And now for something totally different...

"But what is to become of me now that you've had your sport and grown tired?"

"Your fate is of your concern and yours alone."

"And the child?" She stops, her hand resting of its own accord on the burgeoning belly, entreating him to stay.

"You must do as you see fit. A child was never meant to result." He turns to the door, his hand on the heavy door knob.

"Your heir..." She begins again.

He interrupts, fury shading the words, blackening his face as he speaks. "I have my heir! Just as I have a wedded wife or have you forgotten? I care naught for the babe you carry, for all your pretty words and honeyed promises the seed that begot it could have come from many but me."

She shrinks back, her face a mask of humility while her mind races. She had been so certain that she had only to fall with child and he would stay. And should she bear a boy, find a way to acknowledge him, and her, in time.

He is fastening his coat as she follows him into the yard. The snow that began to drift from the menacing clouds earlier in the day when he arrived had grown into a heavy lace curtain covering the ground, burying all traces of his footsteps.

She looks up at the slate grey sky and at the bare branches extending their cold forlorn limbs in shaking supplication for a comforting blanket of snow. He is pulling on the thick leather gloves and reaching for the reigns. She notes that he did not ride Blackwell, his favorite, today. This horse is grey with a flowing white mane and a plain nondescript saddle. Less noticeable, less likely to be remembered, a nameless creature from his vast stables.

Already he's distancing himself from me, she thinks and suddenly knows that he will not return. He came to make clear that all between them is over, to remind her of her place and, she thinks, of his.

Her hand drifts again to her belly, to the straining apron and caresses the outlines of the heavy dressmaker's shears. The shears she dropped in its folds in haste hours ago when she sprang up from her sewing upon hearing the horse's hooves on the cobblestones. Her fingers close and tighten on the ornate handles as her hand reenters the snowy gloom, scarcely visible in the rapidly descending twilight.

He turns to the horse, hand on the saddle, one foot already in stirrup. He would leave without a farewell. The warm glow spilling from the house illuminates the bulky calfskin pouch on his waist and without hesitation she steps forward, arms raised as if for a hug before the shears sink into the doughy softness of his neck.

The child will be his heir after all.

What if...?

What if ... ?

What if I had never met J?

What if I had never had Katie?

What if I had not terminated my first pregnancy?

What if I had not cared so much about getting married?

What if I had asked questions about what I want earlier?

What if I had gone on to Law School?

What if I had not gained all that weight as a teenager?

What if I had not lost every shred of self-confidence?

So many possible turning points but impossible to predict which would have led to a different life. Perhaps all. Perhaps none. Perhaps no matter what choices I made I would have ended up in the same place I am now.

But if that were true, then why make choices at all? Because it can't be true? Because not making a choice is also making a choice?

Why ask 'what ifs' about the past? So as not to repeat it? But we never repeat the past anyway. Even if we make the same mistakes we've made time and time again, each mistake results in a different set of consequences so are the mistakes the same? What if the next time you make the same mistake it turns into the best thing you've ever done? Is it still a mistake?

Why ask 'what ifs' about the future? Is there a finite number of 'what ifs'? Can you imagine all of them? Is it a bit like imagining every possible catastrophe that can befall your loved ones and grasp the irrational belief that if you imagine it all in your mind it won't happen in real life?

If you could ask every possible 'what if' and imagine every possible set of consequences for each, would you be any better equipped to make a decision? Would you know what to do or would you discover that you've spent hours and days and years asking questions without any hope of finding answers instead of taking the plunge?

Everything happens... not for a reason, not by design, not even through any predetermined actions on our parts. Everything happens and if you can accept that, then you can move on and face each day as what it is - a brand new day that can bring everything.

You can't force a square peg into a round hole...

I've always wondered about that, actually.

I remember hearing that phrase as a child and of course, taking it literally. I spent hours, or at least what felt like hours, puzzling over it. I didn't really have handy holes for experiments but I did have building blocks and I remember sitting on the floor of the room I shared with my younger brother, holding one of those square blocks, turning it over and over in my hands and trying to figure out why it wouldn't fit into a round hole. My thought being, if the hole was big enough to fit around the four corners, why can't it be done?

I don't think I ever resolved the conundrum then and I was too embarrassed by my inability to understand it to ask someone for an explanation. Years have passed and I haven't thought about that phrase until it suddenly popped into my head tonight.

I'm having trouble falling asleep and anyone who knows me will know just how unlike me that is. I lied in bed until I just couldn't take it anymore and then I got up, curled up on the couch and just as I was turning on the TV to whatever inanity happens to be on around midnight on a Friday night, it was as if someone whispered in my ear, "You can't force a square peg into a round hole".

If I were inclined to flights of fancy (which I often am), I would say that it was my subconscious offering an explanation for my frustration and stress. But at what point does having expectations and have them go unfulfilled morphs into trying to force something into a place it was never meant to go?

I never found the answer to the original puzzle and now I find myself in exactly the same situation... twirling the pieces in my hands and with no one to ask for answers.

Music

Music frequently helps me concentrate. I have playlists for reading and for writing and even for work. When I'm really engrossed in a task, the music becomes part of the background, gently sliding in and out of my conscience; a trusted friend keeping me company.

But occasionally the synthesis just doesn't happen. The rhythm is all wrong or the songs come up in an unexpected order, jarring me in all the wrong places. Then I find myself becoming more and more irritated and the more attention I pay to the discords the worse it gets. I'll tut and drum my fingers and try to force my thoughts to cooperate, but the effort is wasted. The words don't come, reading won't jell, mistakes will hide in the half-completed e-mails.

Usually at this point I'll give up with a final snort of anger and frustration. I've never been very good at persevering. When everything comes easily or at least feels like it does, you don't learn to push through the resistance. It's too easy to just give up and flounce off in a fit of pique, blaming someone or something else for things not going right.

But not today... no, today I was determined to write something, even if it's just a couple of paragraphs on why I'm not writing and here it is. You've just read it. The thoughts are still not jelling and the music is still all wrong and there's someone with a hyena laugh a table away and yet, I'm going to harness my stubbornness and keep writing.

Maybe it will be another blog post, maybe a story, maybe a sketch that no one will ever see, but I will keep writing until I'm sure that I'm stopping because I've found something better to do and not because I'm just being lazy or unmotivated.

Evening of unladylike pursuits

As I'm writing this, I'm drunk. Not "falling down the stairs, wake up puking next to a strange guy the next day" kind of drunk, but drunk for my standards. My fingers feel unwieldy and unpleasantly uncooperative and my smile is involuntary, spreading across my face whether I want to be grinning or not. I've spent the last couple of hours at John Harvard's and as the evening's goal was to get drunk, I can testify to having achieved it quite admirably.

I downed the first G&T as quickly as I could manage and on a fairly empty stomach, thereby ensuring that I'll get the mellow buzz as soon as possible. Still, it didn't come fast enough and so after some consideration I ordered a second one, all the while knowing that while one might not be enough, the second will almost certainly put me over the edge of comfortably buzzed and smack into the "don't walk without assistance" territory.

Still, I needed to disconnect my brain and this was the only certain way I know to do that. That or hypnosis and I'm crap at hypnosis. Even worse than I am at being a responsible drunk. Isn't a "responsible drunk" an oxymoron?

So, two glasses of G&T, made with the wonderfully smooth Hendrick's Gin, later and an ice cream sundae with all the trimmings, I was mellow to the point of no return. It would have been a good time to leave and let someone else occupy my seat at the bar except that I was quite literally unable to stand up. Staggering is one thing, not being able to tell the difference between the floor and the ceiling is a bit more of a problem, especially out in public.

Remaining at the bar appeared to be the only option and so I stayed put, perched somewhat precariously on the all too tall stool, rereading portion of the Story of O. Perhaps not a book to read in public at a bar as one "concerned" citizen remarked, a scant moment before asking whether it would be too presumptuous to ask me to read aloud. I demurred, explaining that slurring such beautiful language would be a sacrilege. For a moment, it seemed like he would press his luck but the steadying influence of his more reserved and clearly more sober friend won over and he left me and my book in peace.

After another half an hour I felt brave enough to attempt standing up and stumbling over to the door. Thankfully I was wearing my usual high heels rather than sneakers. No way I would have been able to keep my balance otherwise. As far as sneakers, or any other type of flat shoes for that matter, are concerned, I'm definitely still in training. Five inch heels are another matter though and so I made my way safely out into the cool evening air.

Out the door and into the nearby Michael's arts and crafts store. Isle after isle of craft supplies and not a thimble in sight. Yes, I was looking for thimbles. Finally, with the assistance of a surly girl whose goals in life clearly did not include helping inebriated customers, I did locate two varieties of thimbles. Armed with my purchase, I slowly and carefully made my way to the other side of the shopping center to the safe haven of the Barnes & Noble bookstore. Whereupon, armed with much needed caffeine, I settled down to my laptop and the writing of these random ramblings.

Evening's goals accomplished; gently pickled brain and all.

Tension

I hate the feeling of undefined tension. It's the sensation of a spring being wound tighter and tighter except that you can't identify the force that's slowly closing the spirals. Whenever I feel this tension I jump to try and identify it.

I know it's pointless, but still I try. And then it turns into a game of "pin the tail on the donkey".

Is it work? No, not quite. Is it my child? No, well, maybe. Is it J? Could be. Is it stress over money? Maybe, but maybe not.

There's no clear source and there's no obvious cure and that just drives me up the wall.

I can't stand the vagueness of this threat to my peace of mind and the more I stress over it, the tighter the spring coils. At times I wish it would just snap and spill the stress evenly over all the little messes of my life. At least that way I could concentrate on cleaning things up and maintain the illusion that I'm in control rather than having my insides tugged by forces that are beyond my grasp.

Being a control freak has its price.

An alphabet story

It all started when Carmen's cup fell to the kitchen floor and instead of shattering into a million jagged pieces, rolled under the beat-up leather couch. Just my luck, she thought. Kneeling down, she reached under the couch, shuddering as her fingers brushed by old bits of cobweb. Lemony scent of the floor washing liquid assaulted her nostrils as she bent her face down to the floor, trying to see into the gloomy darkness. Marmalade, her ginger tabby, walked by, swishing his tail and feigning indifference to her frantic grappling.

"Nearly there," she muttered, as her fingers seized the rounded edge of the cup's lip.

"Ouch!" Panting, she withdrew her hand, staring at it in disbelief. Queue of tiny ruby droplets issued forth from a puncture that looked suspiciously like a bite.

"Rats," she moaned, not in the least bit amused by the unwitting pun. Stifling the urge to strangle Marmalade, who was after all a cat and should have taken care of a critter problem before it manifested itself in her kitchen, she rushed over to the sink. Tepid stream of lukewarm water managed to stop the bleeding though it did nothing for her irritation.

"Uggh," she growled, rooting in the medicine cupboard for a band-aid and throwing Marmalade a baleful look. "Very nice, Marmalade. What a fine hunter you are. X-ray vision when it comes to ferreting out the shopping bag with sausages in it, but not rats? You think hunting is beneath you? Zealous protector of your owner's house, you are..."

As tirades go, Marmalade was apparently not terribly impressed with this one. Bending his head, he leisurely lifted one leg and lovingly licked the silky fur.

Carmen seethed. Dark mutterings about punishment and lack of dinner brought Marmalade's ablutions to a halt. Ears cocked, he glanced at Carmen, then jumped up on the counter, trotting over to where she was still nursing the bitten finger. Fluffing his tail, Marmalade rubbed against Carmen's bare arm, purring until tension left her and she sighed, knowing she'll never be able to keep a grudge. Grinning, she tickled him under the chin, eliciting further contented purrs.

Household peace was once again restored; rats and errant cups notwithstanding.

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Hint: the title refers to the pattern made by the first letter of each sentence.

A snippet

The light is green and cars stream past, jostling for space, angrily posturing at each other to get out of the way. Just one step and it's all over. A single step. Off the sidewalk and into the rushing stream of traffic. Before the brain can register the solid impact and rending of flesh, it's finished.
Just one step.

How many steps does one take in a lifetime? Unimportant, meaningless steps; measuring distance, measuring time. Just one step. Half a foot down off the sidewalk and another foot or so into the street.

The light changes and the cars slow down. They are a restless pack of wolves; biding their time, barely restrained, straining at the invisible barrier. They emit soft, menacing growls, breathless in the frustration of halting in their quest. Seconds tick by and suddenly the light is green again and they're off. The flow resumes, rushing past, extending an invitation to join in the maniacal dance, if only for a moment before the soothing swish of tires stops in a horrifying screech of rubber against the road.

Pictures and words

I like pictures... You might have drawn that conclusion all by yourself if you noticed that every single post has an image accompanying it. Occasionally I'll find an image and then write a post to fit it, but more often than not, I'll write something and leave looking for a suitable image as a final, sweet task. Sometimes this will take longer than writing the actual blog entry. I will sift through dozens and dozens of images, opening the ones I like in individual tabs in my browser, going back and forth until I find one I like. And yet... I almost never feel satisfied with the one I chose.

Just as I'm never completely satisfied with the words I choose when I write. If I don't stop myself, I will edit and polish and edit again everything I've ever written. Sometimes, a phrase or a sentence will pour out of my fingers, perfectly shaped and impeccably complete. I will stare at it, trying to discern flaws, trying to find something to grab on to, something to change. Eventually, I'll tire and grudgingly allow it to remain.

But more often than not, the sentence is not perfect. And then it becomes an endless puzzle, with pieces that can be rearranged and changed and made to fit together. I spend so much more time editing than writing. I'll swap words, change the tense, change the focus of the sentence, play with verbs, tease the adjectives. I'm doing it now as I'm writing this entry. There's a reason why the Space and the Backspace on my keyboard have shiny, bald spots on them. I just can't let it go. How does one settle on a single word when there are so many to choose from?

I don't do well with having choices. Too many choices and I get lost and stressed. Too many images, too many words, too much freedom. I need walls and boundaries and confining circumstances. I need constraints and then I can channel all my energy at breaking them down. Give me all the freedom in the world and I fall apart, mired in confusion.

Tell me to write on the most boring and limiting topic and I'll jump at the challenge, infusing even the dullest concept with humor or passion or caustic sarcasm. But tell me to write whatever I want on any subject and I'll end as I often begin, with a blank page.

Books...

Books, books, books... Almost always fiction, but even in that narrowly segregated world there is so much variety. Historical fiction, contemporary, chick lit, drama, 'Oprah book club' drivel, mystery, horror, cloyingly sweet romance, and everything in-between. Humorous, heart-wrenchingly sad, breathtakingly engaging, inane, boring, clumsy, exquisitely crafted.

Every time I walk into a book store I have to suppress the quickening breath of excitement. It never dulls, that feeling of stumbling into a cave of treasures. And yet, a truer comparison would be that of walking through a flea market - stalls filled with garishly worthless objects that you have to sieve through in order to maybe, maybe stumble across one real treasure.

Is there any worse disappointment than investing your hopes and time into reading a book that never quite lives up to the potential you thought you saw in it? It happens to me more often than I like to admit, but I never get used to it. When I have time, I'll browse and collect five, six, seven books at a time. I never read the first page. Instead, I'll read the description and ignore other people's comments. Then, I'll open a page at random, usually near the middle and start reading. One paragraph, two. I'll do it with all the books in the stack, slowly dividing them into "yes", "no", and "maybe" piles. When I buy the book and read it, I'll come to the already familiar passage in the middle of the book, and always I'll experience a vertiginous sense of deja vu even though in the back of my mind I know I should expect it.

It's rare that I leave the book store without at least one new find. I'll go through multiple piles of books, but if I have time, I'll keep sifting until I find at least one to walk out of the store with me. But even more disappointing than not finding anything are the times when having been seduced by a sentence or a word or a thread of a story, I'll choose the book and, upon reading it, discover that the seduction was fleeting and the rest of the book is as mundane as the lives many of us are escaping when we read.

It is rare that I'll give up on a book I chose myself. I'll buy a book for the language even if the topic doesn't interest me, but so often I've regretted buying books for the topic when I knew, deep inside, that the language was awkward. I'll admit it, I like a pretty turn of phrase and sentences that have a rhythm to them, be it gentle or striding. I like language that flows and carries the story but so often I've found a good story spoiled as it fights its way through jumbled up words and broken snippets.

I've read books that have made me cry on and off for hours as I've turned the pages and books that made my heart melt with love and joy. I've read books that made me want to scream with frustration and books that left me feeling as if I need to wash my hands after finishing them. I've read books I couldn't wait to finish and fling away and books I couldn't wait to pick up again and read over and over.

I love words and stories and books... and in that deep, abiding love lies the secret to why I've never seriously tried writing and getting published. I know what it's like to pick up a book, fight through dozens and maybe hundreds of pages to like it and ultimately close the last page and be disappointed. I know what it's like to open a book and get lost in its world to the point where when the real world intrudes, your impulse is to push it away and retreat back into the crisp white pages. I know the feeling of the unread pages melting away as the book speeds to its end and wanting to know how the story concludes and yet yearning for it to never end.

And so to anyone who has the temerity to ask, I say... I will not write for a wider audience because I love words and stories and books.