I think I need a new heart

It's still March, and where have I been? Not posting to my blog, or doing much of anything else online. I'm worthless. Except in reality, where I'm busy times a million.

I've been working and cooking and cleaning the house from the blades of the ceiling fans to the stained up carpet and fake hardwood floor. I've been taking care of a certain Baby Girl who was the most monstrous little hellion she's ever been for a week and a half because we weren‘t going for our daily walks. My father had insisted on going with us one night, and Baby Girl got mad. She knows the walk is our special time, and who is he to intrude? She refused to go back out, so I‘m guessing it was pent up energy and a lack of sunshine that put her in such a foul mood that I spent a lot of time trying to cure, and calm her down, and make the best of whatever loud and fussy situation we were in, but she'd yell and cry and scream NO! and hit me and kick me and throw things till I ended up on the couch sobbing in a pathetic, curled-up ball.

A few days ago, it all got better and disappeared like a thick fog had lifted, and now we're all clear. Happy. Playing outside, and balancing our time between work, cook, clean, cartoons, toys, bath and bedtime, and ah yes, my writing.

I've been writing.

So far this year I've completed three short stories. The first one in February. It took me two weeks. The second was also in February, though it only took me half an hour. Two pages. I started it last spring, and never finished it, which I regretted, so while on a writerly high from finishing that first one, I thought, Well, I could at least give an ending to those long lost sixteen pages.

I did, and I liked it.

I wrote the third short story between March 2nd and March 18th, so hence my absence here. Not counting all that other stuff I've been up to, of course; we all know I'm (mostly) capable of balancing an internet life with a real life, but the truth is, this story was so distracting, and took so much of my writerly energy, that I actually felt mentally drained by the end of each day (I write my fiction by hand while Baby Girl eats breakfast).

So yes. Fiction, and lots of it. Writing stories. Not blogging.

My grand total now is two novels, and four short stories. I plan on writing another one after the weekend, editing them, tying the five stories together, and tossing them into a writerly contest, to which the deadline is the last day of May.

I've never given much thought to writing contest. I don't mean that in a bad way; I honestly was unaware of them. Yes, I'm an idiot. Oblivious to the profession I claim to be a part of, or WANT to be a part of...

In real life news:

I did my taxes. I'm getting twenty-five hundred dollars back!

My mom and my aunt and I are going to a festival tomorrow.

I think my sister's mad at me.

I told my father how much I've been writing and how I plan to enter that contest. He got quiet, and said, Best of luck with all that. As if I had just told him I'm growing wings, wrapping my head in tin foil, and flying to the Moon.

We might build a house soon. Talk of land, and borrowing money, and selling the shoebox have been in order. The Others will gladly deed me not only what I'm sitting on now, but a fairly big portion behind it. Though my father also has land to spare, should I want out of this cult-like village and move into town next to both my parents who are neighbors.

I'm not sure I want to live that close to them. Though mostly, I don't want to leave the dirtroads, the seclusion of the backwoods, the big yard, Mr. Junky and Mr. Shed.

A real house, though. No matter where. It'll still be a while, and that's fine. I've got time. Tis only March, and I have a well-behaved child (for now; knock on desktop), a collection of short stories to send out, and a blog I hope of nursing back to health.

Baby Girl's really sick.

I'm exhausted.

I can't find any words to express the rest of it...I'm so tired and scared and stressed.

Out of my misery

I'm sick. Sick sick sick. Burning with fever, and exhausted from taking care of a sick little toddler. Dragging her to the doctor where we waited two whole hours with other sick people, getting even sicker.

I'm miserable. And tired. And haven't been online but once since Valentine's. That was only for a bit, and then we got sick. We've been sick. She's getting better, and I'm getting worse.

My mind is reduced to medicine and sweat.

After my bath tonight, I couldn’t sleep for all the napping I did. Now it's two in the morning and all I can say is I'm sick.

(sniffles...coughs)

I'm going back to bed.

Please send soup.

Or throw rocks at my head.

This Modern Love

Yesterday was God awful, and last night was even worse, but I'm trying to enjoy the morning, so I'll cover it later.

I just wanted to wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day!!

I have the afternoon off, and even though my plans fell through, I'm still going out, alone, in search of something good. Something happy! Or, at the very least, something to write about.

I hope you have a lovely, romantic, WONDERFUL day! :)

Where do you go to hide from yourself?

Me, last Monday.

What a God awful weekend. Yesterday was horrible. Gray skies, and cold wind, and no wonder I haven't taken my child for a walk since Tuesday.

We bundled up, and ventured out, though. She discovered the rake, and I suppose I discovered it too, considering the fact I forgot we even owned one. She went to sweeping up leaves and dragging 'em around. Sticking the metal teeth into big holes all scattered about the soft yard.

Don't hurt yourself, I said a million times.

She ignored me, and said, I got it, Mommy. I can do it!

And went about her raking, as I eventually ignored her too, getting lost in my own messy head.

I wish I could shrink myself down, along with the rake, and get to work on all the papers flying around in there. I'd make a big pile for burning, though I don't suppose lighting a fire in your head would be wise, and Baby Girl would probably just tromp through it before I could get it lit.

So instead of shrinking and burning, or distracting my child from her newfound talent, I started thinking of game plans, as far as writing is concerned. It's the same battle-with-myself as it has been for nearly a year now: "I want to write a blog. No, I should write a novel. What about a short story. God knows I need to edit. Why don't I try to get published. And I need to write letters. I need to clean house. I need to pay bills..." [Giant explosion goes off in Ashley's head].

Back inside, I did all the stupid things I'm supposed to do, even on a Saturday night, and wouldn’t it be nice to actually have a date. Or do something fun. Something creative!

No, I cooked and cleaned, and put Baby Girl to bed around nine-thirty. I went to my room and ran a bubble bath, complete with music, a knife (in case someone breaks in), a notebook and an ink pen. I thought I might try writing in the tub.

I didn't work.

My notebook got wet, and then I was sadder than I was before. Sat crying in this mountain of bubbles; trying so hard to pretend someone was standing there near the counter just to cheer me up, but I couldn’t. I'm too lonely. Like getting so sleepy you can't even sleep. You pass a certain point, and then you're overtired.

I'm overlonely.

I just wish I could figure it all out, and stop being so damn childish and jealous of everyone else who has time and energy for their own wants and needs at the end of the day. Or at the beginning.

How am I supposed to get it all done, and be happy with myself?

I climbed into bed and called a close friend. I nibbled on crackers, and flipped through the channels (Yes, I finally put a TV in the bedroom, despite my better judgment). I told him how I worked all day, but didn't even come close to getting everything done, and I had to get some sleep so I could wake up and write. How my writing has turned to crap considering the fact I didn't write at all (or very little) over those stupid six weeks, and was so scared if I didn't put something decent on this blog, I'd lose all my friends because why would they want to read a poorly-written blog? I'm so scared they'll all hate me anyway.

This is when my friend started yelling at me, which I obviously deserved.

I listened, crying on my pillow, watching a Ladybug crawl up and down the wall as I interjected the occasional "Yes, I know. I'm crazy."

After he finished his rant, he became very patient again, and started listing all my faults and how to fix them.

I love friends like this. They see things I can't. Like a writer reading someone else's work. I'll catch every single mistake you make, but in my own story, I continue reading what I think I’ve written versus what is actually on the page.

He says I'm just paranoid. And nobody hates me. And if I don't have time for everything, prioritize, and don't feel guilty or selfish. And people won't quit being my friend just because my writing is bad.

Didn't they stick around while you were gone? he asked. You act like they didn't.

In my own head, I'm so scared people regret sticking around (not only here, but in my real life too) . That they should leave, and that's why I sometimes act as if they already have.

He told me to stop thinking like that, and to quit crying. Go to bed. Wake up and make some time for yourself.

Which I just did. But now I'm off to get dressed and go to Wal-Mart by myself. Thank God! I need a vacation from my child and this house, and the sun's finally out for the first time since Tuesday.

I only wish I could shake the feeling that a million other things have gone undone and unsaid, both offline and on, and how does everyone do everything for everyone? Especially themselves.

A fast glimpse of you

I'm sorry for making the "I'm Back" announcement only to follow it up with absolutely nothing.

I picked a bad week to (re)start blogging.

I suppose though, it's like everything else in life: if you don't start today, you'll never start.

It seems there's a more famous way of saying that; an actual quote or something, but it's three in the morning here and I‘m tired. I couldn’t sleep due to my lack of writing. Though I did manage to write something on Thursday: a two page blog piece I have since deleted.

I was happy with it at the time, and would have posted it had Baby Girl not woken up before I finished editing. And because of that writing, I managed to sleep eleven hours Thursday night. Not getting online at all Friday, I find myself here now, desperately wanting to write something. Anything!

I guess I need to be an all or nothing type girl (as I am in so many other situations): If I don't post everything, I'll end up posting nothing. No new entries, and then I'll lose the rest of my readers and/or friends...God knows leaving for six weeks didn't exactly HELP in that department.

So what happened in the meantime? I was gone for so long, surely something happened...

We had Christmas.
Then New Years.
I lost the internet.
Lost my muse.
Didn't write.
Cut my hair.
Lost some weight.
Printed out the novel.
Went to the dentist twice.
Watched a film that changed my life.

Now I'm trying so hard to write this blog, and get back in touch with all the people I care about. Plus, Valentine's Day is coming. It's one of the only holidays I actually like.

I read the city of Verona receives a thousand letters addressed to Juliet every Valentine's Day.

I think that's the most romantic thing EVER!

I wish I was Juliet...

I'd read those letters over and over, and finally reply on perfume scented paper with a big feather pen and a lipstick kiss on every single envelope.

I find it sad, though, that no one writes to Romeo.

To hell with the blues

I haven't been here in six weeks.

I was stressed out over the holidays, and busy with all that nonsense. Then I lost my internet connection due to not paying my bills.

I'm back now, though. Catching up, and trying to write, and looking forward to reading and talking to friends.

I just wanted to get this first post over with. And get on with my life. ;)

So...

Merry Christmas!!
Happy New Year!!
Happy Groundhog's Day!

I hope everyone is well.

These aren't normal times

It's no good mood that brings me here this morning. It's not alcohol either, so at least there's that.

My good mood lasted all of one day. Maybe a day and a half. Come Saturday night, all was still decent, so we might as well call it two days. The two days in December Ash was happy. Oh, and the first day of December. That was nice too.

If I was happy more often, though, I wouldn't remember it. It would all just blur, and I'd be ungrateful. This way, I can keep track of it.

Again I haven't been here in a while. I feel like I should have that permanently tattooed to my sidebar...Hi, my name's Ashley Chairiet, and even though I used to be a hardcore blogger and considerate reader and friend, I now disappear often and for long stints. I have a decent enough excuse though. A few excuses. We all do this time of year, though I remember last year distinctly...sitting here at my desk, writing away, so happy to be back to blogging after writing that God awful novel, and sad over the fact that everyone else was so busy with the holidays. I was here on Christmas morning. Writing a short story.

My current writing life is unsatisfied.

The rest of my life is overran. A strange combination of inactivity, yet being ten times as busy, what with Christmas. All the shopping now complete. Though my bank account isn't too fond of me. I imagine the people who provide my utilities won't be too fond of me either, not until I pay my bills in January. Which is the breaks. If I had it my way, I'd only give Baby Girl and my parents and my sister and my grandparents a present, and just make cards, and hug and kiss everyone else. I can't afford these big stupid Christmases. I have to buy gifts for all my cousins up north. Draw names at my aunt's house, and trade presents there. And then there's the babies, which I actually don't mind buying for. I'm a sucker for the toy department. The baby aisles. All those cute and snuggly squeaky toys, with mirrors, buttons, little plastic eyes and smiling faces. Those metal keys in back you wind-up to play music. Tinkling lullabies making you cry for the lack of another child.

I feel so alone this time of year. The end of one and the beginning of another, and Christmas, stupid Christmas, for the love of Jesus, I care, and try my best to stay happy, and keep it all in focus. How it's his birthday: let's give presents, and visit. Eat good food. Look at bright lights. Stay up late watching It's a Wonderful Life after my child goes to bed, and maybe, just maybe, Jimmy Stewart will make me realize I’m lucky to be alive.

Remind me of that in January when I‘m stressed out over debt. In February, when I’m lonely on Valentines. In March, when I'm sick due to pollen. In April, when I'm drunk. In May, when I’m mad at myself for not finishing Noah (May is my make-believe deadline). June, I'll be drunk. July, I'll be crazy (July isn't kind to me. Neither is December). August, I'll decide to come back to bloggging after I surely take the summer off to revel in the aforementioned craziness. September, when I'm selfish and write a bunch of stories no one will ever read. In October, I'll be twenty-four. How depressing. In November, I'll write a third novel, and wonder if it's possible for me to write a novel without the pressure of NaNoWriMo. Finally, in December, I'll be sad again, and have nothing to save me but the sight of George Bailey. Maybe that will be enough to propel me through the next year and the next.

It's worth a try, and on my schedule. I'll squeeze it in somewhere between now and New Year's Eve.

Another reason I haven’t been here: My computer's tricky. I was here for an hour or two on Sunday morning, and for no reason at all, the damn thing crashed. I couldn’t get it to come back on. I haven't been back since. Not even to work. I have a nice pile over there, awaiting my attention, but it's better to leave it be, then possibly lose it should the damn thing go out again at an inopportune time, say while entering unsaved data (or for my own personal sake, while writing). So word of a new computer has reached me: a laptop, which delights me! I'll admit. I'm about ready to take a hammer to this one, and then I'll be set up with the freedom to work from anywhere in the house. On the couch, at the bar. In the floor. In the bed. I would write so much more if I didn’t always have to be in this office. I get so tired of sitting here in order to work, write, and socialize. With the laptop, I wouldn’t be faced with this damn uncomfortable chair. With the thought of spending one more second in this tiny room just to get online for a while. Instead, at night, I could just curl up naked and write, read, blog myself to sleep. Get up and go outside, and write my novels on the deck at sunrise. Work in whatever room my daughter wants to play in. We'd be happier. Me, more active...

Yes, computer, please die!

My internet connection has also been tricky. It takes ten minutes to connect.

I’ve spent a lot of time cleaning house. Two days shopping. Despite being sick. Cooking. Baking treats for a certain Baby Girl who is quite excited about the whole Christmas deal. She smiles and says, "Santa Clause coming! Chrisp-miss. Chrisp-miss. New toys in office!"

Tis where I keep them. The big pile of goodies here beside me.

As soon as I wrap them, and have my house in a decent state (I like to start each new year with every room cleaned, and cleaned out), I should be around a bit more often. And hopefully I’ll be all caught up on work, and then on my writing. Perhaps I’ll even be blogging from the comfort of my own bed. All warm and nestled between the sheets. I’m sure that will improve my mood. I am allowed to drink again, but for whatever reason, I don’t think I will.

Ghost of Christmas in July

I haven't been around in a while. Or hardly at all this month. The few times I have been here, I was drunk.

It’s been a quiet month. Lonely, and tired. I do my usual routine each day. And every night, after Baby Girl's in bed, instead of going to sleep and waking up at a decent time, say three or four am, to come in and write, read, blog, etcetera, I stay up watching hours of Scrubs, my newfound obsession. I pass out around midnight and sleep till morning. Repeat.

It's not that I'm through writing, though. In fact, I've decided I'm not even through with the novel. A few weeks of being away from it...stepping back, and seeing the forest, not the trees, I've realized that there are whole trees missing. Big gaping clearings of land where something else could grow. I think I’ll write three more parts to it. From three different points of view.

Besides, the forty-four thousand words of actual prose (I nearly killed myself writing six thousand words of filler just to win NaNoWriMo) would never be enough for an actual novel. If I add the three parts, that would make it a legitimate size and length. Worth my time to edit. Which I'll do six weeks after I finish.

So writing wise: I’m booked up well into the new year.

Life wise: I dread Christmas. I’ve been busy decorating, planning, making lists, and procrastinating on shopping. I have twenty people to buy for, and how I‘ll afford that, I’m not sure. I feel guilty every year for not having nicer gifts for everyone. Though some years, I have no gifts at all.

My online life: As I mentioned, I haven’t been around. I feel as if I’m turning into a ghost who has nothing left to say. Nothing to offer. I’m not a good friend, so why should anyone care? I would be, though, if I were ever here.

Back to real life: Baby Girl is doing fine.

I think my sister may be pregnant.

My Mom was sitting at home the other night when someone knocked on her door. As late as it was, she was scared, and leaned against it in her bathrobe, asking, Who’s there? She heard mumbling. She asked again. More mumbling. Finally, she opened the door, and there was my father, screaming, Landshark!

It warms my heart when they act silly like that, and have moments that remind them of their past.

As for me: I drove out to the cemetery yesterday and tucked a note into my Grandfather’s World War II stone. There’s a space between the top, where the writing is, and the bottom, which is essentially just a box made to look like a stone. I wrote Merry Christmas, and I love you, to them both. I folded it up and slid it in. I was surprised to see there’s still no grass on my Grandmother’s side. It won’t grow there. Still red, and muddy, what with all the recent rain. The heat. I drove home in overalls, tank top and sunglasses, pretending it was summer. Wishing I was still lost in its love.

I’m lost somewhere else now. The holidays. The rushing. The ending of a year.

It’s almost over and I’m scared. Glad. A million contradicting things in my heart and head. I wish I was George Bailey on a bridge with an angel to show me all the good parts of life. I’m tired, I’d tell him. He’d put his arms around me and walk me straight home through the snow. Inside, Baby Girl would say, Every time a bell rings, grass grows on a grave. I’d say, That’s right. That’s right. Wink at the sky, and smile.

I Come in Peace

Thank God Thanksgiving is officially over. I survived. I hope you did too. Baby Girl is also fine. Sleeping as sound as most two year olds do.

Tis Friday night, a few minutes past eleven, and I'm here in my pajamas, fixed hair and full make-up. I didn't take a shower after coming home from the Others. We went down to the uncle's for a (day after) Thanksgiving dinner. She was good, I suppose. I was not so good. I opened my big mouth and offended the hostess, Baby Girl's aunt.

We were all in the kitchen, empty plates in hand, food upon the island and countertop. There were big metal trays full of meat, and I don't particularly like meat. I rarely eat it, and hardly ever cook it, save for grilled chicken or fish. I asked someone, What is all this? pointing to the trays. Whoever said, That's turkey, that's pork, that's deer, and that's dove wrapped in bacon.

I said (in reference to the dove), Wow, that seems sinful.

[Crickets chirping] Complete silence. Then someone asked, What did she say??

I repeated myself. I said that seems sinful.

Someone forced a laugh, as if I was joking, though I did say it in a joking manner. I meant no harm. Nor to preach. I merely thought it a bit much. I mean, doves are beautiful birds. They're religiously symbolic. Noah let loose the dove from the ark. Tis a symbol of hope, and new life. They’re usually released at weddings, not shot, dowsed in barbeque sauce, tossed on the grill and wrapped in dead pig.

That's sad, and disturbing, and aren't there enough animals to eat already? Domesticated animals we raise for this type of thing. Do we really need to go out into the beautiful woods and shoot beautiful white birds??

I suppose for Easter, we should deep fry blue jays. Mince up a couple of cardinals and robins for a Christmas Day feast. Have hummingbirds on crackers for a midnight snack.

I took a piece of pork just to be polite, and gave Baby Girl some turkey. We walked into the dinning room, and the hostess sat at the bar. Whispered something to the uncle about not wanting to sit in the same room...

Am I that dislikable??

I realize the vast majority of my fellow southerners live to hunt. They’re proud of their prey, and their cooking. They think I'm strange. A skinny little snob that sits on the couch and says nothing to no one cause she doesn't know what to say. They all talk about what a shame it is for the Razorbacks to lose, and I don't give a damn. They swig their beers, and get loud, and laugh over corny jokes. Talk about movies you couldn’t pay me to watch. Gossip. I stare off into space and think about my novel. My friends. My internet life. How I need to do this, and want to do that. And how I shouldn't have made that wayward comment about the dove, and should I just apologize?

Baby Girl played with the closer of the others, while the hostess stayed as far away from me as possible. Sitting in the kitchen with a bunch of her friends. Smoking, drinking. All set for a night of riding four-wheelers. And here I am, hated and ignored, back at home, with Baby Girl bathed and in bed. Me, in a desperate attempt to actually win NaNoWriMo, all set to stay up all night, and write till my little heart's content, dowsed in prose, wrapped in blog entries, and thrown upon the hot coals of those I miss.

I know why the baked bird sings

Thanksgiving morning, four AM, and here I sit by an open window. Yes, I'm cold, wrapped in a navy blue sheet, but it's nice to be affected by something. To be able to breathe the cold air of reality versus the synthetic air of the heater. All stuffy as it fills my tiny office. No thank you. I'd rather sit here shivering.

I have a long day ahead of me. Long days behind me. Busy and quiet, but I wanted to come home for the holiday and say hello; stick my head out like a little groundhog who sees her shadow. I get scared. Just one more week of NaNoWriMo. I hope you'll come and see my final word count next Thursday. I'm going to lose, but that's all right. If nothing else, it will affect me.

Off to write. Then it's off to get ready. Pack Baby Girl a bag of toys and snacks and drinks for the long day's road ahead. We're going up north to see my grandparents, her great grandparents, though we have to ride with my Mom on the way up there, and my sister on the way back. I dread it. I wish we could just stay home and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I live for those things.

The best part of Thanksgiving (not including the parade) is filling both our tummies with lots of dressing, not stuffing. Down here, we don't stuff our turkeys. We bake the bird and the "stuffing" separate, therefore, it's not stuffing at all, but dressing. I love it! Wish I could eat a whole plate of it while watching the parade, then snuggle up with Baby Girl, our full tummies. Finding out she was inside me three years ago today. Celebrate the fact that we're both here; thankful for each other, and all that we have; that Mommy quit smoking. Yay for me and the last three years of being smoke free!

So yes, dressing, and two great anniversaries. I hate that we’ll miss the parade, and the potential for naps, though I may sneak one in once we’re home. To stay up all night and morning, over and over, trying so damn hard to win that NaNoWriMo! A contest that is ruining my sleep, my health, my social life. I want it though. I WANT to win. I'm lonely as hell, and sad and depressed, and a million other bad things, but it's pulling a novel out of my heart and head like a dentist pulls a tooth from your mouth.

I hope everyone I know, and everyone here, and everyone everywhere has the most wonderful, lovely, warm and safe holiday! I wish I could make the rounds and tell everyone, Happy Thanksgiving! in a more one-on-one greeting card type way but I do have that novel, and the long day and road ahead. I miss my friends, though, and will be thinking of them. I am thankful for them. I hope they know my selfishness is only for the sake of writing. Limited time. I hope to leave this cold office laughing, for the happiness of being closer to winning that contest and the pride I long for. Should I lose, I'm still grateful for the words I've got so far. For being here long enough to write anything at all.

What Can't Be Seen

You know it's a bad sign when you wake up sweating at three-thirty in the morning, mid-November, and run to the living room, turn on the TV, see if the Tornados have died down, stayed West. If we're still safe and sound here in the shoebox. If running the air conditioner is wise, when it's supposed to be a windy fifty degrees after sunrise. I stood there naked in the middle of the room, trying to decide: air or no air. I heard Baby Girl crying, either from the flashing light, or the heat.

I wandered back to the bedroom. Locked the door behind me. Looked at the sheets all thrown about, wanting so much to return to that little space I had created beneath the blankets. Comforting, considering the nightmare I dreamt before waking.

All my friends, mostly of the high school or online variety, were standing about, talking.

Ah yes, I remember Ashley. Car crash, right?

They walked away and left me there, though I wasn't there. I tried to call out, but couldn’t. I kept thinking, over and over, It wasn't just a car crash. I was sleepy...

And then I saw from far above a wet road with no yellow line, trees on both sides, and a green jeep coming straight for me. Hitting me head-on.

I said to another person I couldn't see, but knew was there, I don't like this. I want to change it.

They said, Too bad. You can't change it.

I saw my own grave, and woke up.

I got dressed and made coffee. Came into the office. Sat down and decided, I want to go back to the internet today. Despite not feeling well. Though it's not the same bout of sickness I had when I left. That was no sickness at all. Twas an accidental overdose.

Gives you fever, your body trying its best to reject all that medicine. I felt better, though, as the day progressed. Baby Girl and I watched hours upon hours of SpongeBob. By the time the actual movie came on, we were both so tired of that damn gay Sponge, I happily switched it to Bridget Jones Diary, as she "read" books by my side.

As planned, I spent the weekend offline. Worked on the novel and my word-count. Tis healthy now, though still way behind.

Current Wordcount: 11, 051.
Number of Significant Characters: Seven.
Number of Chapters: Seven.
Number of Deaths: Still too many. (World War III will do that)
Number of Possible Love Interest: Three. (I'm living vicariously...)

They JUST issued a Tornado Warning for one county over, where my sister lives in College Town. I was just there last night.

I took yesterday off. Left Baby Girl here with a sitter, and drove North to a government building. Downtown in a dangerous city. Me in my knee high leather boots with three inch heels. Short skirt. Low top. I rethought the whole outfit as I made the long walk from my car parked in the very back, up to the front entrance where scary looking men drove past. Though I was comforted by the fact that a well-dressed man was behind me. Cute. Mid-thirties.

I lost sight of him once inside. Handed over my purse. Walked through a metal detector for the first time in my life. Looked for the stairwell, but couldn't find it. Went to the elevator, and who do you think was waiting inside?

Cute mid-thirties Man.

Him on one side and me on the other, leaning against the wall, hardly breathing.

I hate elevators, I said.

He smiled, and asked, Are you claustrophobic, or is it the elevator itself?

I told him it was the elevator, and he assured me we were safe.

I used to climb the cables, he said. I checked 'em for a living.

I guess I looked surprised, or relieved, as I nodded and said, Wow, really? and we both smiled and blushed. The cables held.

No goodbye.

I got off on the second floor, and he went onto three.

As I left the government building, I saw his blue car parked across from mine, and thought of leaving a note on his windshield. "Thanks for riding with me," along with my phone number. I thought about it, but didn't. And thought of him all day.

I went shopping. Tried to find my sister a late birthday present. Bought a coat for Baby Girl. A few movies for myself at the video place where VHS tapes are no longer wanted on their shelves and marked down to five for ten dollars.

I drove South to my sister's, and apologized for the lack of a present. She said she didn't care; she was just happy to see me. Her husband was out with Adams, his best friend and a man I was quite smitten with. Gorgeous. Mid-twenties. He's the reason I didn't see Sufjan in concert. Being the terrible driver I am, no one would agree to keep Baby Girl while I ran off to Nashville for an overnight vacation, unless of course, someone else would take me. I fought against it. I'm an adult! I can drive. But you'd be surprised how quick those sitters gang up when they know I want to go to a big city out of state.

My sister, knowing Adams also loves Sufjan, asked him if he would just take me. Though the thought of a long car-ride, concert, and shared hotel room with a sure thing like me literally didn't interest him. Perhaps it's because he was heartbroken earlier in the year when his live-in girlfriend went back to her ex-husband and took Adam's own Baby Girl with her. That, or he just doesn’t like me.

Where do Novelist go when they die?

Back to bed, tis where I'm going. I came in this morning thinking I'd blog, write thousands upon thousands of much needed words for my novel. Read. Send emails. Hopefully mend a few broken fences. Be a good friend in general. But now that I'm here, my head is aching, my mouth hurts, and I think I may have fever.

Baby Girl should be up in a few hours. I'll take some medicine and work for a bit. Spend the remainder of the day watching the SpongeBob SquarePants Marathon. Cuddle up with her on the couch for the movie tonight.

This weekend, I think I better stay offline. Work on my novel. I've missed three whole days so far this month, not including today, and my wordcount proves it. Tis far from where it should be. Though I'm not quitting, nor am I worried. I know I can do it! I simply need to concentrate. That's hard, though, when I have so many other things I'd like to be doing, need to be doing, and feel sicker with each passing minute.

I'm going back to bed now. If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help.

Best of luck to my fellow novelists. To everyone with everything.

NaNoWriMo Q and A:

Current Wordcount? 7307
Number of Significant Characters? Five.
Number of Chapters? Four.
Number of Deaths? Way too many.
Number of Possible Love Interest? Hopefully just two.

Halloween

A long and tiring day. A storm blew in, heavy rain and hail, massive amounts of lightening. A rainbow followed, and what else makes Halloween special but a rainbow tornado?


Tis what it sounded like as I took this picture from the deck; the wind was howling through the backwoods.

Baby-bot as Tinkerbelle had a lovely time trick or treating after the storm finally passed. We went to the other's. To my mom, and my dad's. To my former church for Trunk or Treat, where church members park their cars in the parking lot and local children come and gather said treats from the trunks, and only a few shouts of Jesus loves you! could be heard amongst the sound of people laughing and talking. Quite a few compliments were graced upon my child. Aw, isn't she cute?!


She was quite charming. Smiling. Dancing around.

I had one of those moments only parents can truly understand...when your child is a few feet away from you in a parking lot and you look at her and time is suddenly frozen. You see her. She is lit up by the warm light of the streetlamp overhead. You can't help but think, my child is gorgeous and special, and my God at how old she is.

I'll never forget that moment.

Happy Halloween.

I'm Awake...

In a very strange place. Life is changing, as always, of course, but something feels different. Those days when you awake with a clear head and a full heart, and you know something’s changing, though you're not sure what, but you know not to be scared. To stand still for a moment, and watch...wait...it's changing, and maybe this time, for the best.

I'm in a very strange state. My mind is racing, yet I feel I'm in slow motion. Leaves falling, and Baby Girl rushing past, yet I'm walking the dirtroad in silence. Each step is thoughtful, careful. Quiet. I smile, and my eyes fill with tears because I know something is over. A chapter of my life is closing, and as a writer, I know chapters...I know an ending when I see it.

I know it's time to write another novel. To take it seriously, and be the best damn writer I can be.

Not be distracted. Not be sad. Not be lonely, or wanting, or selfish, or needy. Not be so isolated. Yet unseen.

I'm simply stepping away, climbing over the fence, and where's Ash? someone asks. Everyone smiles and nods, and says, Ah, there she is, walking slowly now, but come November, she'll be running...full speed ahead towards the sunset, through the tall grass. I know. Said Huck Finn, I been there before.

And I miss that field. That tall grass.

Aiming for the sunset.

You've got to catch it, though, while it last. Or else you'll freeze to death.

Novel Land and the field you have to cross, the fence, to climb, the sun, to catch, it's a cold and lonely place. You can't fall. You can't stop. You can't give up at the first sign of bad prose or weak plot. There are living things that hide amongst that tall grass. They will devour you, given the chance. Those little creatures, those monsters, they spawn from our own self doubt. Waiting...watching. Destroying all dreams. Killing all writers, should we stop, or should we fall, our stories won't be told.

...

In my head: all that I just wrote; change, and the monsters in the grass. How I fear them, yet how excited I am for November, and this, my third real attempt at noveling.

In my heart: I am not well. Healing, though, I think.

In my life: I have so many stories to tell...I've been busy, though, and time must be made for telling stories. Hopefully I'll find that time, not only for me, but for others. Those moments when the monsters are sleeping, and I can stop and breathe easy for the chance to say Hi, how are you? I want and need you in my life.

...

One last story on this short and sunlit morning:

I drove out to the Lake again last Tuesday. I parked upon a steep hill to watch the sunset. The lake to one side, a green valley to the other, full of trees, their leaves beginning to change. Fall. Gold light upon their heads, and my face, through the window in the car, I said aloud everything to everyone I was thinking of. Those who find their way into my heart and into my head, and some of them I want there, all of them I need there, and after saying my thoughts aloud, I said to myself, I want to be happy. I want to live.

I want to watch the sunset over beautiful lakes. Clear water. Sitting on wooden boat docks, writing. Excited for novels, and each new day.

I don't want to fall into that valley where I'd surely break my neck. And who would find me, as I'm dieing, but the monsters in the grass.

Chasing White

Monday morning, and the heat's blowing. I'm drinking cold water. Awake for hours now. Baby Girl woke me up at One-Forty, screaming, crying. Why? I don't know. She hasn't been sleeping well. It's always too hot here, or too cold. I dress in her warm jammies, but then the heat blows, and with blankets, sheets, it's far too much. So I don't run the heat and she gets cold. I can't win. Couldn't fall back asleep. Laid in bed. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts on my lack of writing these past few days. How I've barely been online at all. Only once since Thursday, but I was drunk. Insanely drunk...

For the last time, I swear.

No drinking for NaNoWriMo.

I've settled on a title:

Noah, by A. B. Chairiet

I hope it will be publishable.

Tis my goal, Love. My big goal, like an illuminated bulls-eye, swinging and swaying on the end of a string.

I want to shoot it in its center.

Catch the white rabbit. Join him for tea. And not be beheaded by the evil queen otherwise known as writer's block, giving up, getting stuck on chapter three...

I aim. But how do I shoot the center when the circle swings and sways?

There's so much to do beforehand. So many loose ends to tie, and friends to say hello to. No goodbyes, though. I'm not leaving. I couldn't bear the loneliness now...It's getting so cold, so quiet. The hum of the fan and the lull of the heat. The sound. The warmth. I need this and you and friends.

I've been so busy in reality.

Spent the weekend with Baby Girl. Cooking, cleaning.

We went to a party on Saturday. No slipping down embankments. No happy families making me jealous, or sad. I sat in the floor of a tiny living room with lots of loud mouth fat-ass women and quiet redneck men. Obnoxious children. A baby who just turned one years old. Cake. Ice Cream. No thank you, I don't want any, and the fat women give me dirty looks.

When you get older, one says, You'll realize it doesn't matter.

And they all laugh.

I don't care how old I am, being fat and unhealthy is never wise, and when she's on her deathbed at thirty five having a triple bi-pass, maybe she'll think twice about giant slabs of cake with ice cream and cookies and Coke, and casting dirty looks, rolling her eyes, and mispronouncing my daughter's name...

Oh, she said, upon my correcting her.

That must be a family name.

No it's not a family name. It's just a God Damn Name! Now eat your puckin' cake and tell your obnoxious little monster children to shut the puck up! They’re so shrill, my head's aching.

I hate parties. I hate stupid cake and stupid people and stupid families that are boring and obnoxious and I'd rather stay home with Baby Girl and be quiet and lonely than go amongst people who are loud and ordinary.

I love when my dreams come true in a way that corrects my prior thinking.

I only hope the bulls-eye isn't really swinging or swaying.

I hope the white rabbit's in reach.

Pride and Prejudice

What do you mean you don't like my mustache?!

So it's Saturday, and I couldn't sleep. I'm drinking. Listening to loud music. Dancing. Life is swell, albeit strange and busy.

Monday night, I was lying in the floor with Baby-bot, half-playing with her in her dollhouse, half-watching The Harvey Girls in my nightgown, waiting patiently for the Bolger/Garland dance number, How delightful to see them reunited! when I heard a knock at yonder door. Twas a neighbor of mine. A young mother of her own baby girl. She was married, but that didn't last...they're still married though. Southerners rarely take the time (cough, cough, the money) to receive technical, legal, oh-the-shame-of-it-all divorces, so. Yes. Married. But not for long...ran off and joined the army. Was stationed up north. Got knocked up and now she's home. Lives up the road from us. Her little darling is turning one years old, and having a party this afternoon.

We're invited. Tis why she stopped by...handed me the invitation. I immediately thought of my dream: the party full of families, and Baby Girl falling.

I should probably be sleeping now, especially not drinking, so I can keep two open eyes on her at all times later today.

...

Went for a walk Tuesday or Wednesday. Heard horrible noises out in the woods. Twas three dogs having sex, simultaneously, while another dog stood watch. His tongue hanging out. Panting. All of them howling. I laughed, and they heard me...broke it up long enough to chase me and Baby Girl, who yes, was crying. And fear of dogs or not, I kept my cool, I'm proud to say. I told Baby Girl, Don't cry, it's okay. Told the dogs, Hush up, filthy mutts! They went back to their business, not in the woods, though, but right there in the middle of the road.
...

I didn't go to that local festival. No one would go with me, and I didn't feel like taking Baby Girl alone.

...

My father came over Thursday night with a Pizza for him and Baby Girl.

They sat and ate, as he and I discussed politics and the upcoming elections. I asked for his opinions on the candidates...

Big mistake.

Dad ranted and raved about how I should vote for Asa Hutchinson, and not Mike Beebe. Unless of course I like Bill Clinton (which is a mortal sin in Dad's book) because Bill Clinton, while in office, he says, was more interested in whores than the state of our nation. You don’t support that, now do ya? Support Bill Clinton...damn, worthless...

Random mutterings, all muffled by cheese and various pizza toppings. Baby Girl's bibble-babbling. My own sighing, and crinkling of the newspaper.

I ask what makes Asa Hutchinson so great? Besides the fact that I find him more, if only somewhat, aesthetically pleasing...

Dad said, He's against those Homosexuals getting married, adopting babies.

I said, I have no problem with gay people getting married...I think all marriage should be illegal though. Tis the stupidest, most outdated institution known to modern man.

As for gay parents adopting babies: I told him there are so many sweet little babies who need homes, and who the hell can say who's fit to be a parent and who's not? I raise Baby Girl, and no, I'm not gay, just a young borderline alcoholic who's somewhat suicidal, depressed for life, and this makes me better suited to care for another human being, more so than those who prefer the same-sex while fornicating??

Please. Sexual Orientation matters not, when all kids need is love and attention. I give Baby Girl a million times the ocean! I hug and cuddle and tell her I love her.

The fact that I find women attractive is completely irrelevant when it comes to my ability to be a great parent.

My father doesn't know...doesn't care. Rants and raves. Eats. Finishes.

We moved to the living room to watch Brian Wilson in concert. Talk of who was better: The Beatles or the Rolling Stones.

He goes home to his wife, the home-wrecking dogface bitch that slept with him while he was still married to my mother, who is obviously straight as a board, and wasn’t a good parent at all. My father either. He wasn't around...not at all concerned for the state of his daughters while in office with his whore.

We thanked him for the pizza, and kissed him goodnight.

...

Friday was all right. I worked hard. Took a short nap, and then got up and took Baby Girl for a long walk. Twas cool and breezy. Nice. We talked and had fun, and she's so excited for the party. Keeps saying, Birthday party! and smiling.

Finally got her to bed around ten. Went to bed myself and laid there, staring at the ceiling. Couldn't sleep. Just laid there, and laid there...my head full, and my heart...well, I'm not sure what she's wanting, or losing, or needing, or what she says to my head when I'm not listening.

I came in here to drink.

Maybe it was Utah

Monday, October 16th: the start of another week. Another morning where I sit with coffee and a keyboard, a ceiling fan above me. A clean office I spent five hours cleaning while not working over the four day weekend. Who knew I had so many things I didn't need? Whole stacks of papers, stories I wrote, and smiled over reading. How enthusiastic I used to be! How happy. How distracted by the coffee and the keyboard and the fan.

It's raining out. The constant tapping on my tin roof is making me sleepy. I didn't sleep well last night. Woke up angry. I don't remember dreaming.

I had plenty of dreams Saturday night once I finally stumbled to bed after watching documentaries on sex addicts, and students sleeping with their teachers, and no, they didn't abuse their trust, and yes, they must have sex, they're addicted. I don’t believe 'em but watched like a kid at a sideshow. People throwing knives at other people spinning on wheels, crying. Scared. I dreamt I was walking down a muddy road, alone, with snakes hiding in the puddles, rattling and slithering. Lunging at my ankles. Snakes everywhere! In the grass that grew alongside, falling from the treeline. My father stepped out into the road ahead shouting, Watch out for those snakes, Ash. Watch out for those snakes...

I went on to dream of Baby Girl and I going to a birthday party for another child. After parking longways in front of a house with children all running in the yard full of happy families with gifts in hand, new babies in their arms, smiling over everything, I climbed from the car and unfastened Baby Girl and sat her down, and she was so happy to see the other kids, to play with someone other than me, that she ran into the yard and was laughing, but I told her to stop. Wait. I have to get the gift from the passenger seat. I walked back to the car and was struggling to get the big heavy present and my purse and the keys. I wasn't watching. She was coming back to me, and slid down an embankment into a big moving stream, and I yelled at someone standing closer to reach in and grab her, but they didn't, so I jumped in, and she was fine. Thank God, she was fine! But I had to take her home and get us changed and by the time we made it back, the party was over. It was dark. The families were leaving.

The final dream was of me, walking through a door into a room where all four walls were tall clear glass. Sunlight pouring onto white wood floors. In the center was a stage, and on it, a bed, and on it, my ex best friend, M. Short, thin, green eyes and a big toothy smile like Julia Roberts. I said hi, and we hugged. It was just like old times. Lying in bed by each other's side. Staring out the windows, I asked her, Where are we? She said it was a famous building where they once shot a movie, but it was so old, she bought it for cheap, and would I like a tour? I said I did. Pulling down a folded ladder with a string. She took my hand and led me through a door in the ceiling. We climbed up and out and into the sunlight, onto a flat square with stairs, slides, and tunnels connecting hundreds of other rooftops, all of different colors and heights: the buildings, stairs, tunnels, and slides. We played like the children in the yard until I got lost, and the sky went dark. Separated, I ran, searching, through windows and doors, trying to find her loft but never could. I stood in that darkness atop a roof waiting for the sun to rise. To pass the time, I took pictures of the tunnels and slides. The flash of my camera. My only light.

I'm outside your house

Looking through the window at a happy family, eating soup, or something from bowls with spoons. Steam rising making everyone's cheeks warm and pink. You and your wife and your kids, and everyone's happy, smiling. Your eyes all twinkle a bit as I lower my head. I walk away. Slowly at first, staring at my shoes making imprints in yesterday's snow. Then faster. Running down the sidewalk with one hand doing what it will, the other holding the letter, folded in an envelope.

You don't want what's inside.

And I won't bother you with it. I won't interrupt your dinner, your life. I won't ask for more than you can give me. I won't ring that doorbell and ask to come inside. Just for a moment, to warm myself by your fire, or at your soup or say nice things to your wife and kids. Oh what lovely things you have, here in this well furnished place with stairs that lead up to the bedroom where I wish you'd take me, but I know you never will.

...

I'm feeling sorry for myself this morning. Feeling sorry for the world in general.

Just felt like writing something.

It's Friday the 13th, and that's always a fun day for writing. Holidays, and other such special occasions usually inspire me. I think I might start a new short story later today. I'm not working. Didn't work yesterday. I had a hell of a day Monday, and Tuesday also, despite going to the lake: I did work until two. And then Wednesday was busy...plus I'm going to be majorly swamped next week. So, why not take off a couple days while things are light, and no one cares? Yes, I'm allowed that luxury. As long as the paperwork gets entered and filed, and as long as I meet next week's deadline, I can take off without any fuss.

I want to mention a few things, and then go back into my dark little corner where Pete Yorn is waiting to serenade me.

...

Yesterday, I wrote about buffets. Seems kind of silly out of context, but I think I can explain...

At the deadblog, for those of you who don't know or don't remember, I had a system that worked fairly well for me almost the entire time I was there: I'd sit down each morning (it was night for the Stuckeyblog, but I switched to mornings to help curb the depression and/or drinking...which yes, I need to do again. No more all and/or late night postings from me...I'm going to bed, and putting the bottle in the deep freeze...I'd sit down, though, and write for at least two hours every day I was online, and whatever came to me, that's what I posted...just a slight amount of editing, and no worries as to how unpolished it was.

I've been too concerned with "polishing." Writing pieces only to save them as drafts, print them out, edit, and deem 'em unworthy for posting. Toss 'em in the trash.

That's not helping me though.

I need to be unpolished. I need to improvise. Be extemporaneous. Less hard on myself.

So anyway...if my posting seems a bit, Why is she writing THIS? Just ignore me. I'm a sad little twenty-three year old who just desperately needs to return to her old system, lest she quit writing publicly altogether.

I sincerely hope no one will mind.

...

I'm going out tomorrow!

There's a big local festival uptown. I go every year. You may recall (again, for those of you who've been with me for a while), last year, I saw the boy I lost my virginity to, and he flat out ignored me. Which yes, hurt my heart very badly.

I'll be going with my sister, my mother, and of course, Baby Girl.

...

Speaking of her, and all that you may or may not remember...a year ago yesterday was the day when she got into my medicine and was rushed to the emergency room, where they wanted to load her up into a helicopter and fly her off to Children's Hospital in Little Rock. I said no, and here we are, one year later.

I think it's safe to say, she didn't swallow those pills after all.

...

I finally made my dentist appointment with Dr. Hottie!

Come early November, I'll get that tooth fixed, and all will be well in my mouth again.

...

And finally, I want to apologize for my whining and bitching and complaining about time, and/or the lack thereof.

It's completely and totally my fault, and I hope to God I didn’t make anyone feel uncomfortable or guilty, or a bane to me. No one is. I am the soul bane to my own little existence. I love everyone else, and sometimes don’t realize how my horrible lack of prioritizing can effect others. And really, that's all it is: I do have quite a bit on my plate (we all do), but it's not so much that I can't handle or carry it. I just lost my balance is all. And as a Libra, losing your balance is pretty much the end of the world for you. It just shuts you down...like all or nothing? It's nothing. If I have a lot to do, I end up doing nothing, and then feel guilty, and then sad, and then I get quiet and fall behind.

It's a vicious cycle.

But I'm working on that.

And I’m happy to say, after venting a bit of my sadness on the Tenth, then running off to the lake and taking off work yesterday and today, and going out with my family tomorrow, I DO feel a world lifted off my shoulders. I feel happy, almost. And relieved. That balance is finally returning to me.

It was just a blip. I blinked. A slight glitch in Ashley's mission of trying to get caught up from the summer...going away for a long time from the standard online life makes for a hard trip back into a normal schedule.

But enough of my whining. Like I said, I honestly feel like I have a handle on it this time, and before I know it, everything will be simple and breezy like it used to be: daily writing, daily reading, casual emails, and MYLO (my life online: a cute little abbreviation I found in my latest copy of GameInformer...yes, I read GameInformer) will be as warm and happy as the family eating soup on the right side of the window.

Here's looking at them...and you. Happy Friday the 13th!

Tray in hand

This morning's sunrise.

Tuesday was cold, gray. The sky wept constantly. Those tiny little soft raindrops that never really stick, only create little dots on the concrete. But I have a whole story to tell about Tuesday, so I’ll wait ‘til I have a bit more time. I woke up late this morning, but early enough to come in here. Sip my coffee. Read the loving comments left by loving friends who understand. The man who gives the most helpful advice. I read his letter and smiled. Felt warm. Was so happy he asked me not to disappear, because I had thought I might, just walk slowly into that water ala Jeff Buckley, except fewer people (times a million) would care, and I'd never get famous because of it.

Poor Jeff Buckley.

While out at the lake, I was eating French Fries and thinking of how people eat in restaurants, looking out the window, and why don’t they just get their food to go? Eat outside too, but if they’ve paid for the all you can eat buffet, then no, they’re stuck at the table. And how life could be compared to lunch breaks, and all you can eat...

You pay once, and He hands you your tray. An empty plate, a cup, and small bowl. Dirty silverware wrapped in a napkin.

You carry it with wide eyes, thinking of all the wonderful things you'll find as you reach the long line of people waiting for food warmed by lights overhead, hooded and humming, the ceiling fans spinning, the smoking section filled with coffee and fog. The kids crying for soft served ice cream, with sprinkles and chocolate and cherries on top. Mommy, I want it! And Mommy says no, grabs the kids by the arm, and yanks 'em away, as Daddy stares out the window.

You finally reach the front of the line, and everything's half empty. The potatoes have lumps. The chicken's pink.

What the hell is that yellow stuff supposed to be?

You think of the germs on the handles of the spoons and giant forks as you fill up your plate with the less questionable offerings you thought would be worth the price of admission, but now you're wishing you had bought an actual meal.

The full plate on the table before you. You unwrap your silverware. You take a deep breath, and take your first bite.

It's not nearly as good as you thought it would be. And all this food? All you can eat. The promise He made, and you took it, with a heavy plate, and only an hour to eat. The lunch break, the time inbetween walking into this place and being forced to leave...He takes your tray, and says, I hope your happy with the choices you made.

You say, I'm not. I would have rather had something from the kitchen, then the same old mundane choices like potatoes and chicken. I don't want to sit and eat all I can eat with too much to eat and no time to eat it. I thought I was getting the best deal...the most I could fit on my plate would mean more life, but it only means less time and space for the more important things. Like ice cream with sprinkles and chocolates and cherries.

Sweetness with fruit, sugar, and color.

He nods, knowing you've realized living like a child will bring you happiness, for as an adult, there's no one to tell you no. No father to ignore you.

You stand up and smile, and He hands you your tray. You march to the trashcan before it's too late.

You empty that plate that was too full of things, some good and some bad, and fill up your bowl with nothing but great! Place it in the center of your tray. Balancing is easier as you make your way back to your seat.

The empty chairs remind you of those who aren't there, but of those you wish would surround you for always. The people you love and the ones you hold dear. You hope they have full lives, but light trays for the brightest of days and nights.

Ice cream for everyone!

All you can eat...

All the time.