If I won lottery, I'd

For several months, I was so freaking stressed out that the only way I could calm down enough to fall asleep was to imagine winning Powerball. The jackpot was outrageous and imagining what I'd do with the wins was fun. A bit too much fun.

Remember the Mirror of Aristed in the first Harry Potter? Yeah, man, I'd just sit and stare and waste away the rest of my life with my fantasy jackpot.

I imagined winning every single night at bedtime until I wrote down what I'd do.

Did you know that 80% of lottery winners worldwide file bankruptcy within 5 years of winning? It's true! Google it, but wait until after you finish reading this, if you don't mind.

I don't want my loved ones (or myself) to wind up on that list of poor bastards, so I decided, if I win, my favored beneficiaries have to learn how to manage their finances. At the time, the jackpot hovered around $1 billion 💰🤑, so I can only imagine my loved ones turning into money leeches (not how I want their behavior toward me to become). Let's face it, if I had a virtually unlimited source of funds to tap, I'd tap it. So would they.

In my bedtime imaginings, I devised a weekend party with my loved ones, and at the end of one night, I'd sit them down in a conference room. The first go-round, I'd give them all a token amount, like $5,000. They would have to follow my rules for one year, and if they do, I'd double the money to $10,000. If they don't follow all the rules, I'd cut the money in half to $2500.

After the first year, I'd give them a new goal, with the same rules. At the end of year two, I'd double the money again to $20,000. Again, if they break a rule, the money gets cut in half.

Anyone who reaches $640,000 would get the added optional rule of sharing their money, and the rules, with someone they trust. However, if the new person breaks a rule, both of them get their stipend cut in half. If all of them follow the rules, I'd double their money to $1.28 million.

See how wealth and knowledge can multiply?

What are the rules?

• Save 10%,
• Contribute the maximum amount allowed by law to a retirement account,
• Don't ask me for an additional nickel.

Seriously, those are the only rules.

And they're so simple and so unforgiving that I bet not everyone would follow them.

Why did I even write this post? Because someone on twitter asked a question that made me remember. Her open-invitation question was "What's an ethical way to give away $5 million?"

Comments welcome. Feel free to argue with me.


Thanks for jogging my memory Dr. Tara!

Be well and have a magical day!
Mackenzie

Follow the blog
Follow me on Twitter @mackenzielitt13

On Writing - It's Supposed to be Hard AF

Even more than writing itself, what gives me deliriously supreme satisfaction is helping writers tap into their strength to overcome writers block. Writers block is a bitch, and that is the damn truth.

Writers block feels more like being locked inside a mausoleum. Hey, I'm not dead! I don't belong in here! I'm alive! I'm alive!

Sports champions tell us our only real competition is yesterday's version of our best self.

We have to outwit and out-maneuver our inner demons almost daily. This should really be easy for writers because demons speak our language. We taught it to them.

We empower them with an endless bank of images that scare the living daylights out of us.
We stock their vocabulary arsenal with the exact phrases that shut us down and force us into hiding.

Our fearful demons say we're not good enough, we're stupid, we're boring, no one loves us or what we do or what we have to say.  What can we do?

We fight back. Just about every word has an opposite, so we fight their fire with water. We fight their fear with bravery. We fight their hate with love. We fight their apathy with feeling. We fight their barbed words with reassurance.

You see where this is going, yes?

At the very least, doubt the voice of doubt. When self doubt says, "You don't know what you're doing. Nobody is gonna read your shit. There are better books on the bookstore shelves. Who are you to compete?"

Doubt that right back. "What if I figure out what I'm doing? What if I find a blog or book or PDF from a writer who's been in this same position? What if 1000 people want to read exactly what I write? Maybe there are better books, but better is subjective. (Seriously even Stephen King has detractors, right?) What if somebody is going to think my book is better? I want to compete! Maybe I'm a white belt now, but if I just keep at it, I can reach green and brown and black. Maybe my first attempt won't win, but I'm gonna cross that damn finish line."

Tap into a superhero's fortitude and superpowers, and imagine those powers as your own. The Arts provide so many shining examples of protagonists (realistic or futuristic, your choice).

Writers do this in words. We must become pain. We must inflict pain on FEAR. The bogeyman better hear me coming and run like hell. We must become verbally muscular to develop resilience.

Is life really assaulting us or is life throwing too many situations at once?  When we're begging to know why life is "doing this to me", it creates a way forward to change to the question to "Why is life doing this for me?"

Life hands out shit and gold. It isn't evenly dispersed. Gold is rare. Shit is common. However, even in the right hands, shit can be transformed into manure and fertilizer and keep the planet fertile and healthy.

Do not be stopped. Not here. Not now. Feel alone? Call a friend. Feel like being alone, decline the invitations. Do whatever you need to get through this moment and keep your eyes on the prize.

I am on writing hiatus because work is kicking my ass, but the promotion period at work is coming to a close at month end, and Writerly Mackenzie will have ample time and inspiration to hit the laptop with a vengeance. With a fucking VENGEANCE.

The topic was writing is supposed to be hard as fuck. If it were easy, the reward would mean nothing. Typing "the end" would feel like any other day, any other occasion. Wrestling with self doubt, jinx, doom, and inner critic makes finding confidence feel like the special occasion it is. Digging deep inside your mind, imagination and the dictionary makes crafting the perfect sentence feel like victory! It IS victory.

Dear writer, all art is partially self-portrait, so that superhero and protagonist in your story is tapping into your inner - what? Fortitude, cleverness, resilience, insight, wisdom, patience? You have inner something. The only way to develop it is to USE it.

What DO you have going for you? What ARE you good at?

Tap THAT.

There are so many virtues to choose from. Can you be patient with yourself as the ideas percolate in your cranium? Can you write 10 poems in a day while your manuscript sits it out a couple innings? Do you see 50 variations of green in a park? Can you write about that? Are you resilient, fast, strong, tenacious, resourceful, funny, thoughtful, persuasive? You can tap into anything inside you to keep going. And, honest to God, if you can't find what you need within yourself right now, reach out to a friend who encourages you. Cry it out.

I'll leave you with this: When you're tired, rest. But do not quit. Do not fucking quit.

Make your OWN day magical today. Why not? You deserve to encourage yourself, too.
Dammit, I'm all emotional right now.
I'm gonna cross that finish line too.

Mackenzie

RANDOM THOUGHT - Seen on the road

On my way to work, I was in the left hand lane and an endless line of cars was parallel parked. I saw something moving under the back end of car. It was shapeless and unrecognizable until a human head and shoulders and back became clear. It was a man getting into position to inspect under the car.

With traffic coming only inches from his head!

Aside from sheer stupidity, I had to wonder what would compel a man to take such a huge risk with his life.

The writing exercise is to write a story based on an image from real life or TV. That was real life and it'll be the basis of a short story.

So far, I like my notes on it, but I do need to interview some people from Ecuador and Guatemala to make it authentic. Ecuador will be easy since I know at least one person who escaped. Guatemala might not be. Writing about immigrants from two different countries may turn into too much backstory for something so short, but I can decide later.

Sometimes, writing is fun!

Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BLOG!

This blog is one year old, and I'm pleased that I've stuck with it.



My very first post, a poem about a bird breaking out of the safety of its shell because the bird had gotten too big to remain stuck inside it, got all of 28 views. (https://mackenzielittledalewrites.blogspot.com/2018/07/poetry-passarinho-little-bird.html)

Flash forward to my post of my favorite scene in my WIP - Joe and Michelle visiting a cemetery - that got over 500 views, and I'm pretty excited about the future prospects of my writing career.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for following. Thank you for the comments and feedback.

Writing is really a journey, one letter at a time.

Much love.

Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie

RANDOM THOUGHT - Dominating self doubt and the inner critic

I've had this conversation a couple times with writers who struggle with mental health challenges. It's not limited to creatives. It's not limited to minds under duress.

SELF DOUBT takes up residency in the human mind. Every human mind. The question then, is how much real estate do we let Self Doubt take up rent free?

The conversation goes something like this:

Me: Okay, you're a writer. When you hear the voice of Self Doubt (or Inner Critic), what does she look like?

Other writer describes Self Doubt as herself, but elderly, schtooped over, wrinkly, raspy voice, maybe even cataracts in her eyes, demeaning, belittling.

Photo: Shutterstock

Me: Excellent, you see her. If you go forward, Self Doubt says that's wrong. If you go to the right, she says that's wrong. If you go to the left, she criticizes that move too.  If you stop and loop back, she doubts that too. What does Self Doubt want?

Other writer: I don't know. For me to stay right here?

Me: Exactly. Self Doubt is a miserable old has-been whose sole purpose is to DOUBT YOU, no matter what you do or which direction you choose. She feeds on your joy and confidence. If you listen to Self Doubt (or Inner Critic), you sit still, life passes you by and you become HER. Your vision winds up diminishing. Your back bends over. Your joints ache with every move. You shrivel up and life a half life.

Other writer: Oh my God!

Me: I've been in those dark lonely places with Self Doubt's voice. And sooner or later, I realized, hey, I'm ALIVE. I'm not ready to be buried under all this negativity.

Other writer: GIRL

Me: She's keeping you from writing, so let's just be where you're at right now. You need to get around SELF DOUBT the obstacle so you can get past her and get back to your writing. Make Self Doubt a character or monster or villain. What does she eat, since she's so evil? How does she smell? What does she wear? Write a protagonist to defeat her. Write a story where Self Doubt the villain gets what's coming to her, then go back to your writing project.

Other writer: Hangs up on me immediately and gets to it!

I fucking love this.

Back to the real estate in your psyche devoted to Self Doubt. Don't let that bitch squatter live extravagantly in your head at the expense of your joy and happiness. Shrink it down to size and let the real estate for your Self Confidence expand, lavishly.

Make someone else's day magical!

Mackenzie

#writersblock
#writerslife
#lifeofcreatives
#innercritic
#selfdoubt
#dominate

On Writing - 2 wins

It's not for me to tell a writer why she writes. If she wants to be published or writes for her own enjoyment, the decision either way is solid and she validates it on her own terms.

For many years, I wrote for my own pleasure.

That changed.

I now write privately for my pleasure but also in hopes of being published.

I'm already published. One win for me!

An article I wrote based on an interview of a Somatic Bodyworker named Oscar Trujillo appears in Conscious Life Journal
http://mobilemagz.com/flipbooks/atlanta/beautyandhealth/consciouslifejournal/12.20.2018/21/

Fiction-wise, one of my #vss365 stories got accepted for inclusion in an upcoming anthology! Two wins for me!

I have a poem under consideration right now for an astrology related anthology and they should give word soon.

The MC of This Darkness is Mine, "Michelle Delphinia" wrote a compelling essay with a psychological and spiritual interpretation of The Wizard of Oz and The Wiz. I'm seeking a home for this essay in a university literary journal.

Before my short story can win a competition, I have to submit it. Before I submit it, I have to write it.
This is the writer's life. Not to be envied, and not to be taken lightly. We are a bit crazy, often solitary, but always searching for that word. Even though English is made up of roughly 40,000 words, sometimes even English leaves us flat, and we have to borrow from other languages for the perfect conveyance of meaning or feeling.

I love it!

Mackenzie

Make someone else's day magical!

#OnWriting
#Published
#WhatsNext

On Writing - Something new

Since writing has been tremendously therapeutic for me, I want to press on. A webinar I listened to on writing short stories said one way to use them is to experiment with new genres and to introduce my writing to an audience.

That's exciting!

I'm going to try my hand at writing a short story about Emma, a recent widow who is forced to financially support herself, but she develops a physical condition that makes her chosen profession almost impossible. However, when she's working, she's restored (in a sense) but in a most uncomfortable and ironic way.

Writing is even more important to me than therapy. It's a way to experience the world and reduce it to words. Can words do that?

Staying on top of my bipolar means finding meaningful challenges to stay engaged in the business of life. And taking my meds nightly. Can't forget that. Writing can be lonely, which makes it well suited for loners. Sort of. Loners can't just observe humanity, but interact with people, know people, love people, talk with people. Sometimes that awkwardness makes for great stories.

I have no way of knowing whether my social on/off switch is the way it is because of the bipolar, or if it's hereditary. My mom is something of a wallflower, while my father was charismatic and outgoing. I get the dubious distinction of being shy at times and being extroverted at other times. I have not yet found a way to control this. Perhaps I can write a character who can, and then learn from her.

I'm keenly interested in knowing what writing means to you. Please describe in the comments. How does it help you navigate your real life?

Mackenzie
Make someone else's day magical!

#writing
#mentalhealth
#bipolar
#arttherapy

Happy Birthday United Snakes

Today is the USA's 243rd birthday as a free sovereign nation. That sounds great, except for the barbarians guarding our southern border and occupying 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

All the ideals we claim to stand for have to mean something. They have to be for PEOPLE, regardless of skin color and all the other exemptions.

Caging children like animals is disgusting.

What is liberty? How do you claim to stand for it when you only mean liberty for certain classes and colors of people? Just how fucking revolting do you have to be?

That is all.

On Writing - Hell Yeah!

As of today, my latest round of edits to This Darkness is Mine is complete. COMPLETE (YAY ME!)

The next step is underway, and that'll take me through to the end of August. In September, there will be another round of conscientious edits (and wrangling I'm sure).

From there, there really won't be anything left to do but seek a literary agent.

I've tried writing novels based on dreams, and I had zero (repeat ZERO) knowledge of plot, craft, style, arc, character development. I mean, I'd read books that I either enjoyed or didn't, but I didn't have the slightest idea that storytelling is an art with a structure.

This is the furthest I've ever come to completing a manuscript, and it's almost impossible to put the feeling into words, which of course makes me wonder if I'm a writer after all. Words are supposed to be my thing.

Again, I can't say enough good things about the writing community on Twitter, which reminds me. I hit another milestone - 10,000 followers last Saturday. I think that was June 8th, so I'm gonna write that down. Hello LITERARY AGENTS and PUBLISHERS, I have a social media platform with 10,000 followers!

Before anyone thinks I was born with persistence, I probably was, but parents don't particularly care for persistence in little kids because little kids only want what's no good for them. After I acquiesced my persistence, I gave up often. Now I can say sticking to something, even at my own pace, is in my power. Personal power is worth holding on to, and if you've ceded any along your journey, reclaiming it is possible.

With that, I'll leave you with two recommendations for developing good habits:
7 Habits of Highly Effective People (who doesn't want to be effective?)
Think and Grow Rich (it's really that straightforward)

Thanks for stopping by. That's all for now.

Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie

On Writing - Excerpt from Chapter 3 This Darkness is Mine

Excerpt from Chapter 3

Michelle spent most of the following day in bed, nestled under her charcoal grey down comforter. As the sun made its descent towards the horizon, she fixed her gaze out the window. She always enjoyed looking out at sunset, even though the window faced east. In the distance, between her window and Yankee Stadium, stood a 12-story, brown brick apartment building. The building’s windows reflected the glow of the retiring sun like a spectacular piece of art, beauty so far beyond words, it was almost painful to behold.

The day after that, she stuck with her plan and returned to Florida. The family gathered at the Kingdom Hall for the service. Approximately 200 people showed up, mostly strangers to her. Knowing she’d be little support to her mother once she went back to New York, she was relieved to see so many friends show up for her mother. People spoke to each other in huddles, but the atmosphere remained silent and colorless. Internally, Michelle screamed, and imagined herself running for the exit with her father’s ashes. The white walls with bas relief and beige, industrial carpeting all seemed sun-bleached to her.

Allen and a middle-aged man in a brown suit approached her. Allen wore a dark grey suit with a tie in fall colors. “Michelle, do you remember Lon Soeur?”

Lon’s green eyes had deep crinkles around the corners, making them look merry, despite his somber expression. His dirty blond hair receding and thinning, he stood eye to eye with Allen.

Michelle shook Lon’s extended hand. “Yes, of course. Lon, it’s good to see you after all these years. Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Yes, it’s good to see you, too, although I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you,” said Michelle, nodding.

“When Allen and your mom sat with me to craft the words of the talk I’m about to give, and they told me about your father, I could tell Allen had a lot of his same strong qualities. I could see, of course, his entrepreneurial spirit and his business sense.”

Lon kept talking, but Michelle’s mind circled around what he’d just said. At that moment, she realized that when Allen had said someone told him he was a lot like his father, the words had come from Lon, someone who didn’t know their father at all, or he would have known her father had financially propped up Allen’s business. Hopelessly anti-Capitalistic and cynical of wealthy people, her brother couldn’t take direction from bosses or from clients. His intricately detailed plans left him spinning in endless circles, barely eking out a living. Business sense?

“So,” Michelle said, “you’re giving the eulogy, based on sitting down with my mom and Allen? Leon and I weren’t included in that.” Her look of astonishment at Lon turned into a glare at her brother. She couldn’t feel her body.

“We had to move quickly,” said Allen, in a condescending tone.

“You mean behind our backs,” Michelle said, almost shouting. “Not cool. It’s bad enough that nobody who knew him even gets to say anything, but the eulogy has no input from Leon or me, like we don’t exist.” Her limbs tensed up involuntarily. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Lon and Allen both looked uncomfortable, mumbled, and turned to walk away.

Her stomach turned somersaults and she wanted a baseball bat to crush heads. The only way to find out what details of her father’s person had been included or overlooked would be to sit through the talk from Lon, a person who hadn’t spent any time with the man.

End of excerpt

Mackenzie

On Writing - thoughts on the process

At first, the prospect of writing an entire novel overwhelmed me to the point I had no idea where to start. It took a calm voice to suggest I write whatever scenes I saw most clearly in my mind's eye. Start with five pages at a time, she said.

Okay, I said. It made it easier. It made it manageable.

With that first start, five pages became a breeze, because the more I wrote, the more momentum built up. The next scenes came into focus. The words came to me. I kept going.

I hit slumps along the way, to be sure. Writer's block is pervasive, so it just goes with the process. I've had to come up with all sorts of ways to kickstart myself back into the game, back into process, back into FLOW. There's that magical word with which all creatives are enamored. FLOW.

Nearly two years after beginning, after four dozen or more read-throughs, I'm about to edit the next to last chapter. Granted, there are a couple sections that still (STILL) need fleshing out, but for the most part, I've written a manuscript.

I'M ABOUT TO EDIT THE NEXT TO LAST CHAPTER!

There were aspects of writing based on a true story that were freeing because historical reality provided guideposts. In other ways, it felt like I was hamstrung to the "truth" and "facts". When I let the fictionalizing enter the story, I could spread my wings a bit and have some fun. For me, writing about a real life string of events was a perfect place to start.

Every attempt I'd made in the past at writing a novel whole cloth from imagination floundered and left me feeling like I'd have to maintain an office job til death or retirement.

All that to say this:

If you have a dream but feel overwhelmed, get yourself a coach who will gently prod, poke, pull, push, inquire, excite, calm, soothe, and whatever else you need when you need it.

Don't go to the grave with your art trapped inside you.

Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie

Follow the blog
Post a comment

RANDOM THOUGHT - What to do next?

I made this big announcement on Twitter that I was taking a couple weeks off social media to edit my manuscript. I started off great! Then the sticky notes started adding up to my worst fear:

what if I can't write for shit?



I've made notes on almost every single page it seems.

I got pretty far, up to chapter 25, but for some reason I just shut down and went back to Twitter during all my free time like I have a fount of endless money flowing my direction.



This is not the case!!!! I'm feeling kind of delusional about it.

Meanwhile, another project popped up and it stands to be lucrative a little more quickly than writing a novel, and I only have so much time to devote to it before a super, crazy, busy time period creeps up on me at work. Once work falls off a cliff again, I can devote my attention to either my manuscript or the writing project (yes it's secret). I'd like to get that project launched in September.

I'd posted a question a couple Saturdays ago on Twitter:

"Fear. What if...

What if that fear shaking you to your core is nothing more than your own superpower that you haven't yet learned how to use?"

I had to stop and reflect on this. I pictured Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker in Spiderman trying to learn how to control his web and falling until he got the hang of his own abilities. I must wrestle with this until it's no longer debilitating.

The question was meant to be motivational after all, and here I am, stuck in my own dilemma, shaking and afraid that I can't get my dreams out of my head and into my life! And yet, my landlord announced his intentions to raise my rent. No, man. Milo and I gotta get someplace better and more conducive to our desired way of life.

That means I gotta transmute this quaking fear into the "REAL" me. The writer me. The writer who slings words like arrows and never misses her target. The writer who relies on her talents to feed and house and clothe herself, put gas in the car, and take care of business. That writer!

Maybe all I needed to do was blog about it. The next step seems clearer now.

Edit the manuscript. Work on the secret. I only have but so much time to make it all come together, and I will not rush. My reputation resides within the quality I sign my name to.

In the meantime, I'm logged off Twitter for the night, so I could either edit or read. Reading seems like a luxury, so I think that's what I'll do.

What am I reading? Carol Beth Anderson's The Birth of Magic novella.

You can follow:

My blog
My twitter: @mackenzielitt13


Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie

vss365 - mid May-early June

vss365 (very short story 365)

GOSSAMER
You see #gossamer, flimsy, delicate That's what I let you see What you're about to experience Is feral, lethal, fierce How could you betray me and Violate my trust? I wouldn't turn my back on me If I were you

GOSSAMER
How do I free myself from the anchor of depression? It weighs me down, heart, mind and soul, holding down my dream's #gossamer wings that used to flutter at your touch. You try to console me, but can you snatch me from the grip of this Leviathan?

FRISSON
"I can hardly believe I'm in Paris! It's so exciting and romantic!" "Do you feel a thrill for romance?" asks her driver. His gaze in the rear view sends a shudder and invasion of damp heat between her legs. He smiles knowingly. "We call that #frisson here." "More please!"

VILE
"Pity they couldn't have an open-faced casket for your sister," said Auntie. "She had such a fair face." "Had, yes," Ann said. "Vile temper though." Auntie walked away. "Not as #vile as mine," Ann whispered to the coffin. "Can't sleep w/ my husband anymore, dear sister."

WILLOW
Vanity drove the Queen to consult an Olde Crone, who brewed a bitter concoction of #willow and bile. Enraged when nothing happened, the Queen cursed the willow and fell to her death. Olde Crone added the tree's tears to the bitter tea, restoring her beauty for 100 yrs.

REVERIE
"When I was a girl, my brothers sat around the table & told fun stories about their day." "And you?" "Oh," #reverie escaped her eyes like a genie. "I was dull. I preferred to listen to everyone else." For the 1st time I realized Mom had low self esteem, & I felt for her.

PATCH
Our family arrives at Steve's Strawberry Farm, and I can hardly wait to get our haul home so mom & grandma can make shortcake, jams, & ice cream. Grandma shows me where in the #patch the sweetest ones grow & we pick until our fingers & skin are as red as our treasures.

REVERIE
One bite of grandma's strawberry shortcake, and I'm whisked back to the farm, laughter, sticky fingers, laden baskets & ladybugs. Whipped cream clouds in no hurry to move along. Savor or eat more? More! Back from my #reverie, nothing but guilty smiles and crumbs.

ORION
She pulls me along a shadowy path overtaken by mangroves. I have to trust her now, the only hint of where we are a faint scent of salt & murmuring waves. We reach a clearing, moonlight upon her face. "#Orion's Belt is dripping," she whispers and closes in on my lips.

PATCH
I yank myself free, startled yet exhilarated. "Where did that kiss come from?" "There's something starry and magnetic about you. Don't deny it. Orion's Belt can be our #patch of sky." Her chest heaves; the play of silver light &shadow on her cleavage sways me like poetry.

SILENCE
The warmth of her body merged into his, as the sensuous sway of her hips summoned a sense of urgency in him. Time to make his move. The power cut out. The music stopped, as candlelight danced on. In #silence, they kissed, beginning a new song of their own.

BREATH
She tightens her seat belt & grips the arm rests, glancing out the odd window. Cramped, but within, she is already aloft & spreading. Fingering her rosary beads, she stumbles over the words, but every God hears. She holds her #breath, as alive inside as the blue sky.

VERDANT
"Violet?" "Yes, Mom?" "It's picnic time, baby. The fields are #verdant w/ your namesake. Whip up some of your famous potato salad, & I'll get the chicken ready." "Sounds great, Mom." "Why so glum, child?" "It won't be the same without Dad." I fell into her arms and sobbed

BREATH
Violet consoled herself at a flower shop. "What smells so good?" "Peony mostly, but," the clerk giggled &led her behind the counter. "We also have gardenias. Careful, love, they bruise easily." Violet #breathed in the sweetness, and caught a whiff of her father's cologne.

MYRIAD
"How do you feel about Jermaine?" asks her therapist. "Feel? A #myriad of things. He gives me butterflies, gets my heart pounding. He makes me feel safe and protected." "So why did you kill him?" "I didn't! Why won't anyone believe me?" "You still don't remember?"

PETRICHOR
We can't please this God, but then came rain. The #petrichor reminds me of 1939 when we waited & turned to the Natives for their magic. Clouds withheld their rain & instead carried our dust. Our crops withered, our children hungered, covered in black, turning to Earth.

VEHEMENTLY (Inner Critic Series)
"You're not good enough," my inner voice says #vehemently. "Your writing is shit." "You've said that before." I yawn, still typing. "I've had enough of you. You're not even creative with your put downs anymore." Dismissing that pesky inner critic is my only way forward.

CHIMERA (Inner Critic series)
An evil breath on the back of my neck makes my spine tingle and hairs stand on end, despite the fiery heat of it. Claws or talons, I can't even tell! Fur, not feathers. Why is this #chimera hunting me?! The red pen. Time to edit. Calm the fuck down, Mackenzie.

FLOTSAM (Inner Critic series)
"Very well," says my inner critic. "#Flotsam then. Your writing is flotsam. Is that creative enough an insult for you, you hack? Give up!" "Ha. That's what the chimera red pen is for. When I'm done, I'll have a splendid manuscript on my hands. And now, you may fuck off."

ANCIENT (Inner Critic Series)
"I am #ancient as humanity itself." "Oh yeah?" I say. "I have been ridiculing creatives forever." "Mm-hmm, does that make you feel better?" "It's what I do. I abort Art." "Listen to me, INNER CRITIC, you're evil & stifle beauty, innovation and progress. Get lost!"

CRAVEN (Inner Critic series)
I woke up to what I want - a reason to write, to leverage my experience, and a strong word of encouragement w/ action items and a plan. The best part? My Inner Critic, is (at least for now) a #craven sniveling brat, crying in the corner, hiding from me and my laptop.

ANCIENT (new mother series)
Looking in my daughter's eyes for the 1st time is to enter The Sacred Sorority, as if her eyes are a veil revealing #ancient truth. One truth beyond words. Beyond love, joy, & pure astonishment. My heart sobs gratitude, as she grasps my finger and smiles fleetingly.

WILLOW (new mother series)
As she suckles and draws nourishment, I imagine walking with her through the weeping #willows of my own childhood, their swaying ballerina branches will reach down to stroke her hair. They'll share my joy at seeing my daughter and lift their branches in exultation.

LOTUS (new mother series)
Sweet, young daughter, I must name you. You burst forth from the murky waters of my womb, where nature decreed you find the sustenance you need. In that darkened madness, you magically made order and forged beauty into meaning. Tender enchantress, I name you #Lotus.

On Writing - Suit for the Future

The writers group I go to asked for stories on the theme of "The Future". I'd put it off and put it off with only a vague idea in my head of putting together an outfit from head to toe for some future occasion. Finally, yesterday I sat down to write it, but my mind insisted it be personal. I haven't shopped for any special occasion since I-can't-remember-when, but then it hit me:


Suit for the Future

My father believed in calisthenics for health and fitness. Push-ups, jumping jacks, sit ups.

He kept one black suit in pristine condition, meaning left hanging in a forgotten corner of his closet, but in a well-preserved corner of his mind. “Push ups, jumping jacks, sit ups.” He maintained his fitness regimen so he’d be able to fit into that suit for two specific occasions: my marriage ceremony and his funeral. He stood on a ground more solid than the shifting sands of fashion changes. He had no idea that the suit’s lapel dated him to a time no one else could remember or appreciate.

I was twelve or thirteen at the time; these occasions hung dreamily in my future.

My brothers were both already married. Now 48, I remain unwed. My father was cremated, wearing nothing but God’s teary-eyed gaze.

My father stayed fit to wear a suit for occasions that never came to pass in his lifetime. I wonder if my mother still has that suit in the closet with his ashes, both slipped out of time with the shifting sands of fashion. It’s the lapel that I’ve forgotten, but my father remains etched in my memory.

Mackenzie Littledale

Make someone else's day magical!