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Quirky Pickings

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  • In our searching the only thing we’ve found that makes emptiness bearable is each other.

writing

Restoration

February 3, 2021 by Jenn Leave a Comment

This little girl… yall I have been so horrible to her. I can’t even list all the ways. There’s just too many. Way too many, and they are way too ugly.

Yall ever see that video of the lone lamb stuck in the hole so far that all you can see of it is its hind legs, which the shepherd grasps and uses to haul the lamb back to the surface?

I have felt more terrified for my well-being than that lamb must have felt at being trapped in the hole.

Bad things have happened in the year… things I’m not quite ready to handle. Just a recap: both parents had heart surgery in September, and I live with them so in addition to witnessing their fear and anxiety and physical struggles… I have felt fear and anxiety and mental struggles. Because COVID (which my younger brother got, and thankfully recovered from, in December) and, more, the great sense of inadequacy and despair I’ve felt, I’ve spent most of my time at home upstairs, away from them. I want my own place, but I know I can’t have it because I can’t afford it and they need me there.

I can’t remember if I’ve told yall this before, and I don’t feel like going back and looking (sorry)… ALSO in September, a horrible cramp woke me up one night… it wasn’t in my foot or calf like normal. It was in my left knee. All the tiny muscles around it were freaking out and bending my leg in unnatural ways. This sort of thing had never happened before. I knew it would at some point. I just hadn’t figured it’d start in my forties. Granted I’m closing in on fifty a little too fast for my tastes, but… I’m not ready for the spasms and cramps to be crippling. I’m not ready for my parents to be dead; my father’s health seems to be better, but my mother’s appears to be much more tenuous. I’m not ready to have to cope with their loss all by myself. I’m not ready to tackle all the bullshit that comes with settling their estate and accounts… Yall, I’m strong. I’ve endured a LOT of crap. I’m a little pissed at my older brother because, order of operations, yall… he should be here to jack with all this. But you know, he bailed on life a LONG time ago.

My hours got cut at my job, which would’ve been an awesome thing–I could spend full days on Mondays and Fridays at the elementary school where I’ve volunteered for the past few years, as soon as they let volunteers on campus again.

I’ve relied too heavily on social interactions on Facebook and Twitter, so I’ve killed the latter and had, for a time deactivated the former. During those days of deactivation, someone hacked my account and posted something about how I would sure be glad when I could get back to sucking dick. As crude as I can be, I would NEVER say something like that. BUT I’m Facebook friends with a few mothers of children who attend that school, and one or some of them took screenshots of this post I supposedly wrote and sent it to the principal, who then called my friend onto the carpet. She got in trouble because of me. She and I spent a good hour in the alcove of her bedroom that night, both heartbroken, both worried and pissed, and me crying because that’s what I do when I’m shell-shocked. I love those babies as though they are my own. They have brought me such beautiful and vital joy in what certainly would have been bleak years. I have looked forward to resuming working with them–learning from them and being inspired by them and all the other good that comes with youth and curiosity.

But… I’m not called on the carpet… I’ve chosen to put as much distance between me and that school for my friend’s sake. I can’t have her role at that school jeopardized by my churlish self.

I’ve been drinking too much. I’ve discovered a fondness for Juggernaut’s Cabernet Sauvignon and WhiskeyCake’s Guava Gimlet Martini.

I’m a little too close to the edge for my liking.

I’ve been smelling ammonia, and there’s never any around me so something in my body’s not right (probably from all that wine I’ve been drinking). I googled it… smelling ammonia’s not good, yall. It’s NOT GOOD.

I’ve put myself back on Match and Bumble… and resumed humiliating myself in my desperation to find stupid love. I suck at this shit. I don’t give up well. I’ve tried five times now to get this one dude’s attention. I know. I KNOW. I know better. I. KNOW. BETTER. And yet… I can’t bring myself to give up.

But I called this post restoration, right? There must be something good.

Last Sunday, Restoration Church held a LifeGroup Leaders orientation after the last service. I attended because I want to lead a singles group. Before the meeting, I had confidence I could do it, but during the meeting, as I was reading from Timothy, which the executive pastor had suggested we look for the characteristics of small group leaders (yall… I don’t have a lot of those characteristics), my confidence began wavering. But I stayed, and when the orientation was done I went to the executive pastor and said I wanted to lead a single’s group.

Yall… me and this executive pastor got off to a bad start. I’ve not been involved in a life group since I started attending church here over a year ago. I’ve made effort to connect with one a half a dozen times to no avail. And the executive pastor sent me to a group in Panorama Village. It’s the second time I was suggested to join this group. I hadn’t wanted to do it the first time because it’s further away from my neighborhood than I’d like, but I figured being told the second time I probably go where the Lord was sending me. The leader shared his story and much of it, as well as the personalities of some of the others in that group, didn’t mesh well with me, and I went back to church the next morning and asked to be in a different one, not realizing that group’s leader was the executive pastor’s father. I’d told this man, “Those are not my people.” And when he pushed, I was a little too direct. That conversation did not go well. And I’ve been trying ever since to inspire him to see me in a different light.

The executive pastor says he’s got a couple of women who want to start a single’s group, too, and suggested I work with them until the group gets too big, then I can break off and form another one. Sounds like a great idea, so he introduces me to them and leaves us to chat.

They are beautiful. They are young. They are feminine. I am horribly, horribly intimidated by them. They suggest we talk to the pastor. That conversation didn’t go well, either. I felt so small, yall. So damned insignificant. So much like I was trying to hard to be better and would never manage to make that happen. So I said I felt they would be better suited and excused myself. Walked out, sobbing inside… and then actually sobbing when I got in my car.

I had a hell of a time getting myself moving this Sunday morning. I sat at my mother’s computer playing Seekers Notes (I can’t put it on my Mac for some reason, and I didn’t want to play it on my iPad). I was seeing bright spots and dark spots and smelling ammonia and feeling really weak. I needed a shower and took a little longer taking one than I should have. I normally go to the second service at Restoration Church–the one at a quarter until ten. I was too late for that one. I was almost too late for the last one. I came in just as they were wrapping their last song. I came in just as they sang their last repeat of “Here I am.” I can’t remember the song… it’s one they sing a lot but I can’t seem to find it. Yall, I almost started crying as I sang that. I’ve been doing a lot of crying lately. There’s been a long stretch this decade that I’ve not been able to cry, no matter how hard I try. I’m relieved to know I’m still capable of doing this.

There didn’t seem to be any seats left, but I silently prayed for one and moved to the other side of the sanctuary… and found one in the last row between two couples. The sermons have been on the book of Revelation lately. We’re on the sixth chapter. I’m scrawling all kinds of notes on the pages of my Bible, wherever I can find room.

We took communion and during the song afterward, I was reaching my hands as high in the air as I could. I felt my whole body stretching. I felt my whole spirit begging… I’ve been doing a lot of begging lately, and most of the time I don’t like that, but this time it felt so crucial. I couldn’t help myself.

I felt like that lamb stuck in the hole. I felt like my arms were the hind legs and my hands were the hooves and I as I sang, my spirit was begging Jesus to grab hold and yank me up out of my hell.

They did baptisms at the end of that service. I stayed to witness that. Baptism at Restoration’s a lot different than Baptism at a Catholic church. It’s full immersion–like in most other churches, I suspect–not a sprinkling of water on the forehead or whatever… I’m not even sure how it’s supposed to be done in a Catholic church because it’s been forty-seven years since I’ve been baptized. I’d witnessed baptisms at Restoration before. I like watching them. I’d never thought I needed to get baptized again because once should do the trick.

They finished the ones they’d scheduled for that service and then opened it up to the sanctuary for the impulsive. I think someone may have gone before me. I don’t remember. I do know that I said aloud, “I’ll go.” And I walked down that aisle and up the wooden steps splashed with water… and the lead pastor and the women’s ministry pastor (who normally goes to the second service but for some reason went to the third one this day) baptized me. Again. But before they immersed me, fully clothed, in that water… I said, “I just needed to be reminded that I am His.”

I have been so scared lately that the devil’s gonna get me after all. I can’t let that happen. I’ve fought against him for too long. I’m trying so hard to believe I can’t screw salvation up. I very much needed the symbolism that Sunday. I needed to immerse myself in it.

Filed Under: tanks, writing

Walk in Love Workshops

January 27, 2021 by Jenn Leave a Comment

I will be hosting virtual workshops soon and seek to know the best dates and times for you, should you be interested in participating. The details for the virtual workshops would differ in that I can’t provide the necessary items to participants, but I believe we are hungering for fellowship these days, as well as some positive thinking.

Should you have an interest in one of the four workshops shown below, please let me know your availability, and I’ll get something scheduled.

Filed Under: writing

Random Quarter

December 25, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

The following prompts are from a Pinterest find from ellduclosblog.

One. Ten things at which I excel: a) writing; b) selling; c) organizing; d) merchandising; e) singing; f) finding good literature; g) finding good film; h) giving; i) wasting time; j) being authentic.

Two. Five physical features I love about myself: a) hair color and texture; b) eye color; c) mouth shape; d) complexion; e) freckles.

Three. Three strongest qualities: a) intelligence; b) tenacity; c) vulnerability.

Four. The vision of my dream life: married with children — preferably boys — and living in a cottage-style garden home on a hillside overlooking the Atlantic ocean (it’s a little more turbulent and interesting) — with an office for writing that has a connected covered balcony or patio with Adirondacks and rockers situated upon it for peace and quiet and pleasure.

Five. Three goals I hope to accomplish by year’s end: a) finish sorting and finding homes for the mass of materials I’ve stored in my closet for the past decades; b) whittle my clothes and accessories to the bare minimum; c) get my accounts current.

Six. Twelve things for which I am thankful: a) Bambam and Shazam; b) sweatshirts; c) wind; d) rain; e) flowers; f) sunshine; g) oceans; h) ice; i) football; j) chocolate; k) turkey; l) Santa Claus.

Seven. Ten positive affirmations: Let’s ignore the fact that in that clause, positive is redundant… a) You is kind; b) You is smart; c) You is important; d) Beautiful girl, you can do hard things; e) Rather I have refined you in the furnace of suffering; f) You are all fair, my love; there is no flaw in you; g) Don’t you dare squander the strength you have earned just because the acquisition of it was painful; those are the most important stories to share; h) I have so many goals and dreams for myself, and not one of them is small; they’re big and wild and full of hope; they require faith and courage and a whole lot of audacity; i) You–the real you–is not an accident… you were not made to be small; j) I want you to see someone who kept showing up again and again even when it was tearing her apart. (Those last four are from Rachel Hollis’ Girl, Wash Your Face, and if you’ve not read it, I implore you to do so.)

Eight. Five of my best personality traits: a) clever; b) tenacious; c) authentic; d) effervescent; e) generous.

Nine. Five ways I can better love myself: a) pay off my debt; b) minimize possessions; c) forgive; d) accept; e) devote more time to pampering myself physically.

Ten. Write out a perfect morning routine: Read the Bible first thing. Whatever follows, follows. Begin each day with the daily bread. I really don’t like to have a schedule or want morning to feel like Groundhog Day.

Eleven. Five things for which I work to forgive: a) failing my parents and brothers; b) neglecting my studies; c) squandering the wealth my maternal grandmother and great aunt bestowed upon me; d) sabotaging relationships, specifically the brief one I had with Adam; e) entertaining darkness.

Twelve. Three actionable steps to take in making dreams reality: a) write more; b) spend less; c) trust God.

Thirteen. What I love most about my life: God doesn’t give up on me; every day He saves me from myself.

Fourteen. Three ways to improve mindset so I love myself more: a) stop drinking; b) start exercising; c) read the Bible.

Fifteen. Write a love letter to yourself: Beautiful girl, you can do hard things.

Sixteen. Write out fifteen compliments to give yourself: a) tenacious; b) resilient; c) tough; d) giving; e) intelligent; f) artistic; g) considerate; h) talented; i) possessing a beautiful voice; j) genuine; k) clever; l) fearless in many respects; m) insightful; n) hopeful despite such adversity; o) adventurous.

Seventeen. What five things have you done for which you are the most proud? a) found the courage to end sexual abuse I incurred in my adolescence; b) quit smoking; c) severed ties with an emotionally and verbally abusive man before things escalated to physical abuse; d) wrote three hundred pages of a manuscript; e) cleaned out my closet.

Eighteen. What bad habits and mindsets do you need to quit? a) swearing; b) reckless spending; c) sabotaging myself in relationships; d) getting physical with men when what I long to know is emotional intimacy — it’s hard to hold my ground when they push boundaries… I’ve never been good at standing up for myself.

Nineteen. What ten things make you the happiest? a) BamBam; b) Shazam; c) the children at the private school where I had volunteered; d) the days I don’t hurt; e) the days I get a solid eight hours of sleep; f) GREAT stories whether they’re told on the screen, in the lyrics of a song or on the pages of a book; g) sitting on the lawn beside the guest house overlooking the monastery grounds in the early days of summer; h) sitting by the lake at sunset; i) the days I’ve written a GOOD scene that needs little to no correction; j) snuggling in my flannel Star Wars sheets and playing Seekers Notes Hidden Mystery.

Twenty. Write a positive advice letter to your future self. You’ve done better than most women would have faced with the same challenges. Buck up, Boo.

Twenty-One. Describe yourself positively in ten words: a) effervescent; b) intelligent; c) talented; d) vulnerable; e) generous; f) empathetic; g) brilliant; h) tenacious; i) resilient; j) creative

Twenty-Two. What’s standing in the way of your happiness, and what can you do to fix that? Myself. I don’t know… I suppose it’d start with forgiveness, but there are things that seem unforgivable. And yes, I know… I’ve confessed them to God, and I believe once you’ve done this, He forgives you, and if He can forgive me, then I should be able to do so. But fathers are supposed to forgive their children. Good ones do, and mine is a GOOD one. I know He has forgiven me. I know this because I’m still alive… if He hadn’t forgiven me, the devil would’ve taken me a long time ago. I know… I KNOW.

Twenty-Three. What five good habits would you like to start next month? a) fasting for three weeks; b) dedicated study of Becoming the Woman God Wants Me to Be: A Ninety Day Guide to Living the Proverbs 31 Life by Donna Partow; c) reading from the Word every morning; d) stretching daily; e) walking or cycling thirty minutes daily.

Twenty-Four. What five flaws can you accept and how can you look at these flaws in a positive light? a) swearing (I love language, and the foul words are, I think, the best phonetically-constructed things out there); b) keeping an untidy room (chaos breeds creativity); c) being a harsh critic of myself (we cannot improve without knowing where we fail, and I am nothing if not self-aware); d) lack of punctuality (Time is a construct — Hannibal Buress as Kevin Sable in Tag); e) laziness (sometimes when I do nothing of great import, I choose to revitalize my spirit on a subconscious level).

Twenty-Five. Write yourself a thank you letter. Thank you for not letting those fuckers win.

Filed Under: blogging, writing

Isaiah

October 20, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

In the beginning there was the Word… and for months I have felt called to read the Word at the beginning of my day… like it says in the Lord’s Prayer: Give us this day our daily bread… one of my favorite friends has suggested to me, more than once, that you’ve to ask for His nourishment daily, and that He will give you exactly what you need to endure that day–not one bit more or less.

I thought, I’ve read inspirational books in the mornings–that’s kind of the same thing, and it doesn’t work for me. Like I’m some kind of exception.

Last night I set my alarm for seven a.m. I took only those pills I’m prescribed to take–no Benadryl, no Tylenol PM, no Nyquil… nothing but what I should take. I slept well enough. I had dreams about fear looking back at love rather than forward… of vegetables… of social gatherings.

When the alarm went off, I debated resetting it… I debated snoozing past the time I’d allotted myself (forty-five minutes). But at a quarter before eight, I realized I could read my Bible in the comfort of my bed… and so I did. And when I opened it to some random page, which admittedly has never worked for me before, the words I made you, and I will care jumped out at me. I’d looked at this page before. I’d colored I will care in blue.

And so these are the Words that spoke to me:

What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator. Does a clay pot argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, ‘Stop you’re doing it wrong!” Does the pot exclaim ‘How clumsy can you be?’

How terrible it would be if a newborn baby said to its father, ‘Why was I born?’ or if it said to its mother, ‘Why did you make me this way?'”

Isaiah 45:9-10

Do you give me orders about the work of my hands?”

Isaiah 45:11

Again I am reminded of how much an insult my words have been to Him. How much more esteemed I’ve held my opinion of myself rather than His of me. The difference this morning was that I didn’t feel guilty or ashamed of this, as I’d done yesterday and the day before and the day before… This morning I felt like a child corrected… and LOVED.

I read that page and the next and the next… and then I was struck by this:

Rather I have refined you in the furnace of suffering.”

Isaiah 48:10

People keep telling me my lenses are askew…

Sunday, I snapped one of the lenses out of my glasses, yall. Doing one of those Bible studies. All the ways He tries to get my attention. All the ways He strives to correct me. All the ways He loves me… would that I could know the sensations of comfort and love I had this morning ALL the time.

Filed Under: love, writing

In the Middle of the Darkest Night

October 19, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought, “I don’t want to be alive anymore.” There were days it was a mantra, especially in my older adolescence and young adulthood. Like I spoke it with every breath.

Just moments ago, I muttered it aloud and was struck by how much of an insult it is to God, my father of fathers. He brought me out of the dark, into His wondrous light, and I’ve spent my life begging him to let me die so I can go to Heaven. BEGGING Him. LOATHING the gifts He’s given me because it hurts to be here, because living hurts. I sound like such a child. I feel like such a child.

A week ago Friday I spent two hours in an orthopedist’s office… and only spent maybe five minutes of that time actually visiting with the orthopedist, who told me he didn’t think I’d had the sort of surgeries I’d had. The moment he said that, I tuned out the bastard, gathered my things and stormed out in as much a huff as my crippled legs could muster.

It hurts to live.

Where the hell did I get the idea that it shouldn’t? WHERE. THE. FUCK. DID. I. GET. THAT. SUPREMELY. RIDICULOUS. IDEA?? Because I look at the people in my circles and think it’s EASY for them? GOOD GOD, I’m an idiot. A petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. I had it in my head that at some point, things would be easier.

There’s a Hillsong Worship song, King of Kings, with the line: He did not despise the cross. I have LOATHED mine. I have loathed God for making me carry it. I have loathed life. LOATHED it.

The following is from texts sent yesterday to one of my oldest friends:

I feel broken in many respects at many times… That brokenness is evident in my physical presence–literally and figuratively… not just because of the maladies that have plagued me and persisted despite efforts to correct them but because of how I’ve handled adversity. I feel, often, that adversity has worn away all that is good in me, leaving the uglier aspects of my character raw and exposed. So when people talk about physical appearance being what’s shown of your heart, what of your character is reflected on the surface, when I say that I am not pretty… I’m not just talking about the surface, though that’s certainly one aspect.

There is such rage and impotence within me. I struggle, daily, to mask it. I think perhaps I inherited it from my mother’s father–he so hated that he could not be what he wanted to be. And, more, in me, there is such frustration that I have never felt a strong calling in my life, not one in which I had/have confidence.

I pray, daily, that the Lord would alleviate these feelings in me.

Perhaps this is why I am alone.

Ambition, purpose and a love for life are SUCH attractive qualities. I lack them all. I have no energy to cultivate these things because every attempt has always brought me up so miserably short.

All this is evident in me. I walk cloaked in despair with no confidence that I could walk any other way… because the cloak isn’t a cloak but a strait jacket. I am imprisoned in this body–doctors assumed at my birth I would be better off in an institution for people like me, and the older I get the more convinced I am that they were right.

All that said, I am FAR TOO focused on myself… like my grandfather was far too focused on himself.

Going to school felt like a death march. Coming home felt like a furlough. Every insult, every attack, whether orchestrated by a teacher or student, was mortar, the shrapnel chipping away at my sense of self so that by the time I was in junior high, I was a broken shell of a girl. First I let them destroy my self-image, then I let them destroy my self-worth.

I haven’t survived. I can’t even call this an existence. I wake up, and I waste time until the day is done. I take things to help me sleep… wash, rinse, repeat.

And before you say I should see a therapist, I’ve seen plenty of them. I know all the things. I know all the ways to combat this mentality. Depression is a lack of will. Anxiety is a fear of it. I am plagued by both.

My grandfather was groomed by his parents from a young age to become a surgeon. At some point I’m certain he was convinced he wanted this for himself. But his hands shook. He took medicine to still the tremors but became addicted to it. He drank. Once he had children, he hated not being the focus of the family. He could not change his circumstances so he drowned his sorrows in liquor and lashed out as his wife and children. He was verbally and emotionally abusive.

I have the propensity for this. Perhaps my singleness and childlessness is God’s way of ending the cycle… perhaps my parents’ efforts to steer me away from education was His way as well.

I have a heart for family and learning but the not the mind for it. And my body… often I feel as thought my blood is boiling and my muscles are cords of stone. Pair the physical sensations with the mental ones… it’s an ugly combination. It makes me feel ugly, literally and figuratively. And then I look in the mirror… and I see the ugliness.

I want to feel soft. And the only time I can feel that way is when I’m in bed. Or, better, when I’m being held.

When I say fear of will, I mean fear of choice, fear of failure, fear of success, fear of responsibility, fear of lackadaisicalness… it’s essentially fear of everything, but all things involve choice of some kind. I fear the choices I will make will be wrong… so fear of will.

I’ve screwed up. I’ve blown the funds in my bank account. Pray, FERVENTLY, that I can be more respectful of and responsible with money. Pray I can grow up and stop spending it like a stupid child.

All but the last of the italicized paragraphs were sent yesterday… I’ve omitted her responses from the conversation. The last paragraph was sent about three hours ago. I had that glorious epiphany about insulting God about an hour ago.

No wonder I’ve hated life so… I can’t be trusted with His blessings. Can’t be trusted to appreciate them. Can’t be bothered to care for them. I see them as toys to be tossed aside when I’ve lost interest in them. Why SHOULD He bless me with ANYTHING? WHY should I get to see the glory of Heaven?

Filed Under: tanks, writing

Hello, My Friend, Hello

October 6, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

I feel like I haven’t properly written anything in AGES. And this here little space in the blogosphere began as a source of therapy for me to just sit and type… rant… share my meager opinions on things… and if someone liked what I wrote, GREAT, and if not, that’s fine by me.

But I’ve not just sat down and properly written anything in what seems like years. I know it’s not been that long, but it feels like it has.

I have been under such a significant amount of stress this year, as we all have. I have not wanted to write in forever. I’m not even tinkering with my characters anymore, and that used to bring me such joy (most of the time).

I have twenty-five cents in one account and twenty-three dollars and thirty-five cents in the other. I opened some veins of credit because I thought I was finally mature enough to handle that… I’m not. My Apple, Amazon and PayPal accounts are maxed. I haven’t been sleeping well so I went to Macy’s and got one of their Hotel Collection super-firm mattresses (the kind you can flip over as well as rotate because I am OVER the single-sided mattresses) and one of those adjustable bases. So now, in addition to my student loans (which I may be able to repay before I die… maybe), I’ve amassed another six grand or so in debt. Huzzah! I have become addicted to Seekers Notes: Hidden Mystery and Design Home and stupidly keep throwing the little money I have away on those damned apps instead of paying off my debt because I. AM. AN. IDIOT.

My mother had open heart surgery on September fourth. She’d been in A-fib since December first of ‘seventeen, I think. She’s had that shock procedure done three times, now, and the second time was the only time it worked (though temporarily). She also had mitrovalve prolapse, and doctors had thought replacing that valve might be the thing to correct the A-fib. It wasn’t. And now her seventy-nine-year-old chest hurts literally as well as figuratively. She thinks she’s failed as a wife, mother, daughter and friend. And the only grandchildren she has, my brother’s twins, live in Natchez, Mississippi. She thinks they don’t want to see her. She thinks my brother doesn’t want to see her. She thinks a lot of miserable things.

I’d always thought she and I were vastly different women, but I’m starting to see just how much we have in common. I miss my mother… the one who could pull herself up by her bootstraps and carry on with her day, making the best of the bullshit. All she wants to do now is mope.

My father had heart surgery on September fourteenth. He’s back to his chipper-cherry self. My mother couldn’t take him to the hospital. She was sorely disappointed that she could not; her brother had come down from Colorado to stay with us for a while, and he and I insisted that she should stay home. So I took my father. I, the one who is phobic of hospitals, did. I managed well enough. Amazingly so.

This year… these maladies… the unnecessary and hypocritical violence of which I see and hear in the news… all the bullshit is wearing on me, and as strong as I am…

My left leg has decided that THIS is the time to rebel. For nearly fifteen years, the spastic cramping caused by cerebral palsy had limited itself to my hands, shoulders, and upper and middle back. About five years ago it increased its area to include my calves.

Two weeks ago, while I lay in bed in the middle of the night, awakened probably because the Tylenol PM or whatever I’d taken that day had worn off, I got a cramp in the left side of my knee. I’d been coping with pain in my knee for about a week, and that pain had begun to radiate into my hip and ankle.

I’d broken a trophy at work the day this fine instance occurred. I suspect that the stress caused by the circumstances of the past few weeks had manifested itself in physical pain and localized, at first, in my leg and then spread out. And then I broke the trophy–not one we’d ordered but one a soldier had brought to the shop for the purpose of fitting it with a new name plate. It’s one of those trophies that had been passed down from soldier to soldier for God knows how long, and I banged the edge of the eagle’s wings on the counter, and a sliver broke off. A sliver. If I’d been able to see better, if my hands worked better, if I weren’t in such pain that day from my damned leg… I couldn’t think past it, yall. I. could. not. think. past. it. I was ready to go home. It was past time for me to do so. I was in a hurry. I was negligent. I broke someone’s things in my carelessness. Something of great value. I broke a trophy. And that night, I guess the shame I’d felt in doing so, the regret, the helplessness I felt morphed into this giant angerball in my knee.

I had such a bad cramp that it twisted my leg in unnatural ways.

Friday, I’ve an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. I am not looking forward to it.

I feel beaten, yall. In all the years of ugliness I’ve known, I’ve never wanted to be held by a good man more than I do right now, and there’s no one. I can’t even get a jackass to hold me for a bit.

Exhibit A:

Posted on Facebook: June the first, ‘twenty. My text is blue and white; his is black and white. Close to the close of a conversation with a dude with whom I’d been chatting since the end of April… I figured nothing was going to come of it because he’s in Arkansas, and I’m in Texas, but I’d begun to think nothing of the distance. His text is comprised primarily of bullshit.

Exhibit B:

Posted on Facebook, June the first, ‘twenty. My text is green and white; his is black and white. The close of a conversation with a dude with whom I’d been chatting since October of last year; he lives in England, and I knew nothing was going to come of it, but we had been having some really nice chats. His text is honest-to-God truth. I don’t know which one’s more disappointing.

These conversations occurred some months ago–the former on May nineteenth and the latter on June first.

I’ve been off and on Bumble. I’d signed up for Silver Singles (because I’m OLD, yall), then canceled my membership the next day (and luckily managed to get my fees refunded).

How many men have given up on me? On how many men I have given up?

I’m tired. I feel like roughened, crinkled sandpaper. I’d been thinking, wishing for quite some time, that I can’t cry anymore. I’ve done more crying in the past month than I’ve probably done in the past two years.

Every time I read I gave up on you, I get a little pissier. And pissyness does me NO good WHATSOEVER.

I don’t want to do this by myself. I don’t want to grieve the loss of my parents, which seems so much more inevitable to happen sooner rather than later. And this body of mine… this broken body has begun careening downhill toward contorted, twisted mass. I won’t be able to take it on my own. I won’t.

Filed Under: grief, writing

Me in Ten

September 19, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

If you were to choose ten chicks (or dudes) (from literature/television/film/whatever) who had comparable qualities to yours, which ones would you pick?

One. Kit Kat played by Lydia Wilson in About Time. Careless, unaware of her own worth, easily distracted by impulse.

Two. Anna Malloy played by Isla Fisher in Tag. Crass, pushy, dedicated. She’s probably my favorite of the bunch. Here’s a good (not kid-friendly) snapshot: https://youtu.be/9zayyt63auA.

Three. Samantha played by Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. Shoots for the fences, annoyed by idiots, shy.

Four. Shelby Eatenton Latcherie played by Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias. Has a hard time standing up for what she wants, people-pleaser, decent sense of style.

Five. Meredith Morton played by Sarah Jessica Parker in The Family Stone. REALLY good at sticking her foot in her mouth, tries too hard, excellent gift-giver.

Six. Molly Mahoney played by Natalie Portman in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Fascinated by magic but doubts her abilities to be magical, tenacious, has creative desires but not a lot of vision until push comes to shove.

Seven. Allison Reynolds played by Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. AWKWARD. Doesn’t much like people. Doesn’t think she has any friends.

Eight. Emma played by Ann Hathaway in One Day. Settles. Rarely speaks up for herself. Kind of a geek.

Nine. Sadness played by Melissa McCarthy in Inside Out. Caring touch, kind heart, incessant crying jags.

Ten. Meredith played by Gillian Anderson in Playing by Heart. Control freak, doesn’t deal well with passion, doesn’t deal well with men.

Filed Under: blogging, writing

Fifty Reasons to Live

July 13, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

Think of all the things you would’ve missed….

One. The Star Wars saga — sans episode the ninth. Playing hooky with your direct supervisor and coworkers to watch episode the first. Also this:

Conversation with my five-year-old nephew:

Me: But those stories are written by the best storyteller ever born (Shakespeare)!

Him: Not Star Wars.

— June 25, 2014 / Panera Bread at The Woodlands Mall with family

Two. The Miracle on Ice! THAT FANTASTIC MOVIE Disney made later, memorializing the glorious feat of those Olympians. Watching that with your mother. All the times you’ve enjoyed it since. That soundtrack you were playing the day you hydroplaned on the interstate going seventy-five miles an hour and the miracle that everyone managed to get out of your crazy way and when Phineas Boba Fett (your beloved Acura RSX) stopped spinning and bouncing off guard rails, God put your car back in the lane you’d occupied before the world tilted and had Phinny facing the right way. You were listening to the Miracle soundtrack when that happened.

Three. Pac-Man. Taking turns, playing with your brothers first thing in the morning before school. Also Super Mario Brothers… the countless hours you spent playing this with your younger brother.

Four. MTV. The summer of eighty-three when you made friends, and yall would call each other to announce Duran Duran’s Reflex video was being shown. Years later… all the games you played while watching videos with your hallmates in the basement smoking recreation room of PEO Hall at Cotteyland.

Five. Metallica. That one time your hallmates got you headbanging to Enter Sandman at the Rocking K in Pittsburgh, Kansas.

Six. Calvin and Hobbes. Also Brian Kessinger’s mash-up artistry of the comic with Star Wars characters.

Seven. Neil Patrick Harris as Barney in How I Met Your Mother. And since we’re talking stupid comedy… the entire cast of The Big Bang Theory.

Eight. Peyton Manning. Also baby brother Eli. Two Superbowl-winning Giants. Pun (and sarcasm) intended.

Nine. Angelina Jolie in Playing by Heart. You LOVE her in that movie. You love EVERYONE in that movie. That movie is perfection.

Ten. Riggs and Murtaugh. Mostly Riggs, actually. But he wouldn’t be the same without his partner. Mel Gibson on the big screen. Clayne Crawford on the small one. How many times have you let those characters, those men entertain you?

Eleven. Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, a film released the year of your older brother’s death, the year after you lost Adam. How many days did you escape into that story? How many times have you reveled in the glory of its craftiness that. That movie’s perfection, too.

Twelve. If you’d taken your life before December twenty-fourth of ‘two, you never would have known you could forgive your older brother.

Thirteen. If you’d taken your life before March twenty-sixth of ‘two, you never would have known that thing they call chemistry between two lovers was real and not some myth, some plot device conjured by some storyteller centuries before. You never would’ve heard a man call you, in your American Eagle rugby T-shirt and Gap boot cut jeans and your battered brown Doc Marten boots, gorgeous. You wouldn’t’ve known that you could feel contentment.

Fourteen. This is Us and Life Itself. Probably the best stories ever put on screen, big or small.

Fifteen. Jessica Chastain in Lawless. WOW. Ain’t that just like you, to believe your own damned legend. She was SO SO good in that movie. And as Celia in The Help.

Sixteen. The Lord of the Rings. All those movie marathons. The director’s cut, boxed set your younger brother gave you for Christmas one year. The peace it gave you when you felt so, so lost.

Seventeen. Elvis Presley. That voice. The hope If I Can Dream gives you. The joy of the JXL Radio Edit Remix of A Little Less Conversation. Windows down in Phineas on Gosling Road on a clear spring day… or blasting down the interstate.

Eighteen. Zoe Saldana. Simon Pegg. Karl Urban. Chris Pine. J.J. Abram’s reboot of Star Trek. Watching that in the theaters with Keli. Beating your in-theater record of most-times-viewed. All that AWESOME dialogue.

Nineteen. Aaron Rodgers launching a football a hundred yards in the air AND A hundred yards downfield into the end zone and Richard Rodgers catches it with NO time left in the game to beat NFC rival Detroit Lions.

Twenty. Sara Bareilles’ Breathe Again. What kind of heart doesn’t look back?

Twenty-One. Chris Pratt. Bradley Cooper. Vin Diesel. Dave Bautista. Karen Gillan. And, yes, Zoe Saldana. Guardians of the Galaxy. Yes, you CAN enjoy something that is sheer ridiculousness.

Twenty-Two. Anthony Ervin. Dude wins the splash and dash in the Olympics at nineteen and goes back to win it again sixteen years later. You watched that… granted you saw it in the living room of your parents’ house. You watched it, and stood, gleefully, on that terrazzo floor, amazed that this man who by most accounts was past his prime could swim that length without taking one breath in the water. Splash and dash, indeed. His time at the Sydney Olympics was twenty one point nine eight. He beat that in Rio by fifty-eight hundredths. His thirty-five-year-old self beat his nineteen-year-old self. Read that as many times as you need.

Twenty-Three. Michael Phelps, Klete Keller, Ryan Lochte and Peter Vanderkaay BEAT Ian Thorpe and his goons to reclaim the four by two hundred free relay title at the Athens Olympics. You watched this in your San Antonio apartment, jumping up and down on that teak Storehouse Furniture cocktail table you’ve got in storage. You can’t bear to part with the thing because it’s got such a happy memory for you.

Twenty-Four. Jonny Lang. Your older brother went with you to see him perform with Beth Hart in Houston. That was a good day.

Twenty-Five. Von Miller. Aggie football. All those games.

Twenty-Six. One Fine Day. Watching that with your parents and brother over the holidays. Every time you watch that movie, it brings you pleasure. Every time you watch it, you think this life isn’t quite so shitty as it seems.

Twenty-Seven. Christmases at the cabin. That last one… when you weren’t hating your brother… that last one that was a sort of miracle. A respite just before the shit hit the fan.

Twenty-Eight. Summers at the monastery. That last one… when you were sitting with your great uncle on the lawn toward the road, where the big old tree used to be. The words he spoke… if only you could remember them. But they were good and true, and he believed so well of you.

Twenty-Nine. Stevie Ray Vaughan. Cold Shot. Pride and Joy. Look at Little Sister.

Thirty. Primroses on street corners. How many times have you spotted those on desolate days? Lucille put those on your antique icebox for a reason.

Thirty-One. Blueberry muffins. Oh the comfort they provide. The scent of them in the oven, the flavor of them melting in your mouth.

Thirty-Two. Coca-Cola. Dr. Pepper. Peace Tea Green Tea. Such GOOD refreshment.

Thirty-Three. Chicken spaghetti. Best comfort food ever. Such a pain in the ass to make, but oh, the result is extraordinary.

Thirty-Four. Macaroni and cheese. The kind mom makes. She means so well. She wants the best for you. Funny how she makes this — or her chicken noodle soup, for that matter — when you’re feeling especially down and out. She sees you. She might not always know how to love you well, but she does love. She does her best.

Thirty-Five. Blue Bell Ice Cream. Coffee and Dutch Chocolate and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough…

Thirty-Six. LONDON!!! All that history!!!

Thirty-Seven. Munich! All that beauty! The giant chestnut trees EVERYWHERE.

Thirty-Eight. Barcelona!! All that fun!! And the glory of Gaudi’s cathedral!

Thirty-Nine. All the effort Carmen’s making for you to help you get stronger. She LOVES you. Has thought well of you from the moment you met her at your brother’s house. She’s a GOOD friend to have.

Forty. Serena. There’s a reason Lisa asked you to help her with her class. There’s a reason Landon was there. There’s a reason God crossed your paths. She benefits from your friendship… SO many do.

Forty-One. Ranunculus. That day you were at that River Oaks flower shop, and that dude asked you what he thought of the tacky and over-priced arrangement he was going to get his girl. You suggested the radiant with charms ranunculus that cost a FRACTION of that bouquet, and he bought it. He chose to go the simpler route. Sometimes your ideas are GOLD. Sometimes you CAN convince people of their worth.

Forty-Two. Literature: The Language of Flowers; Landline; Eleanor and Park; The Fault in Our Stars; The Time Traveler’s Wife; Lovers and Dreamers. Think of all the characters you’ve yet to meet.

Forty-Three. Steel Magnolias. Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.

Forty-Four. The generosity others have shown you recently.

Forty-Five. The hug your youngest cousin gave you after being too much in a crowd, too stimulated by all the things, too unable to please your younger brother. Your cousin didn’t say anything. He just smiled at you and wrapped his arms around you and held on tight in a great bear hug that lasted I-don’t-know-how-long. It was long enough to make an impression. It was long enough to bring you some semblance of peace… even if that peace was short-lived.

Forty-Six. You went zip-lining. You who is afraid of heights and falling and hurting yourself. You went zip-lining. And when you suffered a panic attack at the thought of crossing the suspension bridge, another cousin — the middle brother of the aforementioned cousin — helped you across each of those planks to the other tower, and though you’d struggled with zip-lining to the first one, you did the second one perfectly.

Forty-Seven. Splendor with friends and the kids at school.

Forty-Eight. Settlers of Catan with the bartenders at Pappadeaux’s.

Forty-Nine. Watching Green Bay lose to the Panthers in Charlotte. That was not a good day… but girl, you lucked into going to that game.

Fifty. Your niece. Your nephew.

Filed Under: love, writing

Fifty Different Reasons

July 8, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

A long, long time ago I made a list of fifty reasons to stick around. And I wrote a list of fifty reasons not to do so. And BOTH helped me, yall. Both have been good tools for combating the crazy. But they’re old. And I wrote them in haste, without putting much thought into either of them. I did the different reasons list AFTER I’d written the live list, and almost every item on the different reasons list was the antithesis of its counterpart on the live list. Those lists… they need a little tweaking. So I am rehashing them for the current moods and madness with which I struggle. This is a hard one for me to write. I took more time with this one. I have to be in the right mindset, which at first wasn’t easy to do and I wasn’t sure I could find that place again, but that was the other day. I found it.

In reading this the mindset I have at the beginning, one of agreement, morphs into one of denial by the end. The Bloggess, aka Jenny Lawson, has said OFTEN depression lies. Here are the lies I tell myself:

One. You are broken. You were born that way. Everything about your body, your face, your brain is fucked.

Two. Your brothers got most of the goods: the looks, the personality, the mad skills. You got the scraps: the leftovers, the rejected bits, all the less admirable traits from your ancestors. The mad and the madness. You’re a spawn, a spore. There’s one in every generation.

Three. Six surgeries. Thirty some-odd-scars. And you’re still an ugly hag.

Four. And now you’re a FAT, bitter, ugly hag. FAT. Remember what that one boy said to you? How at the reunion, people’s reaction upon seeing you would be, Who’s that rolling in? Yeah. You don’t get to prove him wrong about that.

Five. No one will ever want to marry you because you’re too ugly and no one wants to wake up next to something that ugly every morning. You don’t get to prove him wrong about that, either.

Six. You should go kill yourself; you’re taking up valuable air and space, and there are more important people who need it. You should’ve done it. Those people could manage to make friends and live good lives. You don’t get to prove them, any of them, wrong about that, either. You keep trying, though. You keep thinking you have gifts. Oh dear heavens, girl. SCRAPS. You’re made of scraps!!! Gifts ain’t found in the junkyard.

Seven. You signed up for that socials site to meet new people, to PAY people to spend time with you. TO PAY PEOPLE TO SPEND TIME WITH YOU. Your friends don’t want to spend time with you. They don’t want it SO much that one of them suggested that socials site so you could stop badgering her to spend time with you. They WANT you to leave them alone. You’re one of those unimportant people, remember? They’re too nice, too GOOD to tell you to fuck off. And you should. YOU SHOULD.

Eight. Your own brother doesn’t even want to spend time with you. Seriously. You’ve seen him like four times since Christmas. And it’s NOT because of Covid, though he sure does like to use that excuse with you… it was like this BEFORE the virus… and THEN it was work. Ask yourself why he makes the excuses. He sure can find the time for quite a few others.

Nine. Mama says you’ve got that go to hell look patented, and you know she’s right because you can feel the fury on your face when you unleash that look. You boil over, Jennifer. ALL the time. You boil over because the pan’s filled with rage and hate. There’s no love in the pot to temper the heat.

Ten. Good men want nothing to do with you. The moment they figure out you’re off your rocker, they RUN for the hills. Can’t get away fast enough. The words… you’re a WRITER, and the words that come out of your mouth are RIDICULOUS. They say you’re intimidating? That’s polite code for YOU FUCKING SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF ME, BITCH. PSYCHO FEMALE.

Eleven. You don’t know how to love. That BSF Bible study group leader talked about what happens when the virtues are perverted. You’ve perverted ALL of them. A L L of them. There’s a place for people like you.

Twelve. How desperate can you possibly be? You love Aggieland so much, were so incapable of conveying that love to your parents so they could respect your choice of institution for higher learning and have regretted that inadequacy with every breath since, that you’d brainwash your brother’s children in their infancy to love that university so they’d decided by their tenth year that THAT’S where they want to go so YOU can live vicariously through them. WHAT BULLSHIT IS THIS?? WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO BE LIKE YOUR MOTHER??? You HATE that she took choice from you! You’d want to take it from them? Those babies you say you love as though they were your own? IDIOT!! Why would you perpetuate that hell?

Thirteen. Must every other word that rolls off your tongue be foul? Really? Because girl… your mouth is essentially an ashtray. Your words reek like the trashiest of alleys.

Fourteen. When your parents pass, you will lose all contact with people. You will hole up in an apartment and play on Facebook… the modern day arena where Ms. Brill would watch her shows… Handy that she wouldn’t have to leave her house. You are JUST like that pathetic woman. JUST LIKE HER.

Fifteen. You spent thirty minutes writing about the lack of love, and half the words you put on the page were film quotes. You’d spend the rest of your pathetic life in bed watching movies because you’re too afraid to live.

Sixteen. You’ll NEVER write a story so good people would want to show it on a screen. And all you wanted when you were a kid was to win a damned Oscar. You’d make up speeches. WHAT A FOOL.

Seventeen. Everything you write is crap. No one’s every going to want to read it.

Eighteen. The staff at Pappadeux’s? They’re only nice to you because they have to be.

Nineteen. You quit smoking?? That was STUPID. You want a short life, right? Doesn’t quitting mean it’d last longer??

Twenty. Your teachers… how many of them hated teaching you? I bet it was a lot.

Twenty-One. Like school did you any good anyway. All that money your grandmother and great aunt left you so you could have a fine education, and you squandered it.

Twenty-Two. Every night, just so you can sleep, you gotta pop some pills. There’s so much ugliness inside you, the only way you can silence it is to drug it.

Twenty-Three. You like giving things to people, don’t you? Makes you feel better about yourself? They’re just things. And you’re trying to buy affection, just like when you were a kid. Remember the year you gave everyone in your class Valentines and got NONE in return. Yeah. YEAH. You sat at your desk staring at your pitiful, poorly decorated, EMPTY brown paper sack, waiting for someone to drop in a card, and NO ONE DID.

Twenty-Four. You BELIEVED Adam when he said you were gorgeous. YOU BELIEVED HIM. Of COURSE he’s going to say that. Boys will say ANYTHING to sucker a gal.

Twenty-Five. You’re too much like a boy, anyway. How could you POSSIBLY be GORGEOUS. GORY. GROSS. N O T gorgeous.

Twenty-Six. Haven’t got the faintest idea of how to be a girl, do you?

Twenty-Seven. Boys don’t want to get their hands on you anymore. Not the gentlemen. They never did. EVER. NOT ONCE. You were just there. Weak, convenient, lonely and easy… or so they thought.

Twenty-Eight. But you can’t even do that right, can you? So eager to play… but then you balk and walk almost EVERY TIME.

Twenty-Nine. When you finally said fuck it? You let a narcissistic, manipulative, emotionally and verbally abusive JACKASS have that card. You gave it to him in a fucking VALUE PLACE INN on the southwest side of San Antonio, in the damned desert, practically. Good GOD, girl. Talk about TRAGIC. SHIT. What a loser you are.

Thirty. God knows your parents would be better off if you weren’t here. They could’ve actually ENJOYED retirement instead of having to support their stupid, lazy daughter. They could’ve set aside money for their grandchildren’s education, but you’d rather rob them of that.

Thirty-One. Your brother couldn’t because he was weak. You’re JUST like him, in ALL the WRONG ways. All those bad scraps…

Thirty-Two. You signed a piece of paper twenty years ago. That doctor who made you sign it? He’s probably forgotten all about you. So many will…

Thirty-Three. And the debt. The goddamned DEBT you’ve amassed. STUPID GIRL.

Thirty-Four. You think you can sing? Bullshit. Your voice ain’t that awesome — ’bout as good as Marge Simpon’s. Look at all those times you tried to get up on stage. Your friends were in bands and never once asked you to sing with them.

Thirty-Five. It won’t be alright in the end. It’ll just be more of the same bullshit.

Thirty-Six. Those doctors in your infancy… they told your parents you would be better off in an institution for people like you. Those doctors were right.

Thirty-Seven. Your boss gave you a job because he needed a body–someone to occupy a desk and free the boys up from the incessant phone calls so they could actually WORK. He doesn’t actually like you. The hand!!! That face he made with it! I’m not talking to you. Shut the FUCK up. Answer the phones. Take the payments. Be QUIET.

Thirty-Eight. What good is a woman without a husband and children?

Thirty-Nine. Those prayer boards you’re fashioning… so you can have something positive and lovely and good to think on when you wake and when you sleep… You put little knickknacks and mementos on those so you can delude yourself into thinking people love you. IF they loved you, they’d not let you hide out in your room so often. If they were truly friends, they’d be FRIENDLY.

Forty. Jamie. Remember that time you felt bad that no one was at the other end of the pool cheering him on, so you went down there to be his cheerleader? You were the only one. Why would he WANT to swim toward that end if you were standing there screaming at him? Your interest in him was LAUGHABLE.

Forty-One. David. Three years you obsessed over that dude. THREE. YEARS. And I don’t know what he said about you to others, but it must’ve been ugly. And your fascination with him made everyone in that circle uncomfortable. Regina told you so. You should never have tried to be friends with them. You should never have thought enough of yourself that you could be appreciated by them, by him.

Forty-Two. Ben. He signed your junior high yearbook, “To the Love Doctor.” He humiliated you then, and yet, when yall were in college, when he roomed with your brother, you thought maybe he’d become a better person. He seemed to have done so. But you had to go and fuck that friendship up, and by doing so, fuck up his friendship with your brother. You drove two hours to go see about a guy, because, again, you thought enough of yourself… Cried the whole way home, and when you got closer to home, you realized you didn’t want to be alone, so you drove another hour out of the way to impose on your brother’s hospitality… You ruin EVERYTHING.

Forty-Three. Adam. Everything about that was a lie. EVERYTHING. Maybe if, just once, JUST ONCE, you’d been honest from the get-go, maybe things would’ve been different. But… you ruin everything, so… probably not.

Forty-Four. Tony. Everything about that was a lie, too. He was probably really good. He was probably worthy of your consideration. But… he bored you, and you can’t have that. Who the fuck do you think you are???

Forty-Five. Casey. You thought so well of him. A modern day Puck. He thought SO LITTLE of you. SO LITTLE.

Forty-Six. Gary. You thought so little of him. He thought so little of you. SO LITTLE. Yall deserved each other.

Forty-Seven. You should stop taking your meds and start smoking again and drink all the liquor and eat all the bad food… just get it over with already.

Forty-Eight. They said you couldn’t live, and you can’t.

Forty-Nine. They said you shouldn’t live, and you don’t. This isn’t a life, girl. This isn’t anything remotely resembling a life.

Fifty. They said you wouldn’t live, and you won’t. You’ll just keep writing the same damned chapters day after day after day… Who the fuck wants to read that? No one.

Filed Under: tanks, writing

Want to WOW Someone with Your Words? I Can Help with That!

July 4, 2020 by Jenn Leave a Comment

I offer editing and tutoring services to adults and children and would love to work with you. Voice is SO, SO important these days, and the best way to strengthen it is to examine it through linguistics — by evaluating word choice and structure. The more confident you are in your written word, the more comfortable you will be speaking with others.

Have you got a child who struggles with reading and writing in school? Does he or she HATE studying English and reading and writing because it’s too hard? I can show your child simple and effective tools that will grease the proverbial wheels toward finding a love of language.

Fire off an email to quirkypickings at icloud dot com today to learn more.

Filed Under: writing

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