“Of course not—you wouldn’t dare say anything good about yourself.” His tone was teasing. He sat down beside me on the couch.
I sighed and pulled my feet up on to the cushion. “I’m getting better about that.”
“So tell me what happened?”
When I glanced over at him he was looking steadily at me.
“I ended up half-naked and lying on top of Liam Roderick.” I smiled.
“What? Well, that’s quite an adventure.” He laughed and scooted closer to me. “I wonder if you want to tell me more about that?”
“Not really. It was a complete disaster. But the funny thing was, the director offered to create a role in the movie for me—with several scenes.” I raised an eyebrow. “Is that boasting enough for you?”
“Wow! You’re going to be in a movie with Liam Roderick?” Max jumped up from the couch. “Don’t tell me it’s the new action thriller they’re filming!”
“You know about it?”
“Sure. It’s all about this female serial killer who seduces men and murders them in her own bed—”
“Wonderful. I was playing a serial killer.” I laughed.
“Oh—well, the rumor is that she gets killed off at the beginning of the movie and then Liam discovers that she was only part of an entire ring of killers—”
“Please don’t tell me more.” I stood up and walked into the kitchen. “I think I need wine.”
“Me too, please. Wow, that’s pretty amazing. I can’t believe you got to work with Liam. What was that like?” Max walked into the kitchen with me. He pulled down the wine glasses while I got out a bottle of wine.
“I don’t know. He was pretty firm when I landed on him.”
Max laughed and shook his head as I poured our drinks. “Well, it sounds like you have quite an adventure ahead of you.”
“No, I don’t think so. I turned down the role.”
“Why would you turn it down?”
“Why would I turn down the opportunity to be humiliated and embarrassed on camera?” I looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Yes, I did turn down that role.”
“I think that if you’d tried it, you might have liked it.” Max smiled so brightly that I could tell he was teasing. I knew that he was very amused by my experience.
“You just want to be able to watch one of those horror movies and say that you know someone in it.” I shook my head. “Not going to be me, buddy. No way. I like my ketchup on my French fries, not all over my body.”
“Hmmm. Interesting visual.” Max’s eyes went wide as if he was imagining the scene. “If French fries were involved, would you consider it?”
“Shut up!” I laughed and smacked him lightly on the arm.
He laughed as well and gave me a quick hug.
“Well, you will always be a star to me. If that helps.”
“It does.” I smiled. “Thanks, Max.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve got to go now. I suddenly have a craving for French fries.”
“You sicko.” I laughed louder as he walked back into the living room. “Max, I do want to ask you something.”
“Oh?” He plopped down on the couch. I sat down beside him. “Ask away.”
“I haven’t figured out what my thing is. Do you know what my thing is?”
“Is this a dirty question?” He sounded hopeful.
“No, not like that. I mean—what is my passion?”
“You’re asking me?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know?”
“I’m not sure. You always seem to know me better than I know myself. So what do you think my thing is?” I turned to look him right in the eyes.
I honestly wanted to know what his insight was. There was no one I trusted to have an idea of who I was more than Max. That was why I valued his friendship above any romantic feelings I might have for him.
“Isn’t it obvious to you?” Max looked confused as he studied me.
“Obviously not.” I laughed. “It’s okay if you don’t know. That’s fine. I just figured out of everyone in the world, you might be the one to know.”
“Well, I do know. I’m just surprised that you don’t.” He set his glass of wine down on the table and turned fully on the couch to face me. “Your passion is writing. It always has been.”
“Writing? Sure, I enjoy it, but I don’t know if I’m passionate about it.” I frowned as I considered it.
“Oh, please. You can talk your way out of any situation. I watch you create stories in your head all of the time.”
“How could you watch me do that?”
“I can just tell.” He smiled.
I didn’t smile. I cringed at the thought of him knowing the stories that I created in my head about him all the time.
“I guess you’re right.” I started to feel excited. “I do love to write.”
“Even the way you talk is creative. I always thought you worked at Fluff and Stuff so you could work on some secret novel. I’ve caught you typing away on your computer before.”
“Oh, that’s just my—” I swallowed quickly. I didn’t want Max to know about my blog. I might have revealed too many intimate details on there. “—just a few little projects I’m working on.”
“Okay—and you’re always evasive about it, just like that. So I assumed that’s what you’ve been doing.”
I smiled a little at the idea of writing a secret novel. I loved to write, but could I ever write a novel? That seemed as huge a task as sailing around the world.
“Thanks, Max. You’ve given me something to think about.”
“No problem. Just remember me when Liam Roderick is starring in a movie based on your novel.” He grinned and gave me a light peck on the cheek. “I’ve got to run.”
“Okay, I’ve apparently got a novel to write.”
“You better get on it!” Max walked out the door with his voice drifting behind him.
Chapter 10
I finished my glass of wine while thinking about the experience I’d had that day. Not everything had gone perfectly, but it had gone pretty well. I was looking forward to what I might experience next.
I think the most important thing I’d realized was that was that I loved to be creative. It felt amazing to experience expressing my creativity. It was true that whenever I watched a movie or read a book, I found myself rewriting the scenes in my mind. I had always had a strong interest in writing. That hadn’t changed, no matter how many new experiences I had. It was the first place I turned when I wanted to express my emotions.
My entire journey so far had been about nourishing my body and nourishing my spirit, but I hadn’t been nourishing my passion. It was time for me to let my true talent flow and see where it took me.
I sat down at my computer, prepared to declare my intentions.
As I logged into my blog, I began to wonder what Blue would think of my latest entry. He had been so supportive of every adventure I’d embarked on. I looked forward to his comments and the incredible insight that he always seemed to offer.
As I typed my blog post, I kept coming back to the same realization. Yes, I liked all of the creative outlets I’d been exploring, but writing was my true calling. It was the only time that I felt comfortable being completely honest about how I was feeling and what I hoped to achieve. In conversation, I often found it hard to talk openly about myself, but when my fingertips were gliding over the keys I could confess anything.
When I finished the description of what it was like for me to work with such creative people, I added a small snippet at the end. I confessed that I wanted to be one of those creative people too.
Part of the purpose of my bucket list journey was to explore and discover what my career path should be. Once I’d been content with managing Fluff and Stuff; now I felt a drive—a need for doing something more. I didn’t want to leave my job, but I also didn’t want to hide out in my comfort zone.
It had taken quite a bit of bravery on my part to start a blog in the first place
. The idea of actually attempting to write as a career, having my every word scrutinized, was fairly intimidating. But that was the point of my entire journey—to be brave, to be bold, to be confident. I knew that I had a gift with words; I just had to believe in myself enough to give it a shot.
After hitting the publish button on my blog post, I began looking online for a local writing class. Maybe with a little bit of guidance, I’d feel more confident about my writing.
There were several possibilities to choose from. I didn’t want to attend a college-type class. I felt that would shut me down creatively in an instant. Instead, I was looking for something less traditional.
As I sorted through my options, I came across a class that sounded perfect. It described being a writer as a lifestyle rather than as a profession. It even had a little list of questions to answer to determine if one had the right mindset to be a writer. I thought that was clever. I answered each of the questions. I didn’t expect to have them match exactly, but they did. According to their quiz, I was a writer through and through. I laughed a little at the idea that a list of questions could really define that.
As I was signing up for the class, my computer chimed, letting me know that I had a new comment on my blog. I opened the blog back up and scanned the screen. I was sure it would be from Blue.
Dearest SWF,
It is astounding the way you have blossomed through your writing. Just from the blog posts I’ve read, I can tell that you have a knack for creativity. I’m glad that you’ve made this big decision. I think once you start truly living your passion you will experience a big change in your life. Maybe it won’t be the only one. Let yourself open wide—as your name indicates—and welcome the world of creativity. You are the perfect person to be carving beauty from your thoughts.
Admiring you as always,
Blue
I read over the note a few times. I couldn’t help it. I always imagined Blue speaking directly to me, rather than just words floating on a computer screen. He had to be sitting in a thick leather chair, with a smoking jacket on. Or maybe he was perusing my blog between lifesaving surgeries. Or maybe he was just down the block sitting in his own apartment, hanging on my words the same way I hung on to his.
I was thrilled by his message. It was the confirmation that I needed that I was making the right decision. If Max thought I was a writer, a little online quiz thought I was a writer, and Blue thought I was a writer, then a writer I would be. The only question I had left to answer was, what did I want to write about?
As soon as I considered it, my mind filled with all of the possibilities. I could write articles or I could write fiction. I could write about romance or I could write about the difficulties I had faced in my own life. I could write about Max and my conflicting emotions about a relationship with him. I could write about Blue, a secret admirer that I was becoming dependent on.
Really, the options were endless, but they all came down to putting some words on paper. I hoped that the class I would attend would narrow down my choices and help me to focus in on a topic. No matter what happened, I was certain that it would be yet another adventure—and another item I could tick off my bucket list.
Single Wide Female: The Bucket List
12 Join a Writing Group
By
Lillianna Blake
Copyright © 2015 Lillianna Blake
Cover design by Beetiful Book Covers
All rights reserved.
LilliannaBlake.com
Chapter 1
I stared at the blank screen in front of me. It seemed to me that ever since I’d decided that I wanted to try my hand at an actual writing career, I couldn’t have a single creative thought. The more I tried to think of something to write, the less I could come up with that sounded even remotely interesting.
I had, however, cleaned out the inside of every one of my kitchen cabinets. I’d organized my books by date of publishing and personal preference. My floors were spotless. I’d even scrubbed the windows. Everything that could be done, other than writing, had been done.
Yet again, I found myself sitting in front of my computer, waiting for the creative juices to flow. It had never been a problem for me in the past. Writing was my favorite way to express myself. I’d been blogging since I began working on my bucket list. So why was it that now I couldn’t find a single word to write?
I had heard of writer’s block, but this was more like writer’s amnesia. I would type out a sentence and then stare at it. Within a few minutes, I would rewrite it four or five times. Then I would think that it wasn’t written correctly. This led me straight to the Internet for a grammar lesson.
Ten happy kitten videos later, and I still only had one sentence written on my screen. I had promised myself that today would be different. Today, I would actually make some progress on what I was writing—but so far, it wasn’t turning out that way.
Luckily, the next item on my bucket list was joining the writing group that I’d signed up for. The group promised to be a place to get advice and constructive criticism. It met that evening, and I was looking forward to getting some experienced eyes on my writing.
I’d been dabbling with a novel. The characters were so real and alive to me that they could have walked right in the door of my apartment. I had a storyline that I liked, but transitioning from storyline to actual story was proving to be a stumbling block for me. I wasn’t sure that I was ever going to get to a point of being able to achieve what I wanted with it—at least, not within this century.
I was really hoping that the group I was planning on attending would be able to offer some tips and suggestions. I printed out the few pages I’d written just in case anyone would be willing to read them. I was feeling very insecure about actually sharing my writing with others. Since everyone in the group was a writer, I hoped that they would understand that fear.
It was my day off from Fluff and Stuff so I had nothing to distract me. I just couldn’t sit still. The desire was there, but the follow-through was gone. I chalked it up to a little bit of anxiety about meeting new people at the group.
I decided to try writing my current thoughts, instead of focusing so much on the novel. I logged on to my blog and began typing up a new post. I let my readers know that I would be attending my first writing group that night. Somewhere in my tirade about writer’s block and my insecurity about meeting new people, I threw in the name of the cafe where we’d be meeting. I was usually very careful about not revealing any identifying information. When I read the blog over I noticed it, but I’d already published it. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I only had a handful of readers and I doubted any were interested in me that much.
Once the blog was up, I went to my bedroom to change for the meeting. I wanted to look like a writer. After a few minutes of pulling clothes out of my closet and then tossing them into a rejection pile on my bed, I realized that I had no idea how writers dressed. I decided to do a little Internet research to find out.
When I sat back down at my computer, I noticed an alert showing that I’d gotten a new comment on my blog. I was excited to see it, as I was hoping it would be from Blue. He and I had begun quite an exchange lately about my writing skills. I clicked on the link and the comment appeared.
SWF,
You don’t need other writers to tell you that you can write. You write, so you’re a writer. Good luck anyway. I hope you have a great time. Try not to knock anybody out.
Blue
I had to laugh at his final words. I had been pretty honest about my clumsy behavior on my blog. I just couldn’t seem to go anywhere without knocking into something or falling on my rear end. It was becoming a bit of a joke with my readers.
I tended to blame it on my size, but really it had nothing to do with that. It was about my lack of coordination. I had a hard time paying attention to what was around me as my mind was always going pretty fast. I had to blame some of it on bad luck as well. I mean, how many times can you really tr
ip over your own feet before you end up facing the fact that your feet are out to get you and there is no way to stop them? Lately I’d not had any problems with tripping or falling. I was hoping to keep up that good track record, as I felt much better in an upright position.
I got the joke, but I was rather put off by his assertion that I could automatically call myself a writer. I mean, writers were a special breed. They were passionate and always suffering for their art. Writers would starve in cold empty rooms while they labored over their masterpiece. Right?
I wasn’t sure that just because I liked to engage in creative writing, it made me a writer. I felt like I was missing something—some rubber stamp of approval that would be a permanent label that I could carry for the rest of my life—Samantha: The Writer.
I did like the sound of it.
I considered replying and letting him know what I was thinking, but I decided against it. I wanted to think about what he had said a little bit longer. Plus, I needed to figure out how writers dress.
Chapter 2
I typed “how do writers dress” into the search bar and was very anxious to see the results. The first thing to come up claimed that they wore vintage rock tshirts and jeans. I could handle that, though the closest thing I had to a vintage rock t-shirt was an old Garfield shirt that I used as a nightshirt on warm nights. I definitely had the jeans covered.
Another listing described secret writer underpants that all writers wore. I knew that was a joke but it made me rethink my underwear choice. Did writers wear fancy underwear? Did they wear plain nondescript underwear? I realized how weird it was that I was wondering about writers in their underwear. I cringed, thinking that this was probably not going to help me win them over at the coffee shop. Hello, my name is Samantha, will you please tell me what kind of underwear you are wearing?
I laughed at myself and shook my head. I had just wasted way too much time researching underwear.
I went back to my closet to grab a pair of jeans and a print blouse. One thing I was certain of was that writers wouldn’t be caught up in that superficial image stuff that just about every other profession could get swept up into. Writers were relaxed, and free spirits. They didn’t have to look the part for anyone. That aspect of being a writer I could really get into.
Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) Page 33