to answer most of them, and concluded that the first part of every answer was I had to write.

I thought back to the writing I've done and realized every short story I've written has been about kids. The books that I remember the most are the ones I read as a kid. So, I should write for kids, no? And luckily to the right of me was the book I really bought:

That's more like it. Now I felt comfortable. So now I have the "Bible" of who to send my "Children's" stories to once they're ready, but because I'm obsessed with buying books I had to look for another. Oh! Nice cover design I thought when I saw this one:

And how perfect that it was titled, How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead.

¡¡¡Let me note one important thing that I hope some soon to be published author reads: Your cover art really does matter, so pick someone that knows how to design a cover, not just blow up an image and add a large font to float above it. And don't use a real photo of a person pointing their finger at the reader. Especially with a title like this. I would have never bought this book, or even opened it had it looked like a self help book (even though it kind of is one). So, Ariel Gore, excellent cover and thank you for writing this book. It's the motivation I needed!!!

Now I write!


lunch break writing

He's the the type of guy that tries to hide his smile. If he knew it made him more attractive, I'm sure he'd hide it that much more. That's the type of guy I like to crack. He looks at you, figuring out whether or not he wants to let you into his circle of friends. You know he'll never introduce you to that circle, but you're okay with that-besides, you don't want to know him on that level. It would break all the mystique the two of you have about each other's lives. For now take what you can get-a hidden smile that you know hides undeniable feelings of being with you. You'll want to hint at him that you accept-that you're now a player of his game-but before you utter a word to him, pull your hair behind one ear and smile. That's his cue to pursue. Next move is on him. Don't worry, you won't have to wait long because, as you already know, he's attracted to you-and his next move will come within the next ten minutes. You wait. After all, you love the cat and mouse chase that's occurring. He's careful not to give you too much attention, after all he's the one that began the game. You're just hoping to get to the finish by the end of the day. 

(I'm trying to write any chance I get-which means lunch breaks! This is exactly what I wrote in my notebook, no editing. I was sitting in a little pastry shop staring out the window, people watching. I was forcing myself to write anything. I usually have a tendency to observe people and write about what I'd imagine their life to be like, so I guess you can say this was sparked by an attractive guy that walked by the window I was peeping out of! Whatever the spark, it got me to write, right?)


15 minutes of memories

Machaca burritos rolled in foil paper release steam when taken out of their Ziploc baggies, Joshua Trees on the drive to El Centro remind her that she wants to replant her garden, add some nature to a ship wreck themed pool area, surrounding a double-layered strawberry filled cake with a big “15” the presents sit on the table not by size but by order in which to be opened, Christmas bows hide between her nylon wearing legs and the coffee table, on a carpet covered with ripped wrapping paper, her breath blows into arm floaties faster than my mom so I can run into the water, catch up with my cousins, already fishing for crabs at the water’s edge, she said she would only ride the Ninja rollercoaster, she went on twice. In a family of men, she was content. You could tell she wanted a girl, wanted someone to hand her possessions down to someday. I got two of her gold bracelets, a blazer, a miniature thumb-sized porcelain dog, a leg broken so it doesn’t stand on its own, a Christmas teddy bear pin with ice skates on and a tiny red scarf, and a picture of the two of us together, when we thought she was sick with a cold.

(This was written in 2005, five years after my tia Martha passed of cancer. I had set out to write for 15 minutes straight about any memories that crossed my mind about my life with her. It purely began out of curiosity, to see how my mind worked, and what it wanted to remember. I made sure not to edit the memories that were flowing through my mind at the time because I wanted it to be true and simple to its title. I remember falling in love with this piece after I was done-content that I was able to capture these fragments of her life and hold on to them.

I'm posting this now because I wanted to revisit these memories and attempt to write a second part-to see what memories would have changed if I sat to write for another 15 minutes. I began writing and became irritated with what was being remembered. The latter part of her life, that I refuse to associate with her reappeared. My mind denied me access to any other memory aside from those when she was too ill to smile anymore.

The process of remembering someone that you know should still be around today has proved difficult. You never want to admit to forgetting someone's smell, someone's touch-it's something we all fear. Do you forget how it was to receive a hug, because you're not that small girl that would run into her arms as you got out of the car? The pieces of memory I hold onto have no sound-solely a reel of images caught in an action associated with the younger me. This short piece encompasses those moments as they still present themselves in my memory today.)


The Woman That Would Never Approach You

She wanted to be the woman of many lovers, and you were next on her list. Her hair was always pulled away from her face, insisting she was proud of her looks-features you could only imagine coming from a woman that would never approach you. But she did. While you were sitting in that indoor cafeteria, reading your arts magazine, headphones playing loudly-she was sitting behind you, practicing how she was going to break her routine of keeping her guarded eye. You dropped your napkin just as she was scooting out of her seat to make her way. This made her nervous so she walked in the opposite direction, leaving you no evidence of her presence-except you turned your head quickly, observing a pleasant smell that reminded you of the girlfriend you had in the seventh grade. Upon retrieving the napkin that just cost you the encounter with the woman that would never have approached you, you collected what you could of your memories to recall the name of the girlfriend you had just been reminded of. You remembered-Lilliana. Your music continued to play loudly leaving you clueless to the fact that the woman had returned to pick up the trash she had left on the table. On a normal day, she would have left it-but today, you had chosen to sit at the table nearest her. It threw her off balance, and took it as a sign that today, she was going to talk to you.

(So....I had been working on another piece of writing-which is why I hadn't blogged in a couple days....and really disliked where it was going. So tonight I told myself...self...just write anything! I had recently been thinking about Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and his last short novel on the many women he slept with throughout his life. The very first line of this short was inspired by him and his short novela, Memory of my Melancholy Whores.)



You stay around your home town long enough and you can become an expert at it. Get to know who's moved out, who's pregnant, where to eat, and where the parties are at. Tonight it's dead and no one's informed you that your place is the meeting grounds for sitting around deciding what the plan will be. You can hear your boy's muffler dragging a block away so you take out the left over chips from the quincenera that happened in your backyard the weekend before, and yell, "Ama! There's no more salsa?", because you know you ain't one to pay the bills while Ama still makes you frijolitos at home.
Your boy's are the ones you mess with, drink with and most importantly, give you the confidence to talk to girls with. They hook up with the girls in your town this weekend and hook up with their friends the next. You got game only when you're around them except you act like it's second nature because where you're from, if you ain't playing the field, you're sitting out on the bench like you did when you never got picked for baseball. Always someone hooking up. Always with the girl from school you use to look at and say pobrecita to.

(this was inspired by Junot Diaz' style of writing.)