Heading to the pool….
How is it still fascinating to people that women can write fiction? Action, suspense, thriller, crime, dark comedy, etc. are not exclusive to cockbearers. In fact, the capacity to tell stories or write prose has nothing to do with genitals! And yet here we are, 2014, still discriminating against writers because of their sex. I know it’s inherent, it’s conditioned, it’s assumed decorum, to marvel over a woman’s achievements in a predominantly male field, but just because it’s your habit doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.
In recent correspondence, an emailed compliment included the phrase “…for a woman…”, which caused me immediate stomach pain. I fake-appreciated the adoration from an older man, who, as he paid for my book said, “So you’re the authoress!” in a tone really meant to express, “So you’re my hot Latina nanny!” Ay yay yay…
Then there’s the guy who’s gotten all his socialization cues from porn. Somehow the relay of my business card to the gent turns into a, “So what’s up?” followed by a wink and an overt head nod towards his car. I use this card for promotion, not prostitution. I’m glad the new prints only have the website and my business email address…can’t imagine how many “U up” texts I’d receive had I left my number on there.
And women…SISTERS…you are really bad at helping promote your own! Women can be criminals without having some gruesome, sex-related trauma catapult their character forward. Sheesh, the amount of victimhood women look for in their anti-heroes. Aren’t you sick of the “Good Girl Gone Wrong” arc? I sure am! You were looking for someone to cry herself to sleep every night after a day’s work? Sorry, try the next aisle, you’ll find that bullshit between Melissa Bank and E.L. James.
Yeah, I look fantastic in nothing but knee-high boots. You’re right, I do have a pretty mouth. But don’t let the tits and ass distract you, I also write great fiction.
With an exhale he resigned to his fate, not in the matter of settling, not in the matter of right-for-right-now, but knowing, ever so clearly, ever so authentically, that she, the woman sitting two seats to his left, is The One.
That they met amongst friends was a save; he could inquire about her, inconspicuously, and find more than one person who could, in real time, vouchsafe for her availability.
Availability. Because all this time, he had availed himself, but never found the right fit. The right arm to link around his, in the present, in public, to proclaim, this is real. A big man, an athlete, so society deemed him only qualified for the vapid and unrestrained, the daddy worshippers, the gold diggers. It became not just tiresome, but depressing.
As cliche as it is to meet someone at a wedding, it feels right, even rewarding. Her happiness for the couple is genuine, and she is void of that defeatist burn the other women are emanating. She speaks softly but laughs loudly, and that combination from such a tiny woman is strangely desirable. Single? Yes. Kids? No. Dating? No time. But then she blurts out, “Would you like a girlfriend?” followed by a quick reddening of her throat. How adorable!
The person to his right lifts from his seat, and she immediately takes it. “I can’t get over how good you look in that blue,” she delivers with sincerity, eyes dancing with fascination. She looks as if she wants to confess something, but holds back.
He nods to himself, then, in an ever so faint declaration, says, “You have my heart.” He looks down to her and sees her smiling widely.
She nods, “Okay.”
Her small, naked arm finds the keyhole his arm makes against the table.
Then I wake up.
This was one of those rare, two-parter dreams, where one segment played out a night ago, then finished two mornings later. And the guy, Samuel, looks just like David Gandy, but that might be because I was reading GQ magazine.
If you’re out there, Sam, looking like David Gandy is a plus, but your authentic self is way more desirable. Here’s hopin’!
Good times in Gulfport last night.
Missed your chance to chill with me? Working on some venues for May! ¡No te precupas!
Book promo still happening, get yours straight from me for only ten duckets!
There is nobility in the struggle, you don’t have to win.
Another urgent email containing a list of companies desperate for me to apply, as per the Subject line. You want me? You want me that bad? Fine. Let’s see what you got…
Oh. Director of Blah Blah Blah for a sports agency. Need to be a “winner” and able to engage athletes, their managers and entourage. Next!
Creative Content Manager for a medical group. Should be able to conduct research (yes) write technical papers (ooh) critique drafts for academic journal submission (ooh yes) analyze policies regarding the pharmaceutical industry (ohh baby) manage blog and email content (ooh right there) and work alone or with minimal supervision. Yeah Daddy! Don’t stop!!
Requirements: PhD. Waa waa waaaaa
Now here’s a winner: Contract Writer for a market research group. Satellite position; that means, I can work naked during the summer months! Research trends, behaviors, motivators for a given sub-population. Shit. I’m a fiction writer; I do that all the time! Work with editorial staff, manage other writers? Pffssshhhttpppptttthhhttttttt I got this.
“Upload resume.” Really??
When I double clicked on the closest thing to a current resume in my Old Life Directory, my system prompted me with, “What application do you want to open this file with?” It’s THAT old!
Check this snapshot out…
Slow down, Superstar! Did I *actually* use this resume content? Did the last gig *actually* hire me using this douchebaggery?? Oh my living gawd, am I an egotistical asshole. Well, was. Well, maybe. I dunno.
Not an egotistical asshole. Just an asshole.
I love my reinvention as a creative writer. I love that, if I’m forced to assign a title, it is “Published Author.” I also love that I have three years’ documented experience as a creative artist so I can pursue “Editor” and “Writer” and “Content Manager” contracts without hyperventilating.
But yes, I need a little left brain love every once in a while. I do this, troll for research/analysis gigs, pretty often, and if you need someone who’s into that, baby, holla at me, because I love turning raw data into salient strategies. Statistics, market trends, matrix builds, primary data collection…? Ooh…I just felt a chill run up my spine! It’s a special kind of Strange I am totally into.
The rest of the dusty resume was an enjoyable laugh. Some highlights:
I wore construction boots. I remember the division manager had to special order my steel toe boots because of all the field personnel, I was the only specialist of the female persuasion, so they didn’t have my size in stock. I wore them whenever I was called off site to wherever the computer-mounted trucks were stationed, proudly rocking pink camouflage boot laces to compliment my fluorescent vest.
I froze my ass off in the name of science. On the way to the Northern Tier of Pennsylvania to conduct qualitative data collection, I got caught on the summit of one of the many mountains of the Appalachian Range. A commercial truck had jackknifed at the foot of the mountain, and, of course, the road I was on was the only passage from one side of the mountain to the next. It was the longest, most prayerful two hours of my life.
I was a shorter, fatter Remy Danton. As the DOC representative at the State Building, I essentially spent all day lobbying House members to support our mandatory campaign in their respective districts. Power walking in heels was a norm, as well as delivering the solid, two pump, “Wanna wrassle?” handshake. To this day, people are taken aback when my wee hand comes out and delivers them a lightening bolt!
Reflecting on my purpose in life/living in the moment/what’s the next big thing, and Shel’s poem expertly stitches it together.
Originally posted on Renard Moreau Presents:
Dave McGunn was a surfin’ bum, half–crazed by the blazin’ sun.
From Waikiki to the Bering Sea, he rode ’em one by one.
Now he hung offshore ’bout a mile or more, out where the dolphins played,
And his wild eyes gleamed as he schemed and dreamed
To ride the perfect wave.
Oh, ride the perfect wave, Dave, ride the perfect wave.
If you wait it out and you don’t sell out, you may ride
The perfect wave.
He crouched in the spray and he waited all day till the sun gave way to the moon,
And his legs grew cold and he grew old and wrinkled like a prune.
And the years rolled by and the surf broke high and the 40–foot breakers sprayed.
But he sneered at ’em all, sayin’, ‘Too damn small; I’m waitin’
For the perfect wave.’
He was sleepin’ on his board when he woke…
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“So you got a girlfriend?”
“Why have a girlfriend?”
“So you don’t live alone.”
“I live alone.”
Ambitious. But then again, they all are.
“Ech,” I shrug, ” People will talk. This town? They all up in everyone’s business.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, “I don’t live here.”
We high five.
Moments later, he returns to my cafe table holding a piece of paper, which is ceremoniously placed beside my wine glass before he struts off. I lift it and observe a phone number, written in his own hand, circled, with his actual name under it. I’ve been calling him something else for over a year! I laugh into my glass while thinking, I was 17 when he was born.
Ardent. Overconfident. Of the Generation of the Oversharers.