Apartment #3

Morgana sits at the computer, surrounded by her much loved books and shoes, staring at the black lines of text that wind serpent like on the monitor. Perspiration beads upon her upper lip from the heat of the golden morning sun across her face. She frowns while she taps out an allegretto beat on her keyboard and a Marlboro smolders in the ashtray.

The sound of the air conditioner can't drown the shouting match between the trash downstairs, and it pulled her out of her trace like a lifeguard with a drowning swimmer. Her annoyance spills over. "Son of a bitch!" She pounds her fist on the desk. "How the hell am I suppose to work with that racket?"

A door slams, the walls rattle, and the story line she nursed for a week unravels like a poorly knit sweater. With an exasperated sigh, she tucks her short blond hair behind her ears and taps her acrylic nails painted Pretty in Pink on her mouse pad.

After a sip of coffee she paces, hoping to recapture the thread of her story. Anxiety radiates from her. But a flick of her Bic starts nicotine coursing through her system, relieving the tension. Her shoulders lose their stiffness. With an explosive exhale she rushes back to her chair, types the next line of her creation with one hand while she stashes the cigarette in the ashtray to burn away.

Morgana works for another stretch without stopping. She types, scans, cuts, copies and pastes lines with the skill of a surgeon. Just as she's coming to a critical portion of the story line, someone fires up a weed whip under her window. She jumps in her seat, and her concentration pops like a soap bubble. The point she was driving at slips away. "Oh Jesus bleeding Christ." She shoves away from the desk. Stalking to the window, she looks out and sees the guy from downstairs heaving the trimmer back and forth like a madman. "You would think that I could get some peace and quite at 6:30 in the morning. I have to do something about that damn noise, or I'll never finish this story." Her deadline is approaching, and her earnings will put a major upward spike in her house fund. Selling a couple more pieces of her work will make her able to afford that cottage up north. And there she will realize her dream; becoming an accredited author.

But to do so she must be able to concentrate. She has never be able to write through distractions. A ringing telephone, slammed door, or even traffic noise would push her out of creativity, forcing her muse to flee for days or even weeks. Her apartment had been an oasis of calm until those people moved in downstairs. She knew her landlord wouldn't take her complaints seriously, he didn't have to live with the heinous screaming matches or the drunken parties they threw.

Deciding a walk might clear her head and revive her muse, Morgana slips on sweats and gym shoes and heads into the meadow behind her building. The low rent and this broad expanse of unspoiled grass land were the reasons she put up with her slum lord and the scum he usually rented to. She loved looking out and seeing the plants waving in the breeze, or roaming through the tall grasses.

A small group of quail, perhaps six in all startles Morgana out of her thoughts. She watches them peck seeds and stripping the stems off a tall bright green plant. The stalks were mottled with small irregular spots of port-wine color and covered with a white bloom. Morgana knew from research that this was a Hemlock plant, but she's shocked to find it so close to home. She recalls that a steady diet of the seeds and stems impregnate the birds flesh with poison, and how enough will act as a paralyser to the brains centers of motion.

An idea explodes in her mind. If she can catch these birds, she just may have come up with a way to rid herself of the trash downstairs. Of course the landlord would replace them with more trash, but by then her latest piece would be in publication and the check in the bank.

It took her three days and much frustration to catch the quail. Surfing the web she found a method of processing the bird that worked in her tiny kitchen. After that it was simple work to make a batch of Broiled Quail for the drunks ruining her creativity. With her first genuine smile for the neighbors, she carries the poultry dish, rich in soy sauce and sherry, down and knocks on their door.

When the husband opens the door in nothing up yellowed Fruit of the Looms she isn't surprised, and even ratchets up her smile another kilowatt when he snarls "What do you want, you cunt?"

I'm trying out a new recipe and cooked way too much. I was just wondering if you and your wife would mind finishing off the extra. I'd hate to see it go to waste." At his hesitation, she looks over his meaty shoulder at his wife. "Please, think of it as a welcome to the neighborhood gift. I'll never be able to finish it all."

With a shove and an elbow to the ribs, the woman pushes him out of the way. She reaches out for the dish and slurs, "Well yesh, sure. We'll take it, cuz I ain't cookin, ya fucker!"

The door slams in Morgana's face without even a "thank you", and she hears the couple's voices spiral into another argument. This doesn't phase her though, and she is almost skipping as she heads back up to apartment number 3, because within thirty minutes she'll once again have the quite that she needs to complete her latest writing assignment.

Past, Present and Future

My cousin and I usually meet up for an "IM Date" at least once a week. She lives two states away now, and neither of us has the time (or patience!) to talk on the phone for any length of time, but we both type like blue devils. So the IM thing is perfect for us. Tonight we chatted for about a hour, catching up on each other's week, and talking about our passions.

She's a photographer, I'm a writer, and we both love to read. So we spend a lot of time with her telling me to check my e-mail for the latest of the family pictures that she has restored, with me bouncing plot ideas off of her, and discussing books and authors we enjoy.

Tonight she sent me some pictures of my parents when they were dating, pictures of her and I with our mom's when we were just tots, and pictures of my dad in the corps. I bounced a new idea for a story off her about cyber murder, and we talked about Jean Auel's Earthchildern series, which I'm currently indulging in a fifth or sixth reading of. I told her about a web site I found that posts freelance jobs suitable for both of us, and we talked about if she ever moved back here, we could start a business that combined restoration of pictures, photography, DJing/Karakoe and valet parking for private parties and weddings.

She asked me if I've gotten anything published yet, to which the answer is still a great big ole NOPE, however I do have a promising lead for an articles submission position. I'll wait and see how that pans out.

I'm really to tired to write tonight, so I think I'll work on getting my creative commons license posted so I can start to put up some original works.

Where's Our Balls?

I had the most horrible conversation with my boss today. He and I were just chatting for a bit after he answered a couple of my questions, talking about some of the bullshit Korporate Amerika policies that he has recently implemented since taking over the department at The Place Where I Work*. This man, who by the way has a college degree and is suppose to be "qualified" to make decisions, tells me that sometimes you have to "drink the Kool-Aid that they are serving, even if you don't like the flavor."

Yes you read right. In effect, my boss used a Jim Jones (aka The Peoples Temple) analogy in trying to get me to conform to his vision for the department.

I hate that kind of thinking, and I hate that I work in a place where this frame of mind is becoming the norm.

Wow, you know I've been sitting here for almost half an hour trying to put my thoughts together to write this post, and it's been very hard for me. Now I mentioned that I haven't written in a while in my last post, right? Well I'm finding out the hard way that writing is like a muscle. When you don't use it for a long time it atrophies. So I'm finding this new self-imposed exercise very difficult, and that's hard to swallow. A year and a half ago the ideas would have been bouncing around my head while my fingers flew over the keyboard. Now the words come in little bursts with long pauses between.

I commute about an hour each way to the office each day, and both to and from work today I thought about this blog, writing and what I wanted to do. I'm determined to become a published author. But finding it so hard to do what use to come so effortlessly to me is very disconcerting.

Why did I stop? That's the only question that bouncing around right now. I mean yes we moved, my husband's mom died, I got a new high pressure job, and then I got married. But those who have a true dedication to the craft manage to do all of that (and more!) while continuing to write. And I let it drop away.

Some of it was fear. I can see that clearly now. I believe that I was getting good at this and I was afraid that I might actually succeed. Sometimes it's easier to tell people that you want to be a writer than it is to actually be one.

And some of it I know, was the fact that I had a very hard time adjusting to married life. Not that my husband is hard to live with, or overly demanding (well no more than any man really!), but just the fact that he was there was a hard adjustment for me. I lived alone for five years before we started living together, and I found it hard to acclimate myself to the fact that no, he wasn't going to go home and give me some alone time. I got use to it, but it did take quite awhile. It was also very hard for me to be comfortable with sharing the decision making process with him. I was use to calling the shots, and making any decisions on my own. So having to consult with someone was new territory for me.

Any type of distraction has always been a big deterrent for me when I write. I've always been the writer who couldn't listen to music, or have the T.V. on in the back ground. I always turned my phone off when I was getting ready to write, and even the neighbor's in my apartment building could break my concentration enough to making writing impossible.

And now, when I'm struggling so much with just trying to get a post in (something I could have done with no hesitation two years ago) when the hubby comes in like he did just now to give me an update on one of our kitty babies (yeah, we're those kind of pet owners!) who hasn't been feeling well all day, it just blows me out of the water.

This is majorly upsetting to me, and something I will have to work on until I've overcome it. I see now that I have a lot of ground to cover just to make it back to where I once was. But I'm determined.







*Now you really didn't expect me to mention the company name, or what we do did you? Although it might be a great way to get some hits!

I'm baaaaaack

For a look into my world visit ChiTownPrincess. That blog (which I tried to reclaim but couldn't because I've changed e-mails like five times since the last post) was mostly me single, me getting engaged and me doing the last little bit of growing up that I needed to do.

Now I'm an old married lady (1 year 5 months), and since I've gotten my love life in line I want to spend more time on my writting. I want to be a writer, and I believe I can be. But to be a writer, you have to well, WRITE. Which is something I haven't done in a while, but really want to get back into. It helps ground me, and gives me a place to vent about all those things that you don't quite say to people's face.

So this new blog is kind of a continuation of the old one, but with me two years older and hopefully wiser, and wanting to put the space and the exposure to better use than entertaining friends and family. I'll be posting some of the work I've already done, as well as adding new commentary and writings on a daily basis.

So welcome back to me!