I Call Bull Shit

Making over a turn of phrase that, when analysed, is in fact  contradiction at best and a mixed metaphor at the least and saying it is such good poetic language.  Fuck that.  I may write like a third grader, but I am not pretentious about it at all.  And a couple of grown ups have said I don't write like a third grader.  I think this bull shit phrase turning is not the same as telling a story.  And that is what I do.  I tell stories about people.  Things happen, but I don't tell stories about things that happen.  I tell stories about the people the things happen to.  Because that is the way life  struck me.  I am a person that things happened to,and they keep on happening. Like rain from hell.   And that is what I am made of, the way I handled the things that happened and what those things did to me.  The person. If you never before in your life saw me, and you struck up a conversation with me, you would take me at face value.  You wouldn't know how I retaliate, how I hurt, how I inflict pain, how I have handled pain.  So if I told you the things that happened to me, you would have to relate that to the person you are talking to.  And I would have to tell you a story. And  I would fucking weep.

HATCHING

Never count your chickens before they're hatched.  How many times have you heard that?  How many times has the truth behind it come up and smacked you on the gourd?

DIGITS

I guess I had a bad day, although I was not aware of it at the time.  It rained off and on, and I don't mind the rain.  It means I don't have to go out and water all my flowers which I really don't mind doing, but I always get mosquito bit even if I carefully spray that very expensive and nasty Off on.  Or spray on Off.  But I've just been surfing and procrastinating and I noticed I feel confessorial.  Is that a thing?

I actually still feel a little ill from that sun issue, and I am quite angry with Mother Nature over that, but I realize I have dealt unfairly with her and she owes me a few.  So I have to get better physically and get over my blame thing.  Nothing can be done about it now.  It happened.  It's over. 

I need to admit that I want to and try to disregard peoples feellings.  I think  that is justified, but I am not in an excuse making mood.  The truth is, if I am pissed off at you, you can go fuck yourself, and I usually want to tell you that immediately, and I usually do, and I seldom feel regret for it and I generally think, before and after the fact or the incident, that you deserve it.  And, upon later rumination, if I feel I was impetuous in my judgement, I have no problem apologizing.  I frequently will add why I think it happened, not as an excuse, but actually, believe this or not as you choose, as an explanation so you will understand and find it easier to forgive.  This is rare.  That I actually find you undeserving of my wrath and feel you deserve my apologies or that I would expect your forgiveness.   Often I will offer a most sincere sounding apology for something I said or did, not because I am truly sorry I did it, but because I feel bad about hurting your "feelings" which I so expertly run rough shod over.  This is so direct a result of a glaring fact in my upbringing that it doesn't need any more explanation than does the fact that I have red hair.  Hurting "feelings", even those of an unloved pet, or a disliked person, is not something I would ever choose to do.  If I just shot you and got rid of the misery you were causing me, at least then, while I languish in my cell, I will not have the pain of thinking about you walking around with hurt feelings.  You won't be feeling anything. 

I find that when I write fiction, those passages when I deal with people who are more than fond of each other having painful issues dealing with one another, I go on and on with dialogue, having these two imaginary creatures waltz all around the actual issues, trying to say what they think and feel and get to the point where they want you to understand why they are telling you to go fuck yourself but not hurting your feelings or making you feel unloved.  What  is that all about?  I am so quick to fly off the handle.  You don't see it as much as you did when I was 29 cuz I can put up the facade and say the no nevermind words, but in my mind, the bullet has gone out the back of your head and taken 92% of your brain with it.  And I will clean up the mess it left on the wall and the floor with no reluctance.  I am VERY good at cleaning up messes.

In my books I think it is cuz she still wants to have sex with the guy and doesn't want to admit to herself that he is an asshole cuz he is a good lay.  But that for sure does not transfer to my real life.  I guess maybe I wish it did, or it had.  Then.

Bad Stuff

I was mad at my grandughter cuz she said she'd mow yesterday and didn't, and back by the creek was getting pretty reedy,  So I went out to mow.  She is coming upstairs and mad cuz I was mowing cuz we pay her for it, and she looked at this as revenue loss.  "I TOLD you I would mow today."  "You also told me you would mow yesterday.  And enroll in college and get a job."  Can't bite the damn tongue.

Back by the creek was too dense and damp and the machine couldn't handle it.  I am thinking of maybe a scythe.  So the machine craps out and I try to start it, and a little puff of smoke comes out.  I used this as an opportunity to come in and cool off. I woke at nine-ish today so I thought I was getting a great early start, but by now it is past noon.  So Louie starts the machine and I go back out mowing and, after about an hour, I got so sick.  I thought I was going to barf.  I am stumbling up the stairs saying, "Help me.  Help me." And he wants to know how and I am gasping "Water, cloth.  Help me."  I was actually moaning.  I felt so bad from head to toe inside and out.  After a few hours I felt better and hungry.  He said I had all the symptoms of heat stroke.  This is the worst part of getting old.  No matter how much you want to do something, after a certain  point you just can't.  Get your mind out of the gutter.

I've always been able to push on that little bit further, find that extra kernal of strength or power to get me to the finish line, but I am really disappointed that it just wasn't there today.

But I can always focus on stuff I still can do.  Mowing sucks.

Followers

To the new "followers", thank you.  I can't figure out how to say it individually, but I appreciate it and would love to read your comments and see your  blogs.

BRAVERY

I  did something today that I thought was extremely brave.  I let my daughter read my book.  She read part of it and we were in a hurry and had to leave.  In the car I tried to tell her what was going to happen next in the book and she said not to tell her cuz she wanted to read it to find out.  I actually do not think she was trying to spare my feelings with her other remarks.  She asked a lot of questions and I really have the feeling now that it is what it is, what it's supposed to be, what I want it to be.  And the words printed on  the paper, figuratively, are not the same as the words that come out of my  mouth.  Strange strange feeling, but exactly what I want, I think.  I think.   I think. 

But, more than  that, I am patting myself on the back for my bravery.  Really, it is easier to put the work in front of a stranger than in front of someone who knows you so well.  But it wasn't really brave at all.  It was absolutely an impulse that I acted on with great immediacy.  And that is like the story of my life.  There is so much stuff in my life that makes me unhappy, and I know I am contributing to the unhappiness of some other people, but I totally feel that part is their problem and there is so much stuff in my life that I like.  I have to think about what I want for a change.  After all, so many years of trying to get along with others and not rocking "the boat" has served for nothing.  Granted, I have beautiful surroundings, and not much to complain about, but it could have been so much better for so many people in so many ways, and my way of trying to fix everything and make sure no one got hurt served for nothing.  Nothing.  Everything I feel, right at this moment, is ONLY because of ME.

As I am sure is true of most others, I wish I had not waited so long to do this.  But, then I am able to say that it just happened.  It wasn't planned and I don't know where it came from, and I tend to think it was the meds cuz now it seems like it is gone, but I am already rethinking that part of it, and, for so many reasons, I have to say, that is just the way it is. And I think I am glad.  Anyway, I feel glad right now.  But my biggest flaw is always second guessing myself. 

Change the freaking chapter numbers, Ditty.

OYSTERS

The folks down the block were having a garage sale and I walked by and had a little look at the goods on display.  He, God bless his efforts and keep him safe, is some kind of Missionary that goes and lives in Israel and Africa and stuff, and, unfortunately, comes off to me as a kind of arrogant intellectual snob.   Anyway. . .

One of his daughters was helping out and I was chatting with her and said something about how many redheads, which both she and I were gloriously blessed examples of, lived in our subdivision, and how I thought it was a little strange,  and he commented that he never noticed. Fuck that, right? Who doesn't notice redheads? And his daughter was on the verge of being extraordinarily beautiful and I said, "The world is her oyster." And he said, "What does that mean?" Probably that phrase doesn't appear in the Bible.

 Anyway, she is older, more lithe, and the father figure has been replaced, hopefully by someone whose reading tastes are a little bit less esoteric. So I was fiddling around with the photo file today, nervous wreck that I am. and I was taken aback by this photo.

That lithe and gorgeous girl in the blue dress is not the neighbor.  It is/was me.  So here is the deal.  The world was my oyster and, you know how they say wisdom comes with age?  I wish to hell someone had said those words to me.

WISDOM

So many people in this world are unsung geniuses, artists, philosophers--so filled to overflowing with wisdom that will never be shared with the rest of the world.  We should all do what we can to ensure the legacies of such richly endowed humans endure.

Friendship

My younger daughter has many friends.  My older daughter has friends that have been her friends for many, many years.  My younger daughter had a break with a friend that was very serious.  The person felt betrayed and came back and said, "Well, I am still mad about it, but I have to put it behind me cuz I still want to be your friend."  I would say she and her friends love each other.  I wonder where they learned to have friends and be a friend.  Not from me.

I had a friend for many years.  One.  I have many casual acquaintances and waaaay too many relatives, and I am the kind of person that ends up giving the person in line at KMart a hug when we finally say good bye after our eleven minute life changing conversation.  I am also the kind of person that the Mexican handy man on the estate where I worked offered to marry one day when I was complaining about my spouse.  And I have always been able to make friends with people that I work with.  They have attempted to keep those friendships, and "friendships" going when we no longer worked together and seeing one another became less convenient.  But it was always me that dropped the ball, or let the air out of it. 

The one friendship that persisted did so not because of my efforts.  I am phone phobic and I love to read, and would never  bother to call someone just to catch up or make a date.  I just don't want to.  Part of it is time related, part of it, the biggest part of it, is definitely psychological.  But the friend persisted in keeping in touch.  Now we have parted.  She has denied saying things that I have in print (electronically) and she has accused my husband and me of doing things we did not do.  (Also backed up with the printed words she twisted) She claimed that some years back she decided to steer away from certain topics cuz she thought I was going a little wacko.  Well, shit fire.  Everyone knows I am a little wacko.  And the stuff that I have heard from her over the years indicating she is not going a little wacko but has crossed the line into the land of the strangely unbalanced, well, why even bother?   Today I received a letter from her that is so far beyond the pale (whatever the fuck that means) that my mind is spinning and burning and I am venting on this blog to keep myself from taking her letter and annotating each and every bizarre accusation she makes.   I am asking myself, and everyone around me, and they are getting damn sick of it, why did I ever bother?  What did I ever get out of it?  I would get so nervous about meeting her for lunch, I would have to take a Lunesta (maybe two) the night before or else I would toss and turn in a frenzy of anxiety.

I have rewritten my life in fictional works, three or four times.  I cannot actually rewrite my life, and when I consider the bad things that happened, the terrible tragedies that I wish I did not have to live through, the difficulties and mental obstacles and horrible decisions I have had to make, honestly, I look back and think that is just the way it was.  That is why I am here now and things are this way.  And I honestly don't think I would change it.  Well, maybe I would have married that med student, but I think he had a drinking problem.

But this friendship thing?  I twice have moved from towns and left no forwarding address because I did not want some one who wanted to be my fucking friend ( and I don't literally mean fucking. That's a whole other issue. And a way easier one to deal with.) to find me.  And, honest to God, one of them tracked me down.  What is wrong with me, except that my DNA proves my ancestors are from another galaxy, that makes me think friendship is such a HUGE pain in the ass?  I invite your input.  You may feel free to post anonymously and thereby relieve me from having to do anything, besides accepting gratefully,  that might be construed as friendly. But I am courteous, trustworthy, appreciative, kind, generous, unselfish, highly accountable, extremely responsible, fun, witty, (acerbically), literate, intelligent, attractive in an aging sort of way, just unfuckingfriendly. And that wacko thing.

What Are You Going To Do?

This has happened at least six times in the last few months. 

I understand there is a certain type of mind that is kind of like a blender, that stuff just keeps spinning around and if you lift the cover a little, something just sort of flies out and sticks, to the wall, to the table, to your face, to your notebook, to your COMPUTER SCREEN.  I kind of have that sort of mind.  And I know I will read stuff and think, "Oh, I wrote a poem like that when I was 29", and it haunts me for awhile that maybe I read that poem by someone else when I was sixteen and it was just whirling around in there and just happened to fly out at a particular time.

But.   When, TWO DAYS after I post a blog about something that happened that was totally serendipitous, and I introduce the article with a cut and paste definition, complete with all citations, of the history and the definition of the word, I come across a blog, using almost the identical words, only illustrating that a different set of their own personal circumstances seemed, in fact, serendipitous, I think the person should at least say, "I was scrolling blogs and came across this blog, by VIRGINIA LLORCA, and she was talking about serendipity and it made me think as follows. "

There is nothing that can be done about it.  But when I realize I got the idea somewhere, I ALWAYS  say I saw this in the paper or so and so was blogging about this.  I think that keeps stuff polite and in the sunshine and it creeps me out that the Supreme Court has to rule on intellectual property.  But, if a person doesn't feel that upright and good citizen, honorable writer, non Cassie Edwards -ish about the subject, well then let them lay in their beds at night thinking that I am pond scum and no one will ever know they lifted it from my sparkling works, or used my stunning example as a platform.  That's okay with me.  I lay in bed at night and think about what Maisie says to Barney when he is standing there in the kitchen in his blue plaid boxers kissing her and the toddlers are smearing cheerios all over the room.

And I didn't get that idea from some else's blog, but someone with a contract with a major publisher will probably have it on the shelf in six months. 

And, a little motherly advice:   don't all the people in the blogging world KNOW that the tagging process GROUPS blogs, and, sooner rather than later, people in the field you are planting,  or hoeing, or trampling, or reaping, are gonna see the crop?  Ah, well.  In pioneer days, settling the ole West, rustlers figured out how to alter cattle brands.  So, who is stupid?

Baseball as Never Before

My nine year old grandson had his last little league game today.  Now All Star and Play offs.  They are 16 wins two losses for the season.  Since it was the last game, they wanted to let everyone pitch.  He never pitched in a game before.  He can fire the ball but tends to hold back a little.  He struck out the first two batters, three pitches each.  I over heard one of the coaches say, "Why did we use him as a relief pitcher?"  (They used him as designated runner a couple of times cuz he is FAST)  So then he walks a run home but then strikes out the third guy to retire the side and they win another.  I had tears in my eyes.  I am such a wuss about such stuff. And sweet little Delaney asleep in my arms the whole time.  How many times can I say, "Life is sweet"?  I think this is a first for me.

                                    BEN

FLUFF

For anyone wandering in here that doesn't know ME, that might have linked through that Real Estate Agent in New Zealand or that Bicylce Shop in Holland, or that strange Russian website that loves me--I write FLUFF.

I am tired of the strict definition of "Romance" that it must have "conflict" and the "Happy Ending" which is so standardized it is called the HEA.  Happy Ever After. 

I write FLUFF.  They fall in love, fall in  bed, fight about stupid things, have babies, have tragedies, have fun, get scared, care about stuff.  There is no category.  I have even, thinking perhaps facetiously, or "kidding on the square", sent out queries where I say this is FLUFF with no moral lessons, hidden truths, just entertainment.  You'll laugh.  You'll cry.  You'll pee a little.  WTF.  I NEED escapism, but I cannot get my mind around stuff that has no bearing at all on my life.  I have to be able to identify with these people otherwise I do not give a flying fuck about them.  I remember all the cute, funny, flattering, scary, sad, emotional, angry parts of my life.  I don't necessarily want flashbacks, but maybe a little revisionist history, just for fun.  I swear, I read about a person whose friend has a book on the store shelf and asks her what she thinks of it and she says now they don't speak cuz it was a bunch of disconnected scenarios and she couldn't think of anything good to say about it.  Well, don't get your expectations up here.  If you ever talked to me or listened to me, or heard about me, you know exactly what to expect, and if you never heard of me, you will know me as well as you know your sister or your wife or your husband or yourself when you read me.

Coming soon to a Kindle  near you.  Lots and lots of bang for your buck.

Quote of the Day, of a Lifetime Maybe. . .

If not now, then when?

If not me, then who?



From some dude on Ted.  Thank you.

Fictionalizing Life

My father was a police officer in a medium-sized, well-known suburb of Chicago,  Illinois.  What the heck--it was Oak Park.  And for part of his long career he was what he used to call "plain-clothes"  which means he was a detective. 

I love to read police and crime and legal procedurals.  I do not ever even contemplate writing that type of story because I do not want to do anything research laden.  Never did.  Specially in school.  But, yet, in every story I have written so far, some element of law enforcement is present.  And then, my husband was in the Navy,and,for many years,our rather interesting social life centered around that universe. (Did you ever have someone that had a crush on you promise to drive his helicopter over your house at a specific time to say Hi to you?  And actually do it?  Kind of flattering  when you are 23. )  Well, that part of my life, of course colorfully enhanced, also appears in my work.  So, I guess it is a part of 'write what you know' or just that it is such a huge piece of my personal history.  (I LOVE my personal history)  But, never the less, I would never endeavor to do a novel with that sort of basic premise as so many are now doing.  There is even a series about the FDIC and when I inquired what they meant by FDIC they explained it was indeed the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, also a part of the history of my marriage.  But there are too many experts out there waiting to pick apart your work and jump all over any errors you may make.  Even though I clearly state that I make stuff up. 

Still, it is too bad I have such a strong mind set against it cuz  I AM A GREAT DETECTIVE.

C,mon, guys.  You know what I'm talkin' about.