I'm starting a new project, because you know, I have nothing else to do. This is ntohing immediate. It's just meant to be fun really. But anyway, I am writing a collection of 28 (it's my favorite number) stories. I am writing and editing all of them this year. Some are already done, many are inspired by my crazy, but loving friends in what seems to be a heartbeat and some are going to be 'extracted' from novel ideas I've written. Lots of good things to come. This is what I have so far:
1. The Underground (needs editing)
2. The Army Jacket (needs editing)
3. They Call Me Jacob (needs finishing and editing)
4. Catch me: Symbolic tragic romance. Involves transitioning in time between youth and adolescence, innocence and corruption
5. With All My Love: girl writes emotional letter to her best friend who was killed in a tragic car accident
6-28: still in collaboration. More to come.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
December 14, 2011
December 12, 2011
New Projects and OneWordforOneMinute: princess
Letters to Mom, as I've been saying, is almost done. I have about one month left in time to finish up. Very, very close.
I started a short story that takes place in a futuristic world where twins are killed. Very interesting concept. Making some connections to nature and adding a few more plot twists. I will post a section of it later.
One more thing. Here is a one word. Haven't done one in a while:
"You're my little princess," he said to me and I smiled. I thought about this for a second, "Okay, but then what does that make you?" I had to say it. I was stumped. I didn't know what to say. She just sat there, giving me that look and I just could tell how curious yet slightly pissed off she was. Sure, it was cute, but it was just so frustrating at the same time. She always had an intellectual one up on me.
And one more since it was an interesting prompt today:
I could hear his voice in my ear still, his voice echoing through it. "Princess," he had said. But what did that mean? Was I just this little pet that he kept up locked away. What a sick bastard, I though. I wasn't anyone's property. No way. I was just me and that's the way it was absolutely going to stay. It had to, right? I kept running.
One more:
Okay. So, I looked into her eyes and this is what I saw. I could tell she was trying to hide the fact that she was pretty, and it simply was not working. Her hair could be pretty if she grew it out. Her eyes could sparkle if she let her guard down. If she cared, clothes would look very nice on her body. But I just didn't understand. Why didn't she care? She could be a princess if she wanted to be.
I started a short story that takes place in a futuristic world where twins are killed. Very interesting concept. Making some connections to nature and adding a few more plot twists. I will post a section of it later.
One more thing. Here is a one word. Haven't done one in a while:
"You're my little princess," he said to me and I smiled. I thought about this for a second, "Okay, but then what does that make you?" I had to say it. I was stumped. I didn't know what to say. She just sat there, giving me that look and I just could tell how curious yet slightly pissed off she was. Sure, it was cute, but it was just so frustrating at the same time. She always had an intellectual one up on me.
And one more since it was an interesting prompt today:
I could hear his voice in my ear still, his voice echoing through it. "Princess," he had said. But what did that mean? Was I just this little pet that he kept up locked away. What a sick bastard, I though. I wasn't anyone's property. No way. I was just me and that's the way it was absolutely going to stay. It had to, right? I kept running.
One more:
Okay. So, I looked into her eyes and this is what I saw. I could tell she was trying to hide the fact that she was pretty, and it simply was not working. Her hair could be pretty if she grew it out. Her eyes could sparkle if she let her guard down. If she cared, clothes would look very nice on her body. But I just didn't understand. Why didn't she care? She could be a princess if she wanted to be.
October 10, 2011
OneWordaDayforOneMinute: stacks
I looked around the room and saw all of the stacks of books that lined the walls. I couldn't imagine someone living there and not surprisingly, there was no room. A single window provided a flood of natural light. I felt someone walk up behind me, breathing down my shoulder. I knew I wasn't supposed to be in there, but I hadn't cared. I turned around, not knowing who would be there as I turned.
October 9, 2011
The Underground - Satire/Reflection Piece
I juts like this one a lot:
What is the underground?
For all intents and purposes, it is hell. You can feel the heat immediately as you begin to descend into its dark and slimy depths. The stairs are covered in soot, dust and other long-forgotten waste. Once below the surface, it becomes clear how much the temperature has increased. Beginning to sweat and looking around, you take in the dark and dismal nature of this place. Fluorescent lights provide dim lighting overhead. There is an eerie lack of natural lighting. The tile has been stained from its original white to a depressing gray.
Perhaps a little confused, you stumble over to one of the numerous cold, metal machines lining the walls. Each person that goes down into the underground must receive a special pass granting him or her access beyond its gates. By following a series of simple instructions on the screen, you are issued your ticket.
Continuing to sweat, you join the masses of other people and approach the gates. Looking around, it is easy to see that there are a variety of people in the crowd. Some are parents toting along small children who grip their hands tightly, afraid to let go and be lost in the chaos. Many are old, several of them dressed in formal attire and carrying their briefcases. Others are teenagers who look around with the same disaffected stare that all teenagers carry.
When you approach the gate, you are prompted to swipe your card and enter. Now, you have entered the chaos. Signs and stairwells indicate a variety of locations. Colors and numbers indicate the different paths that you might take in order to reach your destination. Some are more convenient than others. Most won’t get you where you want to go at all. After much thought, consideration, instinct and just a tad of luck, you descend one of the stairwells and wait on the platform with the other passengers.
The platforms are even dirtier than upstairs. On every surface, a thin layer of soot and grit sits patiently to be washed away. It is even more poorly lit and a line indicates the point in which you should use caution, lest you want to be swept away when one of the vessels approaches. Below the platform, mysterious creatures creep and crawl in the shadows of the overwhelming darkness. Almost a foot long, they appear to be a mysterious mixture of two rodent species, bordering on being some type of mythical creature. You turn away, appalled by the sight of one as it steps into the light
Looking around, the other passengers avoid contact with you. They all carry the same dismal, disinterested expression upon their faces. In the distance, you can hear a slight rumbling, a tremor. It becomes louder and louder as the ground beneath you begins to shake more and more. In a flash, a silver vessel appears in front of you. Headlights on the front help it find its way through the darkness. As the cars pass by, you peer through the windows at the inside. More people with the same disinterested expressions.
Eventually, the vessel slows to a complete stop and with some hesitation, the doors open. The vessels are silver, but are layered in the same fine layer of dust and soot as everything else.
As you step inside, you are shocked at the sudden change of temperature. You feel the icy sting of death as you peer around for an empty seat. In the corner, one seems to be waiting for you. Like all the others, it is a faded orange. The lights are brighter now, and you finally rest. The doors close. The ground begins to shake again and in an instant, you are traveling off into the unknown. You are in the underground.
What is the underground?
For all intents and purposes, it is hell. You can feel the heat immediately as you begin to descend into its dark and slimy depths. The stairs are covered in soot, dust and other long-forgotten waste. Once below the surface, it becomes clear how much the temperature has increased. Beginning to sweat and looking around, you take in the dark and dismal nature of this place. Fluorescent lights provide dim lighting overhead. There is an eerie lack of natural lighting. The tile has been stained from its original white to a depressing gray.
Perhaps a little confused, you stumble over to one of the numerous cold, metal machines lining the walls. Each person that goes down into the underground must receive a special pass granting him or her access beyond its gates. By following a series of simple instructions on the screen, you are issued your ticket.
Continuing to sweat, you join the masses of other people and approach the gates. Looking around, it is easy to see that there are a variety of people in the crowd. Some are parents toting along small children who grip their hands tightly, afraid to let go and be lost in the chaos. Many are old, several of them dressed in formal attire and carrying their briefcases. Others are teenagers who look around with the same disaffected stare that all teenagers carry.
When you approach the gate, you are prompted to swipe your card and enter. Now, you have entered the chaos. Signs and stairwells indicate a variety of locations. Colors and numbers indicate the different paths that you might take in order to reach your destination. Some are more convenient than others. Most won’t get you where you want to go at all. After much thought, consideration, instinct and just a tad of luck, you descend one of the stairwells and wait on the platform with the other passengers.
The platforms are even dirtier than upstairs. On every surface, a thin layer of soot and grit sits patiently to be washed away. It is even more poorly lit and a line indicates the point in which you should use caution, lest you want to be swept away when one of the vessels approaches. Below the platform, mysterious creatures creep and crawl in the shadows of the overwhelming darkness. Almost a foot long, they appear to be a mysterious mixture of two rodent species, bordering on being some type of mythical creature. You turn away, appalled by the sight of one as it steps into the light
Looking around, the other passengers avoid contact with you. They all carry the same dismal, disinterested expression upon their faces. In the distance, you can hear a slight rumbling, a tremor. It becomes louder and louder as the ground beneath you begins to shake more and more. In a flash, a silver vessel appears in front of you. Headlights on the front help it find its way through the darkness. As the cars pass by, you peer through the windows at the inside. More people with the same disinterested expressions.
Eventually, the vessel slows to a complete stop and with some hesitation, the doors open. The vessels are silver, but are layered in the same fine layer of dust and soot as everything else.
As you step inside, you are shocked at the sudden change of temperature. You feel the icy sting of death as you peer around for an empty seat. In the corner, one seems to be waiting for you. Like all the others, it is a faded orange. The lights are brighter now, and you finally rest. The doors close. The ground begins to shake again and in an instant, you are traveling off into the unknown. You are in the underground.
October 6, 2011
Pretty in Punk
Here's an idea for a book I had a while ago about a football player becoming a punk. I just love it, so here you go. Three scenes:
I've always been that average, middle of the line kind of guy. In terms of food, I would be the equivalent of a simple cheese sandwich. I'm not super fancy like a shrimp cocktail or spicy like a juicy taco, nor am I bland like crackers or oatmeal. I'm just in the middle. Of course, that all changed once I met Ivy.
When I was fifteen, my family moved across the country. We left the warm, bustling streets of San Francisco for a small suburban town in northern New Jersey. I left behind trolley cars for my family's new SUV. I left behind our bayside apartment for a quaint two storied house with a pool and a yard. I left behind all of my also average friends and went to a place where I would be that kid. The kid with the weird clothes and a slight accent.
I didn't feel much when we first landed in Newark Airport other than a little jetlag. Things were now three whole hours out of whack, something that would take some time to get used to. My little sister had no concept of really moving. She was only five, so she had few friends and worries left behind in sunny California. I, however, was a different story. I left fifteen years of memories on the other side of the continent.
It didn't hit me that we had moved until my family picked up our luggage. My mom found her red suitcase rather quickly, which was much easier to find than me and my dad's plain black ones. Checking the luggage tag, I pulled my suitcase off the conveyor belt. These were my clothes, probably still smelling like San Francisco. I recalled when my mother had first told me we were moving to New Jersey. I wasn’t too happy about. I’m normally a very mellow person. I rarely cry, if ever and I just kind of absorb everything. I’m not a complete blob, but I’m just kind of in the middle with that too. I knew there was nothing I could say or do to change their minds, so I just didn’t bother. It was that simple.
Besides, my mom is a very stubborn lady. I took after her side of the family, the Italian side, usually. I had dark hair, but pale skin and light eyes like everyone else that I encountered at those family meetings. Even at family reunions, I was just average. She had a fiery temper, especially when you upset her, so I usually tried my best to steer clear of her wrath. That’s where I began to take after my dad. We’re both exceptionally smart and athletic, the two areas where I am definitely not average, although I probably wouldn’t mind if I was. He was a mellow person; Irish, grew up with twelve siblings, right in the middle of all of them. He had to be mellow just to survive in that house hold.
Anyway, I recalled the last day I was in San Francisco. I rode out to the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike and then stopped at the middle. I wasn’t going to jump, I swear, I just wanted to take one last look at the bay. A slight fog was descending over the waters and I watched all the boats pass underneath for about ten minutes. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was leaving, and now I was pulling up to my new house in New Jersey. It was okay. It was average. Just like me.
“Have you ever put eyeliner on?” Ivy asked me, a mysterious smile forming on her lips. I looked at her black covered eyes, staying mesmerized for just a second and then shook my head slowly. She gave me a quick nod and then pulled out a black studded bag from her nightstand. With her long black nails, she unzipped it and pulled out two things: what appeared to be a black colored pencil with a cap and a zippo lighter.
“Wait,” I began to protest, standing up off of her bed. I began to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but still a part of me wanted her to put the black make up. I looked around the room. The red walls, her black furniture, the hardcore punk music in the background. Everything sunk in. I felt comfortable in this room, but I was uncomfortable about everything going on. Simply, I was just very confused. I knew my mom, my new friends, the football team, they all wouldn’t approve of this behavior, but everything was just so tempting.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, beginning to pout a little bit. She flipped her hair to the side, exposing the pink and red strands underneath. She had told me she was naturally blonde, but I couldn’t picture it. She looked much more suited to have the black, pink and red style she did. I could tell from her eyes that she was excited to do this. I finally shook my head, giving into the immense temptation and followed Ivy into the bathroom. She noticed that I began to get nervous once we walked into the bathroom. “Just relax. It’s no big deal,” she assured me. “It’s easy. It’ll take five minutes.” I gulped and she giggled in response. Then, she patted the counter, signaling for me to sit on it. I followed her silent orders as she uncapped the pencil. Taking the lighter, she melted the end of it. Once it was melted to her standards, she began to paint the black goo onto my upper eyelids.
It was not hot like I had expected, but rather comfortably warm instead. It felt good. Once she was done with the top of my eyes, she stepped back and smiled. Then, after remelting the stick to her satisfaction, she began to cover the bottom as well. Instead of spontaneously smearing it on like she had with the tops, she simply drew a single smooth line underneath. Once she was done, she fixed all of the mistakes by rubbing the excess off with her fingers and then, she took me by the shoulders and turned me so that I would be able to see myself in the mirror.
I was half scared and half in complete shock. Either way, I was absolutely speechless. I barely recognized myself, but in a good way. I really liked it. I hadn’t felt this comfortable since I was in San Francisco. She smiled at her work and I sensed that she knew the change that was beginning to take place. I liked the eyeliner; it looked amazing, but deep down I knew that others wouldn’t feel the same way. As much as I hated to doubt myself, I knew that it was true. As I was thinking, Ivy jumped up on the counter next to me and asked, “Do you like it?’
I began to answer, “Yeah, but--“
“You’re worried about what other people will think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, don’t be,” she looked at me with her deep brown eyes and I felt their warmth. I knew she was right, I’d known it all along, but deep down, I just knew I couldn’t be like this.
“Ivy,” my doubts started, “I have a mother who I like to respect me and will flip out if she sees me wearing more makeup than her. An entire football team to deal with.”
“I understand. But are you happy like this?”
“Yes! I haven’t been this happy since I was in San Francisco,” I started to tear up a little bit when I mentioned home, “I love it. I love everything that you’ve been introducing me to, but what if they don’t like it?” I began to cry now, something I had never done in front of a girl before. She looked at me for a second and then embraced me tightly, whispering that everything would be okay in my ear. I kept crying until I finally realized something, and then I looked at her and said, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Show me everything.”
She looked at me with sad eyes, our eye-liner covered eyes meeting for a brief second. “I will soon, but not today. Now let’s clean up you eyes and get you home. It’s starting to get dark outside.” I nodded and followed as she helped me get down from off the counter.
I looked once more in the mirror in my room. Ivy had taught me everything she knew now, and it came down to this. First, I would have to get past my mother and then all the people at school. At least she would be there to help. I couldn’t help but notice how different I looked. It had been nearly six months since my family had moved from San Francisco. When I came, I had been average. Insignificant even. I came with the simple straight black hair cut, no eye makeup, plain clothes and nothing to draw attention to myself. Now, though, I had been completely transformed into someone who was not average. But, I was completely comfortable with my new self. It had taken me a long time to realize it, but this is who I am. Punk rock came from California. I came from California. It just worked.
My black hair had been tousled (Ivy taught me that word and I love it so much!) and I smeared black eyeliner all over my eyes, allowing for my blue eyes to sparkle underneath with excitement. I was wearing a black button down shirt and black skinny jeans, complete with a studded belt. My converse sneakers were comfy and I appeared to have a ‘shape’ now, which I was still undecided as to whether it was a good or bad thing. Finally, in my ears were new stud earrings. It hurt, but it was worth it since they looked amazing. Ivy showed me how to accessorize with a small fortune’s worth of different bracelets and rings. Unlike two months ago, I was now prepared to show that world that this was who I am.
My mom was in the kitchen, just like she is every morning. This morning, I found I was nervous and had a difficult time walking to the kitchen. Finally, I stepped into the doorway and said good morning to my mother. When my mother saw me, she had nearly fainted. She sat down at the table and asked me angrily, “Patrick! What is this? What have you done?”
“Mom,” I told her, crying to calm her down, “Don’t be upset. Listen, since we’ve got here, I’ve been trying to figure out who I am. I love punk rock. I want to be like this.”
“What is this ‘punk rock’ nonsense that you speak of? I don’t understand! You look like a fairy! You think I want my son to dress like this?”
“Mom, I’m your son. Can’t you accept that this is who I am?”
“No,” she put her hands on her face, “Patrick. That was the wrong thing to say. You know I love you, but this is too much right now. I need to think about it.”
“Okay, mom,” I yelled back, but I was furious. I realized I didn’t care if my mom liked the way I dressed or not. This was me and she would have to figure out how to deal with it. All I knew was that I couldn’t wait to see Ivy. Because with Ivy, I knew that she would understand. Without looking back, I opened the door and left, slamming it behind me. I was me now and I couldn't wait for everyone to see.
I've always been that average, middle of the line kind of guy. In terms of food, I would be the equivalent of a simple cheese sandwich. I'm not super fancy like a shrimp cocktail or spicy like a juicy taco, nor am I bland like crackers or oatmeal. I'm just in the middle. Of course, that all changed once I met Ivy.
When I was fifteen, my family moved across the country. We left the warm, bustling streets of San Francisco for a small suburban town in northern New Jersey. I left behind trolley cars for my family's new SUV. I left behind our bayside apartment for a quaint two storied house with a pool and a yard. I left behind all of my also average friends and went to a place where I would be that kid. The kid with the weird clothes and a slight accent.
I didn't feel much when we first landed in Newark Airport other than a little jetlag. Things were now three whole hours out of whack, something that would take some time to get used to. My little sister had no concept of really moving. She was only five, so she had few friends and worries left behind in sunny California. I, however, was a different story. I left fifteen years of memories on the other side of the continent.
It didn't hit me that we had moved until my family picked up our luggage. My mom found her red suitcase rather quickly, which was much easier to find than me and my dad's plain black ones. Checking the luggage tag, I pulled my suitcase off the conveyor belt. These were my clothes, probably still smelling like San Francisco. I recalled when my mother had first told me we were moving to New Jersey. I wasn’t too happy about. I’m normally a very mellow person. I rarely cry, if ever and I just kind of absorb everything. I’m not a complete blob, but I’m just kind of in the middle with that too. I knew there was nothing I could say or do to change their minds, so I just didn’t bother. It was that simple.
Besides, my mom is a very stubborn lady. I took after her side of the family, the Italian side, usually. I had dark hair, but pale skin and light eyes like everyone else that I encountered at those family meetings. Even at family reunions, I was just average. She had a fiery temper, especially when you upset her, so I usually tried my best to steer clear of her wrath. That’s where I began to take after my dad. We’re both exceptionally smart and athletic, the two areas where I am definitely not average, although I probably wouldn’t mind if I was. He was a mellow person; Irish, grew up with twelve siblings, right in the middle of all of them. He had to be mellow just to survive in that house hold.
Anyway, I recalled the last day I was in San Francisco. I rode out to the Golden Gate Bridge on my bike and then stopped at the middle. I wasn’t going to jump, I swear, I just wanted to take one last look at the bay. A slight fog was descending over the waters and I watched all the boats pass underneath for about ten minutes. It still hadn’t sunk in that I was leaving, and now I was pulling up to my new house in New Jersey. It was okay. It was average. Just like me.
“Have you ever put eyeliner on?” Ivy asked me, a mysterious smile forming on her lips. I looked at her black covered eyes, staying mesmerized for just a second and then shook my head slowly. She gave me a quick nod and then pulled out a black studded bag from her nightstand. With her long black nails, she unzipped it and pulled out two things: what appeared to be a black colored pencil with a cap and a zippo lighter.
“Wait,” I began to protest, standing up off of her bed. I began to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but still a part of me wanted her to put the black make up. I looked around the room. The red walls, her black furniture, the hardcore punk music in the background. Everything sunk in. I felt comfortable in this room, but I was uncomfortable about everything going on. Simply, I was just very confused. I knew my mom, my new friends, the football team, they all wouldn’t approve of this behavior, but everything was just so tempting.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, beginning to pout a little bit. She flipped her hair to the side, exposing the pink and red strands underneath. She had told me she was naturally blonde, but I couldn’t picture it. She looked much more suited to have the black, pink and red style she did. I could tell from her eyes that she was excited to do this. I finally shook my head, giving into the immense temptation and followed Ivy into the bathroom. She noticed that I began to get nervous once we walked into the bathroom. “Just relax. It’s no big deal,” she assured me. “It’s easy. It’ll take five minutes.” I gulped and she giggled in response. Then, she patted the counter, signaling for me to sit on it. I followed her silent orders as she uncapped the pencil. Taking the lighter, she melted the end of it. Once it was melted to her standards, she began to paint the black goo onto my upper eyelids.
It was not hot like I had expected, but rather comfortably warm instead. It felt good. Once she was done with the top of my eyes, she stepped back and smiled. Then, after remelting the stick to her satisfaction, she began to cover the bottom as well. Instead of spontaneously smearing it on like she had with the tops, she simply drew a single smooth line underneath. Once she was done, she fixed all of the mistakes by rubbing the excess off with her fingers and then, she took me by the shoulders and turned me so that I would be able to see myself in the mirror.
I was half scared and half in complete shock. Either way, I was absolutely speechless. I barely recognized myself, but in a good way. I really liked it. I hadn’t felt this comfortable since I was in San Francisco. She smiled at her work and I sensed that she knew the change that was beginning to take place. I liked the eyeliner; it looked amazing, but deep down I knew that others wouldn’t feel the same way. As much as I hated to doubt myself, I knew that it was true. As I was thinking, Ivy jumped up on the counter next to me and asked, “Do you like it?’
I began to answer, “Yeah, but--“
“You’re worried about what other people will think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, don’t be,” she looked at me with her deep brown eyes and I felt their warmth. I knew she was right, I’d known it all along, but deep down, I just knew I couldn’t be like this.
“Ivy,” my doubts started, “I have a mother who I like to respect me and will flip out if she sees me wearing more makeup than her. An entire football team to deal with.”
“I understand. But are you happy like this?”
“Yes! I haven’t been this happy since I was in San Francisco,” I started to tear up a little bit when I mentioned home, “I love it. I love everything that you’ve been introducing me to, but what if they don’t like it?” I began to cry now, something I had never done in front of a girl before. She looked at me for a second and then embraced me tightly, whispering that everything would be okay in my ear. I kept crying until I finally realized something, and then I looked at her and said, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Show me everything.”
She looked at me with sad eyes, our eye-liner covered eyes meeting for a brief second. “I will soon, but not today. Now let’s clean up you eyes and get you home. It’s starting to get dark outside.” I nodded and followed as she helped me get down from off the counter.
I looked once more in the mirror in my room. Ivy had taught me everything she knew now, and it came down to this. First, I would have to get past my mother and then all the people at school. At least she would be there to help. I couldn’t help but notice how different I looked. It had been nearly six months since my family had moved from San Francisco. When I came, I had been average. Insignificant even. I came with the simple straight black hair cut, no eye makeup, plain clothes and nothing to draw attention to myself. Now, though, I had been completely transformed into someone who was not average. But, I was completely comfortable with my new self. It had taken me a long time to realize it, but this is who I am. Punk rock came from California. I came from California. It just worked.
My black hair had been tousled (Ivy taught me that word and I love it so much!) and I smeared black eyeliner all over my eyes, allowing for my blue eyes to sparkle underneath with excitement. I was wearing a black button down shirt and black skinny jeans, complete with a studded belt. My converse sneakers were comfy and I appeared to have a ‘shape’ now, which I was still undecided as to whether it was a good or bad thing. Finally, in my ears were new stud earrings. It hurt, but it was worth it since they looked amazing. Ivy showed me how to accessorize with a small fortune’s worth of different bracelets and rings. Unlike two months ago, I was now prepared to show that world that this was who I am.
My mom was in the kitchen, just like she is every morning. This morning, I found I was nervous and had a difficult time walking to the kitchen. Finally, I stepped into the doorway and said good morning to my mother. When my mother saw me, she had nearly fainted. She sat down at the table and asked me angrily, “Patrick! What is this? What have you done?”
“Mom,” I told her, crying to calm her down, “Don’t be upset. Listen, since we’ve got here, I’ve been trying to figure out who I am. I love punk rock. I want to be like this.”
“What is this ‘punk rock’ nonsense that you speak of? I don’t understand! You look like a fairy! You think I want my son to dress like this?”
“Mom, I’m your son. Can’t you accept that this is who I am?”
“No,” she put her hands on her face, “Patrick. That was the wrong thing to say. You know I love you, but this is too much right now. I need to think about it.”
“Okay, mom,” I yelled back, but I was furious. I realized I didn’t care if my mom liked the way I dressed or not. This was me and she would have to figure out how to deal with it. All I knew was that I couldn’t wait to see Ivy. Because with Ivy, I knew that she would understand. Without looking back, I opened the door and left, slamming it behind me. I was me now and I couldn't wait for everyone to see.
My Book
First and foremost, I should probably mention I'm a writer. I love to write. I love the challenge of it, the feeling, everything. I just wish I could do it for a living because it's such an amazing feeling to sit down and hash out some new ideas, but you know, it might not be practical. I'm in the process of writing my "first" book. There have been other attempts, but this is the first one where I said hey, I'm gonna do this. And I have.
Letters to Mom is almost finished. In a nutshell, it covers the status of LGBT issues as they are in 2010-2012. I don't want to sound too egotistic, but I do hope that in 50-100 years, people will look back and say, "Wow. I'm so glad we made things better for such an amazing and diverse group of our society." So yeah. I have my first two chapters up so far, just to give people a taste of what Letters to Mom is all about.
Letters to Mom is almost finished. In a nutshell, it covers the status of LGBT issues as they are in 2010-2012. I don't want to sound too egotistic, but I do hope that in 50-100 years, people will look back and say, "Wow. I'm so glad we made things better for such an amazing and diverse group of our society." So yeah. I have my first two chapters up so far, just to give people a taste of what Letters to Mom is all about.
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