a walk in the city.

Posted on 26 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

Some days, a walk in the city is just what you need…

……“You’re blushing,” he said.
……“I am not,” she insisted.
……“Yes… you are…” He stopped suddenly, almost causing a pile-up of pedestrians behind them on the sidewalk. With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face the shop window beside them. “See… blushing,” he said. She stared into the window but not at her own reflection. She looked at his mirrored face in the glass. And he looked at hers. “You are blushing.”
……She took a deep breath and spun around. The way he smiled at her – the smile she could see in his eyes – melted her insides. He gently pushed the hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Slowly, he leaned closer to her and took her face in his hands. Her heart pounded furiously. She desperately wanted to stop being afraid, but logic screamed inside her head.
……It will never work. We are simply not possible. God, he is so close to me. He smells like coffee and heaven. Why can’t I just let go?
……Already hating herself for it, she let her head win. “I don’t think I’m really blushing,” she said. “It must be the sun or…”
……“Hey?”
……“Yeah?”
……With his mouth barely a breath from hers, he spoke in a whisper. “Shut up.”
……He knew she was scared, but he couldn’t hold back for one more second. His barely-parted lips touched hers gently, as if asking permission for more. When she lifted her hands to his chest and grasped the collar of his jacket, he had his answer. He pulled her head closer, and when her lips parted for a breath, he snuck his tongue between them.
……She heard him moan into her mouth and she needed to hear it again. She took control, teasing his lips with her tongue and her teeth. When he moaned again, deeper than before, she released his jacket and grabbed his face in her hands. They tasted and tangled, every touch mixed with tiny gasps for air. Her fear magically disappeared. Everything disappeared. The entire city around them – car engines and horns, people rushing up and down the sidewalk, the rumble of subway trains below – all of it, gone.
……Hearts racing madly, their mouths finally separated. He still touched her face and she still touched his. He gently leaned his forehead against hers while their panting breaths mingled in the tiny space between them.
……“Oh God,” she whispered, unable to say anything more.
……His thumbs ran slowly over her warm cheeks. “You are definitely blushing.” He pulled her mouth back to his for sweet little kisses.
……“Maybe I believe you now,” she conceded.
……He smiled and touched a finger to her lips. “Was that okay?”
……“Yes… definitely okay.”
……“God, I didn’t think you were ever going to let me kiss you.”
……“But I’ve wanted it the whole time.”
……“Does that mean I can do it again?”
……“Yes…”

© 2015 what sandra thinks
Posted in fiction, romance, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 17 Comments

unhappy endings.

Posted on 20 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

The first time I saw Tangled, I cried at the end. Kind of a lot. Eugene gives the best ever one-slash haircut. Eugene is dead. Eugene is alive! Rapunzel gets her real parents back. I have seen the movie at least fifty times, and I still cry at the end. Because it is beautiful and emotional. And because it is over.

theendnosm

I always feel a touch of disappointment when a book I love ends. I may love a story’s ending, but I don’t love that the story is ending. I immerse myself so deeply I hate to leave. I am never ready. I face precisely the same struggle when I write. I cannot let the characters go. I know them intimately. I love them. I need to write what happens next. I want to stay with them inside their stories forever. My heart breaks when I write the ending… when it’s over.

I need to overcome this. Right? But… after writing madly and bringing my characters where they needed to go, how can I keep from writing what happens in that place? Finally, they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be, doing what they’re supposed to do, feeling how they’re supposed to feel. I want to write all about it… I want to write their futures.

Could this be a good thing? Maybe someday, someone else will get lost in my story, too. Maybe someone will become so invested he/she won’t want it to end. Or maybe it only captivates me that way because I imagined it in the first place. Still, I hope this means I could succeed in reaching a reader through my characters and their world. Maybe it even means the ending is the best part – the part that leaves a reader wanting more.

Of course, lacking enough confidence to expose my words to the world, I may never know how they affect others. Am I too close? Am I too lost in my own head? Is this normal? Does this happen to every writer? I’ve felt myself slip into a depressive state when I’ve come to the end of a story. Granted, I have a predisposition to depression and anxiety, so this isn’t exactly shocking. But usually my downturns manifest from my reality, not my fiction.

Maybe the answer is to write after-the-ending just for myself. Then everybody’s happy. Of course, right now, everybody is just me.

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perfect love stories.

Posted on 19 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

I once read 58 books in 6 weeks. I became a regular at the local used book store, often snatching up 5 or 6 books at a time. Oh, I could have gone to the library instead or (shudder) acquired a kindle, but I have my love of paper to consider. When my overloaded bookshelf begins to take over the rest of the house, I grab my least-likely-to-be-read-again books and re-donate back to the store. The circle of life.

Some may mock my choice of reading material but I have no shame. I adore love stories. The anticipation, the romance, the often ridiculous actions of a character blinded by emotion, and the occasional steamy, deliciously satisfying naughty parts. I love it all. Unrealistic? Idealistic? Overly dramatic? Too good to be true? I don’t care. I might actually prefer all of those things.

I once read an article on writing condemning the use of the word perfect because “nothing real is perfect.” I can think of several real things I believe are perfect — to me. My ideals are likely not the same as yours which makes sense because perfect is subjective. But none of this matters. Even if I believed “nothing real is perfect,” I still would not have a reason to ban perfect from my writing. I write fiction. None of it is real. And that’s the beauty of it.

When I read… when I write… I want a bit of perfect. I seek it out. I crave it. I have plenty of harsh reality in my life… if I wanted more, I would watch the news. When I get lost in a story, reality is precisely what I’m trying to escape. I’ll take realism to the extent that what I read and write usually takes place on earth without magic or unicorns or the ability for humans to float about instead of walk. Beyond that, anything is game — a nasty character, a nice one, a manipulative one, and yes, even a perfect one. Perfect to someone, anyway.

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opening the gates of hell.

Posted on 17 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

I had to do it. I had to send my resume to someone. I hated to do it but I did it anyway.

I have zero desire to ever again do anything on that resume. But what choice did I have? We need the money. Should I have lied about my past experience? That would never work for many reasons, the big one being my poor skills as a liar.

And therein lies a huge part of the problem. I’m a terrible liar. In the repugnant corporate world, you have to be a good liar. You have to be phony. You have to be outgoing and social so you can be popular. My God, it’s high school! I am none of these things. Certainly not outgoing or social, and entirely unable to be phony enough to fake it. I prefer working alone. Just give me something I don’t completely hate doing and a big cup of coffee and leave me to it. I detest pretending to be anything I’m not. It’s painful and exhausting and soul-sucking.

At this moment, I honestly do not know how I’m going to get through this. I am a bit reclusive by nature, and after being out of the corporate nightmare for this long, I am legitimately concerned that going back in could cause me a serious psychological breakdown. In my brain. In my very core. It feels like the most horrible thing on earth right now.

I know my mind loves to magnify things to a ridiculous degree. Maybe it will be okay. Maybe I will get lucky and end up at a company without the exorbitant amount of corporate politics and BS my last job had. Maybe.

But I find this hard to believe. Because I am a terrible liar.

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hoping like a pessimist.

Posted on 16 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

I am currently unemployed and have been for a while. I welcomed my layoff, a result of downsizing during a corporate merger. It came at a time when I was ready for a break and for a chance to be full-time mom for the first time since my last maternity leave ended nearly eight years ago. I have enjoyed my break. Maybe too much.

Oh yes, we saved many, many dollars keeping the kids home with me after school and during summer and other breaks. But those saved dollars don’t equal a salary. I need a job.

Unfortunately, I don’t want one. At least not one for which my resume proves I’m qualified. Qualified. I never did take that writing class.

What kind of job do you want? I don’t know.

What did you want to be when you grew up? I don’t know.

What did you like about your last job? The short commute (until the office relocated) and some of my co-workers.

Okay, to be fair, I enjoyed the research. My mind, contrary to my artistic tendencies, is quite analytical. Math has always been easy for me. When the numbers don’t add up, I like figuring out why. But I want more than that. I need more than that. I want to be proud of my work on a non-mathematical level. And, my God, the thought of another corporate job, with all its politics and and other assorted BS, nauseates me.

I want to write. I want to create. And I’d love to do so from home. And get paid for it. Saving the cost of childcare and having an income? I’m not going to lie… that would be stupendous.

My head knows I have to get out of dreamland, but the rest of me is fighting to stay. I know how bloody unlikely it is that I will ever find anything meeting all my perfect little conditions. I have dreams, not delusions.

Optimism is not in my wheelhouse. Hope is, but optimism… not so much. My brain is already telling me I will take the corporate route once more, out of necessity. At the very least, I hope to land at a company with a mission I believe in. I need to have some level of passion for what I do or I’ll fall right back into the same soul-sucking environment I was thrilled to escape. I may have to get that passion from what I do outside an office. But it would be exhilarating to feel that everywhere – at home, at work, and everywhere in between.

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writing, the early years.

Posted on 15 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

Words. And paper. I love them both.

I have been writing since I was a child. In my teenage years, the words morphed into angst-ridden stories and poems of love and loneliness. At 18, I left for college, aimless in every way except geographically. I chose a school but I never chose a life. What do you want to be when you grow up?

I kept journals while away at school. Autobiographical, usually, but always with a bit of wishes and dreams woven in. Maybe I thought writing my every thought would miraculously give me the answer. What do you want to be when you grow up?

I loved writing. I loved creating beautiful things, even beautifully sad things. I thought I finally figured it out. Writing wasn’t the path to my destination. It was the destination. The next time I entered my course selections, I went for it. Creative Writing – Fiction I. But I could not imagine I’d get into the class since it was one of the most popular… and I wasn’t even an English major.

But I got in.

On the first day, I walked into that class, sat down, looked around the room and anxiously waited. The professor walked in and began giving a brief summary of the course. And I totally freaked out. What did I get myself into? I’m not a ‘real’ writer. I have no idea what I’m doing. No one in this room looks panicked. Except me. This is not going to end well.

After landing a coveted spot in one of the most popular classes (if not the most popular), I dropped it. Clearly, high school angst was alive and well and living in my brain. I just knew I could not possibly be as prepared for that class as every other student in that room. Of course, to this day, I have no idea how accurate (or inaccurate) my assessment was. What was clear, though, was my glaring lack of confidence.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I never stopped writing, but I never took that class. I spent four years carving blocks and running them through the giant, somehow comforting, printing press and producing print after print. Some were quite beautiful.

My college days ended years ago (more years than I care to acknowledge). But I still want to know why I had confidence to try new art forms, but I could not take that writing class. I will never know.

So… What do you want to be when you grow up? I never had an answer. I still don’t.

©2015 whatsandrathinks

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finally.

Posted on 14 September 2015 by what sandra thinks

I remember the first time I shared my fiction writing with anyone. Years ago… on an online forum where I could maintain anonymity. I thought my writing was good, but I had never gotten a second opinion and I didn’t completely trust my own.

The response was positive and overwhelming. I think I always knew I had imagination and talent, but I never had confidence. I don’t think I ever truly believed I was really good. So I went dark again. I still wrote… it would come in waves… but I didn’t share. Maybe I was just writing for me.

Writing is escapism. I have written what could likely turn into no fewer than five novels, possibly as many as seven. Yet most of them are not truly finished. I am inside those stories, in an imaginary life I created. I love my world. I never want to leave it and I never want to let my characters go. The ending is the hardest part.

Recently, I wrote something deeply personal to share, anonymously again, with a group of forum readers. (And maybe someday I will share that here.) Something happened after I spontaneously posted my personal struggle. Someone responded, to the matter at hand, yes, but also to my writing. She was impressed enough to suggest that I should be writing for others. A few days later, another reader intimated the same thing. The day after that, a very kind gentleman reader told me I had ‘obvious abilities‘ and I should clearly be writing… for myself… for others… for life.

His sentiment was spot on. I need to write for life. I couldn’t live without it. So here I am. Writing. Finally.

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