Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Saturday, June 6, 2015

Random Scenes: I Want Her


I Want Her
by 
Su-sieee! Mac 

"Mom, you're not going to ride the back roads, are you?"

"Hmmm," the grey-haired woman said.

"Mom!" said her son on the phone. "It's dangerous riding alone out there. Remember last year when that runner died...."

"Son, you're channeling your grandmother." She laughed. "I'll be fine. I'm not riding anywhere new. And, I've got the phone."

"Mom, please just ride around your neighborhood."


I can feel her coming.

Leave it alone. Mike's already married.

She's the one I want.



The woman pedaled along the shoulder of the two-lane highway. She almost heeded her son's fears. Silly. Nothing happened at all to her on the back roads. But, the highway was getting her nervous. She was riding later than usual, which meant more cars on the highway as she headed homeward. Were the big rigs speeding by faster than usual? She scooted further to the right.

She's almost here.

Leave it alone. Mike's happy. Be happy for him.

She's perfect. I want her.



She neared the spot where Judy Lynn died in a car crash. The poor woman, she thought, going through the windshield.  She shuddered. Judy Lynn didn't have a chance.

A big rig flashed by her, pulling her into its slipstream. She braked. Her bike spun out of control. Oh no!

Yes!


She opened her eyes. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital, Mom," said her son.

"Where's Mike?"

"Who?" asked her son.

"Who are you?" asked Judy Lynn.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Random Scenes: Girl Cousins


Setting: On a late Spring Friday afternoon, two 12-year old cousins are standing on the BART train platform in El Cerrito, a small city across the bay from San Francisco. 

 “The pony-tail lady in jeans and pink sweater," I said to my cousin who was a few months older than me. Whenever we’re in a public place, Sydney and I like to play a game of guessing what people are.

“A dancer. Maybe a ballerina,” Twelve-year old Sydney said, gazing down the BART train platform.

"See the old man with the silver cane behind her."

“A retired guy from the government.”

“The girl in overalls with a brown leather backpack.”

 “Easy. College student, probably UC Berkeley." Sydney lowered her voice and said, "I've got one for you, Jeannie. The tall guy with the bald head and the blond ponytail."

“Where?”

“Behind you.”

I squatted down and pretended to tie my shoe as I glanced at the man wearing a grayish-green raincoat, the belt hanging to the ground. He reminded me of characters in the spy movies my brothers like to watch.

 “A double agent of course,” I said, nearly whispering.

Sydney nodded, looking over at him. I took another peek. He was staring at us. Giggling, we turned quickly around.

 “Ssssh,” I said. “He’ll think we’re talking bout him.”

“We are,” Sydney said between giggles.

I turned again. He was still staring at us. It made me nervous. But I never let a stare get the better of me. I stared back.

“Cool, Jeannie. You made him look away,”  said Sydney.

I shrugged. It was nothing. I was the champion starer in my class. I needed some notoriety other than being the shortest kid in class.

 “You pick one,” said Sydney.

"Here comes the train," I said. "Come on, let's get on the first car."

In seconds, the train to San Francisco came to a halt. We were spending the weekend with Sydney's mom who says she's an artist. But, I know better. I'm certain she's a spy.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Random Scenes: Don't Slam the Door!


Don't Slam the Door!
by Su-sieee! Mac
S-L-A-M !!
 

“ALESSA!”
 

“I’m sorry, Ma,” said the tiny young girl. “I forgot.”
 

“One of these days, Alessa, something terribly awful will happen when you slam that door,” said her mom.
 

“Yes, Mom,” Alessa said, thinking that was just too silly of an idea. Still, it did frighten Alessa a little and she stopped slamming the door. 

Then, one day she forgot.

S-L-A-M !!

The building shook.

Things tumbled off the shelves and walls.

The trees and the houses rocked and rolled.


The bridges collapsed.

The roads crumbled.

The cities fell apart.


The water in the bay shook. 

The mountain tops blew off.
 

All over the world, the crusts moved and shook and sunk and rose.

The earth spun off its wobble.


It bumped into the moon, next into Mars, and then into Jupiter.

Earth bounced back towards the sun, sucking up all the other planets of the solar system.

The sun and all the planets exploded and swirled into a swirl, swirling, swirling, swirling and collapsing into a black hole.

Everything was pitch black. Silent.

Please, please, please.

Don’t slam the door.


Monday, May 18, 2015

Random Scenes: A Surprise Visit


Ago  (Ah-go) watched the water slowly run towards the end of the bittermelon row. When he was finished watering all the rows, maybe he would drive to the Senior Center for lunch. The food was okay. The best part was talking with his friends.

Someone was bound to ask him about Song. "Have you heard from her?" "Where is she now?" Although it has been weeks since she left,  a few of his compadres still shook their heads in disbelief that his single daughter was criss-crossing the United States in her small yellow car. Young, unmarried women don't do that, according to them. Not  in the Philippines. Not even in the United States. "Times are different," one friend, usually Danny or Pablo, said. "Song is tough and level-headed. She can handle trouble."

Level-headed, yes, thought Ago, pulling up a weed between the vegetable rows. Tough? Her mother, the Old Lady, thought Song was tough because she talked back. He didn't see it that way. Song defended her actions. Maybe that was a sign of toughness. He preferred to not think any harm would come to his daughter on her trip. Ago moved the water hose to the last row.

At the beginning of May, Song came home for a visit from college. "I'm going to drive across the country with a girlfriend when school is over," she announced. "We're going to New York where her family lives. Be back sometime in July."

Ago and the Old Lady did not want her to go, but they had no say about it. Song was 20 years old. Her life was already hers. She was living on her own in San Francisco, working while going to school. She had shown herself capable of taking long drives by herself to see her friends in Southern California. And, last year, he saw for himself how she took care of things when the two of them traveled to his home town in the Philippines.

Still, Ago worried about his daughter, hoping the best for her every moment. Maybe he would skip the Senior Center today.

"Hello! Hello! Daddy are you out here?"

Ago stood.  Could he believe his eyes? He ran towards the house, calling, "Song, is that you? Are you home now?"
--------------
Hello Dear Readers,

I'm trying something new -- drafting very short shorts of fiction, personal memoirs, or a mixture of both. All random stuff until something shows itself, if it does. I'm not sure if it'll be a regular feature. For now, let's just see what happens. 

Have a wonderful day,
Su-sieee! Mac


Saturday, May 16, 2015

Another Rambling Saturday


The greatest thing that happened this past week was Rainy Thursday. It rained throughout the day and night. And, at one point, it came down in buckets. Of course, I had to go outside and take photos. I got totally drenched, and loved every huge raindrop that my tee-shirt absorbed.

The Mama loved the rain, too. She was outside when the rain started, and decided to go hang out in the shed as the sky kept crying. On this coming Wednesday's post, I'll share what she did during the rain.

Writing Travel Bits
Lately, I've been writing descriptions about local places for Mapquest. Once upon a time, I thought I wanted to be a travel writer, but other things came along to drop that thought in the wish bucket. Writing these occasional short pieces is fulfilling that dream. Here are a few of the places I've written about so far: Pinnacles National Park, National Steinbeck Center, San Benito County Historical Park, and the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Joseph.

A rock climber at the Pinnacles National Park

Vanna White
On most week nights, we watch The Wheel of Fortune with the Mama. Every time Vanna White walks to the puzzle board, I wonder the same thing. How much does Vanna White make? After years of asking that question, I finally remembered last night and did a Google search. I now wish I had not. It truly is better to be ignorant about some things.

How much do you think she earns touching the lit-up squares so that the letters appear?

Eight million dollars a year! So says Celebrity Net Worth.com.

Yeah, I know. I'm going to cheer myself right now by baking lemon zucchini bread, with poppy seeds, if I can find them.



Tuesday, March 24, 2015

John Steinbeck Said . . .


The Husband and I had a wonderful time wandering about on our monthly 23rd date. We saw quite a lot of amazing and interesting stuff and met some very nice people during  our travels.  One of our stops was the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas. If you're into John Steinbeck, you'd like this museum. It's all about Steinbeck and his works.

There was so much for me to see, to read, and to absorb as I went from exhibit to the next. Reading the honesty and wonder in Steinbeck's words was like breathing in oxygen.


Sunday, March 22, 2015

Writing Under the Influence


The following was written yesterday afternoon (and edited much later) . . .
 
This is a first for me. Sipping a beer as I tippy-tap out words on the keyboard.

This, I'm having -- the beer -- right after drinking a small (which in olden times would've been medium) cup of wonderful coffee. I drink coffee now and then, alas. I like the taste of coffee, as well as the thinking that evolves with the caffeine, but this old body of mine can no longer handle daily consumption of the stuff.  Pobrecita. See, even the little Spanish I know gets evoked in the brain cells.

Lately, my morning brew is a cup of boiled water. I'm just not into tea or hot lemon juice right now. For the past week, I've been wanting coffee from Vertigo, a coffeehouse in San Juan Bautista that roasts and grinds coffee beans fresh every day. It's about eight miles, more or less, away. Not far at all, but getting dressed and doing this and that before getting into the car first thing in the morning takes too much time and energy.  By the way, if you're ever in San Juan Bautista, be sure to stop for a cup of Vertigo's brew. The folks there also make some of the best pizza in the area, which they bake in their outdoor pizza oven.

Ah, there I go distracting myself down another path. I have to say, I like the altered state I'm feeling with the caffeine and the beer. Happy buzzzzzzzz. I wonder how authors could write under the influence of alcohol or another mind altering drug besides caffeine. I can understand the drug helping one dig deeper into the caverns of the imagination, but to be able to channel the thoughts down to the fingers over the keyboard. That's something I could not train myself to do. It's just as well. I'm already addicted to potato chips and ice cream.

I heard that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote while under the influence of alcohol as did Truman Capote and that guy who wrote The Sound and The Fury in which a full-haired Yul Brynner (ooh-la-la!) played someone in the movie version of the novel. William Faulkner! Were there any well-known female authors? Excuse me, while I go over to Google. . . .

Wowza!  Elizabeth Barrett Browning was hooked on opium also known politely as laudanum. The doctors had first prescribed it for her nervous hysteria, which I understand was a state of not getting deliciously satisfying lovemaking. I've never read any of Browning's work. Looks like I will now.

What do you think? Is my writing any more different under the buzzy influence of a strong cup of coffee and one beer than water?

Saturday, February 28, 2015

The Comma

The comma has always, always given me problems. Where, oh, where to put that itty-bitty squiggly line of a hook within a sentence. That's why I love writing simple sentences, where the commas I generally need are for a series. Series? Yes, as in red, white, and blue. Or, if you're one who withholds the last comma, then: red, white and blue.

I don't know what they teach in English these days, but back in my day (hahahahaha, back in my day, as if I'm sooo old, but to someone younger than 60, I suppose I am), I was initially taught the series (or serial or Oxford, if you prefer) comma. That's the one where you place a comma before the conjunction: red, white, and blue.

That all changed in 10th grade. The English teachers, as well as the journalism instructor, were marking me off for following the series comma rule and demanding that I drop the comma before the conjunction: red, white and blue. Me, being a sheep, followed suit. From day one, I thought a series without the comma before the conjunction looked rather naked and the intention of the sentence was insincere.

Flash forward with me to my late 20s. Behold: I am now working at my dream job—an assistant editor for an independent educational book publisher of supplementary materials for special education teenagers. The house style for a series was the serial comma rule. Hurrah! I received my best training as a writer and editor at that job, thanks to Winnifred, my supervisor.

Today, I only withhold that last comma in a series if a publisher's house style calls for it or if I'm writing a press release. How about you? Do you put in that final comma in a series?


Sunday, January 18, 2015

Sunday Ramble

I had completed a post for today several days ago. It featured a photo that I hooked up to a photo meme. Then I decided to hook up a photo on my other blog -- Take 25 to Hollister -- to the same meme. So, off came the finished post for this blog. You'll see it later this week.

Certainly, I could've posted both, but I didn't want to think about how to handle my visits to bloggers participating in the meme. Should I comment under one blog or both? If done individually, which blogs should I visit as The View from the Top of the Ladder and as Take 25 to Hollister. I just make things more complicated than they need be.

Seeking Oompah

My goal for 2015 is finding my creative groove again. That is why I'm rambling on the blog today rather than seeing if there are any Modern Family reruns on TV. Posting on my blogs daily is part of the plan to finding my creative groove, mojo, hoodoo, voodoo, fancy, desire, and plain old oompah.  Of course, once I do my thing for today, I may look for a Modern Family rerun.

Modern Family

By the way, have you seen Modern Family? I recently discovered the reruns. The show is like a bag of potato chips for me. I finish one show and I want another. Now, I understand why the comedy series and the performers have been winning awards the past five years.

The show is presented as a mockumentary. The writing is sharp and well-honed. There is continuity and growth with the characters. And, the actors perform their part so well, I actually believe they are a family rather than performers acting that they are a family. The stories show them going through daily routines and now-and-then special events, doing their best not to be annoyed at the crazy beliefs and actions of their family members. They have temper tantrums and blow off steam at each other, but, because they truly love each other, they manage to find a way to work through things and make amends. If you want to know more about Modern Family, check out Wikipedia's summary here.

Okay, I'm off to find an episode of Modern Family on TV.  Wait! Before I go, here's a photo for today. It's Molly the Cat hanging out on the fence, where she knows she's not supposed to be.  See ya!



Thursday, January 1, 2015

Waking Up the Words Within


"Here we go, Su-siee! Here we go!" claps my internal cheerleader.

"Come on, Su-sieee! Mac!" encourages my internal coach, "You can do this!"

Where am I going? What is this?  Beats me.

That's untrue. I do know. I've been reluctant to say it aloud. For quite a long while.

Deep breath. Another deep breath. Another. And, another.

Here I go. Here I go.

I shall not be afraid of the words. I shall not be afraid of how they may combine. I shall not be afraid of writing.


Forget the baby steps. A giant step is what I need to take.  


The only permission I need is my own.

Here I go!


Here I go!





Saturday, November 1, 2014

Uh-uh, Not Doing It. Yet.


Today,  begins NaNoWriMo, which is short for National Novel Writing Month. Thousands of writers from all over the world commit themselves to completing a 50,000-word novel by the end of the month. That's about 1,666 words a day. That is not easy!

Last year, I signed up to give a try. My enthusiasm lasted one day, which, for last year, was pretty good as I was feeling quite burnt out. I just didn't know it then.

Once upon a time I wanted to write a Great American novel. Do I still? Dunno. I do have my unfinished novel, The Mystery of Sweet Fat's Ballroom, on my computer. The story takes place in both the present and in the mid-1930s. Lately, I think I should rewrite it. Keep the story in the 1930s, with flashbacks, if any, going back to the early 1900s. Okay, writing that got me excited. I might just go immerse myself in the past to get the imagination juices rolling. But, I know, for sure, I won't be writing 1,666 words today.

So what got me thinking about NaNoWriMo. Blogging friend Widdershin is taking part and what inspired her was creating a book cover on PULP-O-MIZER. She was not kidding, it is fun making a book cover. That up there is mine.  Try it yourself. Here's the link.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

A Name Change


Okay. So, I changed the name of the blog, from Don't Be a Hippie...Then and Now to The View from the Top of the Ladder. Will a new name get me to write regularly, or just write? We shall see, dear Readers.

I haven't written in a long time. Anything. No, that's false. Occasionally, I write short articles for moolah, and  I post at Take 25 to Hollister, with the goal of doing it everyday for a year. But, until this moment, I haven't said anything about my intent there. I just post. I'll know on January 7, 2015, if I have accomplished my goal. A second time.

This is the fourth blog title change for me. The last three times, I started a new physical blog. This time, I realized whatever for. My writing voice hasn't change. Neither have the topics that I  write about because there is nothing new under the sun, including my "writer's block" that has been going on  for more than several months. Possibly years.

Some would say that I don't have writer's block because I continue to write.  But, for one who used to be constantly dreaming up, working, and completing on book projects, I know something is not right with me. The words that come to mind are unfocused... no passion... creative drought. Also, whining.

When I was still fresh at writing, hundreds of years ago, I read The World According to Garp, by John Irving, who is one of my favorite authors. At one point in the story, Garp gets writer's block. He couldn't and wouldn't write. I couldn't believe Garp's listlessness and inability to write. I thought back then that writer's block does not exist. Ha! Youthful arrogance. I can't recall how Garp shifted back into being a write, so, maybe I ought to read the story again and get a clue.

I look at this name change as a positive move for myself. After all, I have become more confident about climbing up ladders this past year. A task that I have taken up so that the nonagenarian who is the Mama does not.

Friday, May 3, 2013

Danger: Crazy Writer at Work

Sometimes, it feels like this when I'm working: Herding sheep (which are the words) into a pen.

The sheep, however, are not being nice about going into the pen. Sheep there. Sheep over there. And more sheep way, waaaaay over there. Then, of course, I must not forget the sheep that are hidden from view. Or, those sheep that have made their way to a meadow I had no idea existed. Where's Little Bo Peep when you need her? But, wait, she lost her sheep.

I wonder though if sheep is the best animal to stand for the words.

How about a horse? Gallop. Trot.  Nostrils flaring, head tossing back, foot stamping. Such attitude. Neighhhhhhhhhh.

Maybe the words are more like cattle or milking cows. Mooooooooooo.

Definitely not cats.

Be nice if the words were more like dogs. Woof-woof. Here I am. How ya doing?  I'll hang out with you. Can I do anything? You need a nuzzle. Give it a rest. Let's go for a walk.

Yeah.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Prepping for April


It's time for a pretty picture. Just because I feel like it.

Last Saturday, the Husband and I ran away to the beach for the day. We all need to do that now and then. To forget wearies and woes, figures and foes, as well as everyday routines. When was the last time you did that?

A few weeks ago, I decided to participate in the A to Z Blogging Challenge that takes place in the month of April. Participants blog through the alphabet, Monday through Saturday. This is another Doing 60 thing for me. You're welcome to drop by one day, some days, or all days in April.  To learn more about the A to Z Blogging Challenge, please click here.

Monday, February 4, 2013

The Mama's Roses

The theme is still the inability to get started. That is, the brain of my mine.  

Plutter... Pletter... Splutttttt....The sounds that the brain of my mine has been making.

So, on Saturday, I tried to jump start the brain of mine by snatching up the camera and going outside.

Some of the Mama's roses are in bloom. Take that cold weather, they seem to say.

And, yes, the roses, the snapping of photos, the doing of something creative seems to have sparked something in the brain of my mine.

Of course, dear readers, I must share with you the Mama's roses.







© 2013 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Back in the Saddle. Maybe.

 

The words unfold themselves in my head. The hands though won't jot them down on paper or key them onto a blank document. That's not an excuse. I have no excuse.

The Daddy accepted no excuses from me when I was a kid. If I did something stupid, then I did something stupid. I suffered the consequences. I learned quite early what the consequences were so I did my best not to do stupid things—or, at least, not to get caught.

For a man with a gentle voice, the  Daddy gave very stern scoldings. So stern that it brought on the tears. And, should I cry, the Daddy said, "No crying." The longer the crying, the harsher the scolding.

The Daddy used his belt for the dumbest decision-making acts I did. One or two quick slaps on my legs. The sting of the leather brought on the tears, too. "No crying," the Daddy said. Sucking up the tears just gave me the hiccups.

I only recall two instances when I got the Daddy's belt. Both times I was no where to be found and came home later than I should have. Both innocent mistakes on my part. Both major scares on my parents' part.

Discipline was the name of the game. But, don't get me wrong. The parents also spoiled me. For one, they let me order as many  books as I wanted from the Scholastic paperback book sales even though the family had a limited budget. For another, the parents let me stumble into my future rather than demand I study something that would immediately get me a job, such as secretarial, bookkeeping, or nursing skills.

Ah, back then the Mama wanted me to be a nurse. That was the top-of-the-line job and career a woman in my family could be. At least on the Mama's side. The Daddy thought life would be good for me if I became a secretary. He considered that a non-traditional, high-tone job. The Mama agreed. One of her highlights while working in seed research was being sent to the main office in the next town to photocopy some documents for her work. Fortunately, the Mama believed in higher education  and if that was what I wanted to do, then by golly she was all for me going to college. The Daddy loved the Mama and me, so he just shrugged and went along.

Hmmm, now look at this. I've written several paragraphs. The words tumbled in my head, somehow got interpreted and translated by the currents running through my body, and found their way out through my fingertips which tap danced the words on this computer keyboard. Totally, damn amazing. A miracle, almost.



Wednesday, November 28, 2012

What If I Just Kept Driving?

I'm doing something completely different today. I'm linking up with Just Write, a weekly writing prompt hosted by authors Rebecca T. Dickson and Laura Howard. Want to try it yourself, click here.

This week's prompt is "What if I just kept driving?"

Sheila drove into tomorrow.

It was much easier than she thought it would be.

Her present was purgatory. Maybe if it was just hell, she would've stayed. Hell was bearable. It had borders. It had form. It had shadows in which she could find relief. But, purgatory. Damn. Purgatory. Such wishy-washiness. Such enabling. Such obscenity of humanity. There she said it. She lit a match to it all.

Sheila looked over the desert floor, warming with each second of the rising sun bursting itself into the new day.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

What's the Word?

What's the word I'm thinking of?

Damn. What's the word?

That's my life these days. And, that's not good when you make your livelihood as a writer.

The word I'm trying to think of is usually a simple word, too. Forget about asking for an example, because I can't remember any one of my 500 million+ instances at the moment.

All I know is that the word I'm trying to think of just dangles ghost-like in my mind. I really dislike the way a word plays hide-and-seek with me.

If the Husband happens to be nearby, I'll ask him for help. "What's the word that means  blah blah blah." Most often, thank goodness, he knows the word I'm seeking. Some times, he throws out a bunch of words. None of which fit what I'm wanting to write. Other times, well, let's just say that I just type in blab blab blab and move on to my next thought, choosing to believe that the word will show itself. Eventually, it does. So far. Thank goodness.

This trouble of finding the right word snuck up on me all of a sudden. But, then, it could've been gradual. I don't know.  If I were to believe the psychobabble I was taught in my 12th grade psychology class, my mental capacity started going downhill right after I graduated high school. Ha! Seriously, I was taught that. I hope they don't still feed that kind of rot to kids. I mean, come on, what a way to discourage the adventure of starting off being a post high school kid. (Well, there's an example for you. Instead of a cool, smart precise word, I give you"post high school kid".)

What was I talking about? As usual, I find myself thinking about something way in the past. That's another thing. How did I suddenly become one of the oldest elephants in the room? One thing about being an oldest one, sometimes the very young ones applaud you for doing something you normally do—such as catch a fly ball (not that I do that) or walk up a mountain (that I still do).

I know I'm rambling now.  Before I go down another wordy path, I shall say this: I think part of my problem was/is due to menopause/postmenopause.  Not all. Maybe 30 percent. I didn't get the hot flashes, which I suppose was a good thing. At least my memory lapses weren't/aren't so bad that I forgot that I did agree to skip exchanging Christmas presents. But, then, I can't recall.

Here, word. Come here, word.

By the way, if I've already written about this. Well, uhm, Merry Christmas!

© 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Jump Start that Never Got Started

The Republican candidate for President—whose name shall not be invoked—thinks I'm a victim. Ha! Talk about projecting and being judgmental. No, no, come back. I'm not going to muse about politics today. Bleah. Today, I give you a look into this writer's belfry, as in bats in.

The other day I found a file on my desktop with the title 88888...8887.doc. Of course curiosity got me and I opened it. Ha ha! on me. The Word file was my writing journal, the one I had started a few months ago with good intentions.
Uh-huh. I was fishing around in my head for a story to latch onto. It had (and has) been a long while since I tried.
The narrator a woman in her late 50s. A lot of ways I could go with that. A lot of ways. Did I? No. Will I? I don't know.
 

 See. This became a post. Ha! Sorry for the blurriness of the photos of the scribbles. Hmmm, maybe that's a projection of my imagination right now.
What you read is actually less than 855 words. I left out a couple of passages—my thinking about Molly and Dakota, in the event that I do something with it—and edited a bit as I turned my scribbling into jpgs. 

I didn't write the second day. I remembered about it after midnight. The third day was my last day. That entry was a hoot. I talked about how miserable my body was feeling. The following several days, I remained in misery and never got back to trying to find a groove. At least, in that Word file. 

So, there you go. A peek into the mind of a writer who doesn't write fiction for a living. For now.

© 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

A New Daydream

This morning, I read that a local farm needs a driver to deliver CSA boxes to its distribution points in several cities. Only twice a week. Only 15 to 20 hours a week. $12 to $14/hour, depending on experience.

I would love that job.

Yes, I would.

Those are not long hours at all. The pay is definitely a living wage and it would be a nice monetary supplement for this nonstarving writer.  The lifting and hauling? I may not be in the best of shape, but I can manage the up to 40 pounds per item. I truly believe that within a few weeks my strength and stamina would be greatly improved. I would be hauling boxes with the not-quite nonchalance I used to do when I was quite younger. (Hey, it's my daydream.) Besides, the Husband says he would do it with me. Just think, the farmer would get two for the cost of one.

If only I didn't have this writing project right now. And, those other responsibilities that I can't walk away from for two days a week.

I know my limits—and my priorities. So, I'll just daydream about driving a van full of organic vegetables and fruit from a farm to suburban and urban locations. That is, when I'm not stuttering out words on the computer into the early morning hours for a wage that was minimum many years ago.  Not that I am complaining. Most definitely not.