"Perspectives wrapped in stories that challenge your belief system, and how you see others."
“Levi, you need to stop talking like that.” She looked at the man with the bright red hair and remarkable sea green eyes. He was the best kisser she’d ever known and could kiss her senseless. Two heads taller than she, he made her glow all over when she was in his arms.
WC: 876/Full Critique
Stine typed away on her computer. That she had been downstairs in her office in her basement for a considerable length of time had not registered in her mind. Upstairs, she thought she heard someone kicking against her door and she stood up to go see if it was who she thought it was, not bothering to look in the mirror hanging on the wall, which encased one side of her stairway. If she had, her bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark circles, her growling stomach, and the tired, tense muscles in her neck and shoulders would have told her she’d worked through the night.
On her way up, she stumbled over a carton of milk she put on her the fifth step and almost collided with her black cat, Clay, who was fussing. Unlike Abbey, who waited patiently for her food, Clay thought he was the boss of the house; his meows were commands to do his bidding, immediately.
That must be Levi. He’s the only one who would have the audacity to kick on my door? She thought as she looked out the window. She scrunched her eyebrows, surprised; the sun was shining.
Either, I’m living through a long afternoon or the evening is awfully bright. No wonder you’re fussing, Clay.
She looked at her wall clock.
“Oh my God, I’ve done it again,” she said to Clay. “Fresh cat food on the way but let me open the door for Levi, first.”
“Wow, you look terrible! What have you been drinking?” Said Levi, standing before her with a large gift-wrapped package in his arms.
“Levi Mata, I haven’t been drinking; I’ve been working. What do you want this time of the evening?”
“It’s a new day after twelve-thirty so you mean early afternoon, don’t you?”
“Levi, tell me what you want or I’m shutting the door in your face? I’m tired, and my cats are hungry. So be quick about it.”
“I see you’ve worked through the night again. Not good for your health, Snuggle Poo.”
“Levi…?”
“Poo, I brought you your Valentine’s present.”
“When are you going to stop? What have I done to deserve you as my next-door neighbor?”
“Out the way, Snuggle Poo,” Levi said as he walked into her house, ignoring her question.
“Levi, I’m not accepting your present,” Stine said to his back as she followed him to her kitchen. “So, you need to take it back to wherever it came from.”
“Snuggle Poo, where do you want to open your gift? On the table or the marble top counter?” He asked entering the kitchen.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“You trying to be difficult.” He placed the large package on the marble top counter. “Sometimes, new love reacts frigidly,” he said but I still love you, and I bought you the perfect gift for Valentine.”
“Levi, you need to stop talking like that.”
Stine looked at the man with the bright red hair and remarkable sea green eyes. He was the best kisser she knew and could kiss her senseless. Two heads taller than she, he made her glow all over when she was in his arms. She rolled her eyes and gazed up at him in exasperation.
“Stop trying to aggravate me, Snuggle Poo. Valentine’s Day is three days away…”
“What…?”
“Don’t interrupt me. Open your present.”
“No.”
“You don’t have any choice in the matter, my dear Snuggle Poo.”
“Stop calling me Snuggle Poo!”
“My, aren’t we grouchy today. Be kind or I won’t cook your favorite dinner tonight. Open your present!”
“You know this is not going to work, don’t you, Levi?”
“Who says it’s not?”
“I do. We’re two different people.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m the first woman of color with a short stubby afro you’ve dated, and you think you’re in love, but it’s all up here," she said pointing at his head.
“My mind and body tell me differently, Snuggle Poo, and yours does too.”
“Now, you’re assuming things. Go find someone your age.”
“Is the ten-year difference between us really what’s bothering you?”
“Let’s just say, if I knew how old you were two months ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in my kitchen right now.”
“My luck. I’m hooked on you Babe,” Levi said and began filling Clay’s cat bowl with his favorite wet cat food.
Stine went to her kitchen cupboards and took out scissors and opened the gift-wrapped box he had placed on her counter. She gasped.
“It’s the Saeco Xelsis Evo Superautomatic Coffee Machine I fell in love with at the appliance store! Beautiful, but…”
“No, buts. That’s our first-ever-together appliance, and today, we’ll baptize it into ours.”
“Levi, you’re so sweet to me.”
“Then, say yes. Admit you feel the same way I do.”
“What if…?”
“Don’t go there. What ifs are for ignoramuses, and we ignore ignorance.”
“Do you think it’s that easy?”
“Yeah, Snuggle Poo, I do. So, what do you say?”
“You’re calling me Snuggle Poo again.”
“Okay, what do you say, Stine?”
“Thank you.”
“And?”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m very sure.”
“Will you be my Valentine?”
“I thought you’d never asked, Snuggle Poo,” he said, stretching out his arms and bringing her into them. “Now, give me a kiss me.”
***
Preparing her briefcase in her office, Phoebe heard a loud crash, and She ran to her kitchen
Hello Everyone,
I am still reading the books I listed on the WIPpet two weeks ago. I want to get through some of those before I add something new.
Here is my WIPpet Wednesday from Just At Dawn. The day, 3 + 2 which is the month and came up with five sentences.
Preparing her briefcase in her office, Phoebe heard a loud crash, and She ran to her kitchen.
“What happened?”
“I wanted to feed Prexie.” Quad 3 said.
“Well, get one of your sisters to help you clean up your mess. I can still make it to work on time if we leave in the next 15 minutes.”
That is all. I'll see you next Wednesday.
Pat
I am slowly getting through this one because it rattles my brain. In order words, it gives me a lot to think about in relationship to how I was brought up. These stereotypes still exist in some parts of the Deep South among Black Women.
A. What am I currently reading?
Here is a blurb that answered a couple of questions that I had about my strange tendency to write better during certain periods of the day or night.
To recap: you can enter a flow state anywhere and anytime: during the preparation/thinking/dreaming/planning stage, the incubation stage when you’re consciously doing something else (resting, tidying the drawers, playing racquetball) and waiting for the ideas to gel, the illumination/inspiration stage, or the rewriting and revising stage.
Blurb
Under the guise of presenting a corrective to deleterious images of African-American women, the “race women” at the turn of the century developed and reinforced a model of Black womanhood that continues to conceal the authentic experiences and needs of Black women, that encourages women to deny and ignore themselves and to maintain a façade of imperturbability at the expense of personal health and well-being. A full century later, this model of identity—the StrongBlackWoman—has contributed to a health crisis among African-American women that reinscribes the very racial-gender disparities that the women’s clubs and Christian women’s conventions worked hard to dismantle. In large part, the ideology of the StrongBlackWoman has escaped significant criticism by African-American cultural and social institutions because it is a controlling image that was developed and promulgated by those very institutions. Moreover, because its controls are seemingly benign (that is, influencing behavior in directions understood to be positive), it is overlooked as a source of control that is predicated upon negative images of Black womanhood. However, as Collins asserts, controlling images must be challenged regardless of whether they were developed outside of or within African-American communities.
I am slowly getting through this one and the one by Barnes' above, because they rattle my brain. In order words, both give me lots to think about in relationship to how I was brought up. These stereotypes still exist in some parts of the Deep South among Black Women. Blurb below:
While most people of color, and African Americans in particular, are perceived through a distorted lens, Black women are routinely defined by a specific set of grotesque caricatures that are reductive, inaccurate, and unfair. bell hooks of the City College of New York enumerates these “gendered racist stereotypes” that include the emasculating Sapphire, the desexualized Mammy, and the scheming temptress Jezebel.3 Today, in the twenty-first century, these and other stereotypes, so prevalent in old Hollywood movies and black-and-white television reruns, have mutated into contemporary versions of their old selves. Sapphire, for instance, can inevitably be found with just a few clicks of the remote control in an old episode of NYPD Blue or Law and Order when police make their way into a poor Black neighborhood. Sapphire is harsh, loud, uncouth, usually making the other characters seem more professional, more charming, more polished by contrast. She is a twisted take on the myth that Black women are invulnerable and indefatigable, that they always persevere and endure against great odds without being negatively affected. This is one myth that many Black women themselves embrace, and so they take on multiple roles and myriad tasks, ignoring the physical and emotional strain, fulfilling the stereotype. There is peer pressure among Black women to keep the myth alive, to keep juggling, to keep accommodating. Some women who desperately need balance in their lives, who greatly need assistance, never seek or receive it. Instead, their blood pressure soars. They overeat. They sink into depression. Some kill themselves or try. Others simply fantasize about making an escape.
Blurb
Nailing down the character’s core motivations can help us discover what she’s lacking, too. Often, turning to these favorite questions helps us dig even deeper. If our heroine is working on restoring that old house to create a real home and preserve the area’s heritage, why? What does she get from doing this, on an emotional level? What does she need? Similarly, we can take one of these aspects that might be a positive thing and extrapolate it to find a negative extreme. If our hero’s great strength is his intelligence, perhaps he doesn’t suffer fools well. If our heroine excels at keeping confidences, maybe she’s also really good at keeping secrets from people who should know them, or she’s very bad at trusting other people with her own.
I finished A Mind For Murder by P.D. James and will probably start on another of her books. I love the way she builds up her scenes.
I wanted to start with Csikszentimihalyi’s Flow this week, but I didn’t get to it. So I’ve pushed it up two weeks. Maybe, the first or second week in February. Hope to start on Nicholas Sparks’ The Choice and How Fiction Works by James Wood soon.
So, here is my WIPpet for this week:
The quads and the four girls are sitting around the kitchen table having breakfast with Phoebe and Granny, and Phoebe interrupts the conversation.
“Quads, you’re going to be good, right?” Phoebe asked, interrupting their conversation.
“Always good,” said Quad 1.
“Me too,” said Quad 2.
“And what about you, Quad 3 and 4. Are you going to be good while I’m out this evening?”
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
The wind was tossing the thin translucent drapes hanging from the drapery rods high, lifting and tying them as it blew them in different directions. Angry, her own anger matched the approaching storm, and she hurled her shoes in the darkness; her purse followed. She heard the content fall to the carpet but didn’t make any effort to turn the light on to gather them. Confused and hurting, she walked to the large window to look up at the dark, angry sky.
The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner
Riding horses in a back pasture, gone wild. Woods. Inside, on a hill, a house as black as dinosaur bones. Grass grows up through the driveway’s broken asphalt, but there is a car. This is the house of the oldest Judge in the world. The Judge has company.
John Gardner’s Prologue to The Sunlight Dialogues immediately drew me in. His first sentence, “Riding horses in a back pasture, gone wild” caught me up and I saw land no longer cultivated. His description, “grass grows up through the driveway,” gave me a picture of a driveway beaten down by weeds, and I laughed when he wrote, “but there is a car.”
My setting from Turn The Light On, WC:854 FCA
Puffy, dark clouds clustered together hiding the moon when Della opened the door to her apartment. She placed her keys on the large wooden key holder that hung on the left side of the wall without thinking about turning on her lights. Even though it was early October, it was extremely warm and she kicked off her shoes and carried them in her hands. That the hallway was dark didn’t bother her; she walked down it as lightning blitz across the sky; her shoes in one hand; her purse strap hanging over her shoulder.
Approaching her kitchen door, she stopped and noticed that the wind coming through her opened kitchen window had blown her letters that were on the kitchen table to the floor; the pictures and what-nots hanging on the wall were rattling their dissatisfaction, so she entered and closed the window and hurriedly picked up the fallen letters and laid them back on the table before going to her living room.
In her living room, the wind was tossing the thin translucent drapes hanging from the drapery rods high, lifting and tying them as it blew them in different directions. Her repressed anger matched the approaching storm, and she hurled her shoes off into the darkness; her purse followed. She heard the content fall to the carpet but didn’t make any effort to turn the light on to gather them. Confused and hurting, she walked to the large window to look up at the dark, angry sky.
Suddenly, she sensed a presence, and goose bumps broke out on her arms. She felt she was no longer alone.
You're here; somewhere, in my living room, she thought. It’s got to be you.
Infuriated at him for daring to enter her apartment; for leading her on for one whole year; in her anger, her stubborn spirit reared its head.
Two can play your game; I’ll just let you wait until I get ready to confront you. She stood before the huge glass window and the wind tossed the sheer drapes to and fro trying to envelope her; she felt no fear.
I was right then. You're back in town, so, why weren't you at the restaurant?
A feeling of relief ran through her body, and tears gathered in her eyes, and she brushed them away with her hands as they ran down her face. She had missed him––her stranger without a name. He had never left her for two months. She shuddered at the intimacy, at the emotional entwinement to a stranger, an assassin she didn't even know by name––her stranger.
***
He sat in the darkest corner of her living room, watching her. Observing her brought healing to his war-ridden soul. He desired to reach out and enfold her in his arms, but he didn't. Instead, he sat; basking in the tranquility her presence gave him. This was the intimacy he had been searching for, and he relished the fact that she was his. Like a mammoth in heat, within him raged a pressing need to cover her with his body as he lay in her arms.
Her tears forced him to act. As the lightening flashed across the room, he saw her brushing tears away from her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry, and surprisingly, it pained him. What little emotional balance he had left disappeared; he wanted to comfort her.
"Did you enjoy your meal?"
"No.” She said.
"Why not?"
“Why weren't you there?" she asked.
"I had to de-brief."
"Oh. When did you land?"
"Four hours ago."
"Have you eaten?"
"No. I was waiting for you so we could eat together."
"I'm tired. I’ve had a long day."
"Why?" he asked, even though, he knew from CeCe, her live-in maid, that she’d been horrified at his occupation.
"Because I found out what you were. The newsflash this morning accidentally caught my attention, and I recognized you."
"How?"
"By your eyes," she almost screamed.
"Which means?"
"I've been walking around in a daze, asking myself how I could let myself play such a stupid game and get emotionally attach to a trained killer."
"You haven't been playing a game."
"What is it then, if not a game?"
"It's a courtship that’s about to end.”
Her heart began to beat swiftly; they were surrounded by darkness; she couldn’t see his face; she had no idea what he meant.
So, it's over, she thought and a sadness of great dimension overcame her and poked at her heart.
"Why is it about to end?" She asked, quietly.
"I need you."
"Oh, I see," she said, and joy banished away the sadness. "So, you want to sleep with me? Is that the reason you've followed me a whole year and showered me with gifts?"
"I do admit I want you in my bed on a permanent basis."
"And what if I don't want to sleep in your bed on a permanent basis? Would you force me?"
"No, I've never had to force anyone, and I won't have to force you either."
"At least you don't lack self-confidence," she said with a trace of sarcasm.
***
Shalom,
Pat Garcia