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Nonfiction Writing

Returning to L.A.

Returning to L.A. is  bittersweet, sure I have In n Out and the ocean again, after an endless stream of “bless your hearts” and country music, but everywhere I look I see reminders of my failure. Failure as a wife, mother, perhaps woman or human being.

The gas station where he first threatened me, the mountain drive where I almost forced us off the road. The chapel where we got married. The hospital our children were born at. But now I was free from the man, if my mind would allow it, if I could only escape the memories, blind my mind to the past that scarred me. The hate still fills me.

He’s now ashes strewn next to some fucking tree his sister liked. But dead or alive, I’m still trapped in the prison of the memories. His critical voice is still the one I hear when I’m consumed with doubt.

Each landmark of this city is filled with memory, dipped in pain, and then rolled in remorse. And yet returning is all I’ve wanted to do for the last year. Even better to return a widow. Is that horrible to say? It doesn’t matter, it’s true. It’s how I feel.

Single in the city. This my new life. The Hollywood sign will drain of his judgement, Los Feliz won’t be streets of scorn, and traffic on the 10 will be just that – traffic, innocuous and uncaring. This is my return to L.A. This is my return to life.

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Writing

The jocks of the sea

People ask me what living under the sea is like. You’d think it would get old or boring, but it’s really no different than living on the land, except it’s like 5 million times better!

Why is that? I’m glad you asked. You see, you’ve got vastly more space, it’s not really loud, especially if you stay deep, and you’re weightless all the time. Plus, there are some cool peeps down here. I mean Like really cool – I can hang with anglerfish, who are hilarious bee tee dubs, or a blue whale, man are those guys supportive.

I will NOT hang with any porpoises. Dolphins and killer whales – they are dicks with a capital ASSHOLE in the middle. They just love saying they’re the smartest ones on the planet. Fucking morons. Everyone knows that’s the seahorses, but because they’re not braggadocious no one seems to really know. Porpoises are basically the jocks of the sea.

But, they have to breathe water, so I can stay down low and avoid the assholes all I like. And trust me, I do. Please, take all of them and make bigger Sea Worlds with more ostentatious shows featuring their brilliant intelligence. Like you’re going to have a dolphin finish the New York Times Sunday crossword. Smartest on the planet, my amphibious ass. So yeah, take them. Maybe leave a few for sharks to eat, I like watching that.

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Writing

Writing is like..

The chair was plain and uncomfortable, identical to the one opposite, with its nondescript beige coloring and dark brown stripes. The man opposite her was flipping through index cards and mumbling to himself. She sat there waiting, and sipped the glass of water that was provided on the small table next to her.

“Thirty seconds!” the formless voice overhead rang out.

The man beside her snapped up, tucked the cards inside his suit jacket pocket and did an odd smiling stretch thing with his face.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, she had never been on TV before, not like this, not being interviewed as someone of note.

“We’re live in five, four, three, two..” came the voice of god above. The red light on the camera facing them lit up.

“Good evening, and welcome to Chatting with Charlie, where we talk to notable people of the day. I am so pleased to introduce an up and coming writer who has just published her first novel titled “The Djin factory,” that’s djin with a d, not the alcohol.” Canned laughter came over speakers, which was really weird. He turned to the lady, and a different camera’s lights came on pointing at her, “So, tell me what writing is like for you.”

“Oh goodness, writing is like sucking out a piece of your soul and exposing it for all the world to see in the hopes it will feed their soul.”

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Hi

Musing Heather

I’m a middle-aged mother of three who writes. Does that make me a writer? Mayhaps. This blog is an outlet for all the little stories or missives that spill from my brain and aren’t meant for a novel. Or maybe they are, but they haven’t gestated long enough. Maybe on the virtual pages here, they’ll develop into something more.

So that’s what this is, simply stories and ideas that spontaneously erupt from my psyche. Some is funny, some is dark, some is sad, some is all of those combined, but it’s all me and my head.

Buckle up, and thicken up that skin, because in this state I can be brash, lacking in political refinement, and crude. If that’s your bag, enjoy the inside of my brain.