Authoress renames self to 'Helen DeWitt'

I shouldn't be writing this now.

You know how they say you don't make decisions when you're blue?

I shouldn't be writing this now.

And this is not a call for help. No, this is an answer to a question. The question was: "are you alive???"

And my (very short) answer was: "no. nonono. and no. and if I were, I wish I wasn't. Weren't? wasn't? weren't?"

You see how I can't even answer a question without getting all ... 'phfina?

Got nothing, sweeties, and I have got too much on my mind.

So, this post could be 'Mediations on writing Sirens, ch 2: Furies.'

Because why? Just because. Just because.

I'm not writing Birthday Gifts. Why? Well, that was due over a month ago, and I've written myself into that story ('Authoress renames self to "Helen DeWitt"'), and in that story I'm tongue-tied, so guess what: I'm tongue-tied, because I wrote myself into a story that way.

AND I know exactly what happens in Sirens, ch 2. I try, and fail, to commit suicide [rather spectacularly fail, too: you ever look so stupid in front of everybody there's no way to even laugh it off? Yeah.], and end up in the hospital ... back in the hospital, scared to death they're going to lobotomize the crazy right out of my head.

Just guess what I'm scared to death of right now.

AND I know how Bloodbuzz ends. It ends with Renesmee attempting to starve herself to death after Mommy doesn't show up at the next rendezvous. You know what happens, most of the time, when you try to forcefeed a person on a starvation fast? They die.

The Cullens know that, too (they are, after all, a family of M.D.'s), so they are stuck, aren't they? And Renesmee's dying right in front of them. And you know what happens in the final days of a starvation fast? You start seeing things. You start babbling nonsense. You start to lose your mind.

Just one little chapter to write to finish that story. And I'm not writing it ... why?

Yeah.

AND I know how Monsters ends. I knew it from the beginning. This image was the conception of the story: Rosalie, smiling triumphantly, in her wedding gown, pounding, and pounding, and pounding Royce's face into the steel-reenforced floor of the bank-vault. Until there's nothing left but bloody fist imprints, that Edward has to clean up so the authorities don't see that.

And her one regret ... her one regret ... well, she doesn't have any regrets, but now she has to wake up Bella and tell her what a monster she is. She has to tell her to get up, pack up, run away. Get away. Go away.

BUT before I get to that lovely moment, I have to write how Kate went insane. And how Tanya was the cause of that. And how two gendarmes dragged Kate away, screaming, breaking her spine (accidentally, of course) and threw her into the Danube, like all the other refuse that couldn't make it to the level of consort.

And that's how Sasha found Kate. And then Kate came back, with Sasha, for Tanya and Irina.

Because she loves them, you see.

So I have to write that first before I write what is ever before my eyes in Monsters.

AND I know what happens in Clubbing. You think Alice and Rosalie are the only vampires at Ginger's Bar? You think only lesbians are on the prowl for a sweet little treat that night? And wearing sunglasses at night to hide your black-black eyes, oh, newborn just vibrating in pain from the hunger? So hard to look cool when a girl is practically throwing herself into your arms, isn't it? But you'll get yours soon enough, won't you?

AND I know what happens in Our First Time. Remember your first time? And she was so kind, so patient, so understanding with you, right? Did it make it any easier? AND I've already told you in another story what happens, anyway, right? Maybe even two stories. Or maybe I haven't, but I've told myself plenty of times. Plenty.

AND that brings us back to Bells are Ringing, and that infamous chapter 8: "My nightly shower" that's been a showstopper for me for how long? Rosalie gets a little quiet time for some self-talk.

How's your self talk? Is it good? That's nice. Rosalie did almost rape Bella earlier, as you recall; you think she has any recriminations she'd like to review?

And how's being a lesbian feel to you Rosalie, growing up in the 30's? And with your mom so supportive and understanding...

Yeah.

That'll be a fun chapter to write.

But then there's all the other stuff after that. The flight home and the mile high club, but before that a lay-over in NYC and a stop by Ginger's Bar and a night at the hotel. And then the Christmas Surprises, for Bella, and for Rosalie when Bella answers.

Which brings us back to Christmas Surprises. Alice has more visions, and ... visits. And remember that Mother-daughter talk with Esme? And, with what you, Alice, you have just done ...

"Home Wrecker"? Hm. Well, if the shoe fits ... and we get to see if Jasper is as forgiving as Alice was ...

You know the thing about forgiveness? It's hard. Impossible, even.

But, ... butbutbut.

Then there's my stories. You know, my stories? Like Happy Ending.

And well, dinner is just so lovely when Royce doesn't come home and doesn't call, right? A little talk with the kids around the dinner table, waiting for Dad, who doesn't show up, again! And there's all that to deal with with Royce III, but then Royce II does come back so toasted and when he finds out about Rosalie's activities in the servants quarters, particularly with his current squeeze.

Well, what do people with power do, when they feel powerless?

So Royce sodomizes Sarah and then fires her when she's not available for the evening roll call.

Apparently she's sick.

And what can Rosalie do about it? Besides nothing with Royce II all drunk and all "I'm the MAN of this house!" and Royce III just looking at his mother with contempt and ...

And it goes downhill from there. And somebody dies. And it isn't Royce II.

And 70 years later Rosalie gets her Happy Ending. Eventually.

But my real story, you know, my real story? Sappho's Muse.

You know, Sappho tried to commit suicide by trying to throw herself off the same cliff I looked over in Sirens, ch 1 (and ch 2).

That didn't work. But what did was two people die on that hill, and Sappho, in her blind fury tries to murder Cleïs. You know? Her daughter? For trying to save her mother from killing herself?

How do you recover from that?

You don't, of course.

Not even "Thirty Years Later" ... that's the title of my one-shot epilogue of Sappho's Muse. You know how old Sappho lived to be? Hm.

Well, good thing Lady Melissa is just such a good friend.

And then there are those odious Etruscans. You know, the Roman contingent stationed on Lesbos? And Sappho has to deal with that, and with Cleïs' prejudice ... for them. Not against them. Well, Sappho actually has to deal with her own prejudice, now, doesn't she? Especially after a mother-daughter talk about Cleïs choice of reading material.

Do you know what the opposite of writer's block is?

The opposite of writer's block is writer's block.

I have all these stories in my head. I know what I need to write for each of them. And I think about them.

I think about them all the time. I can't even hear myself think. I can't even ... no, I can get the orders correct, or I'd be fired by now, but I'm going around like a robot, filling orders, thinking, trying not to think. Thinking.

And my stories are so loved. They are just so brutally honest, aren't they? Where do you get your story ideas, 'phfina?

But they don't have two thousand reviews. Which story is better? Ms. Bellice's two-thousand reviewed story or any of mine? Why don't I have a two-thousand reviewed story?

And I know a published authoress. She was my beta. She published her story. She's now the Some-d-someth Editor at a publishing house. She gives interviews. She has book signings.

Before all that I cut her right off. She told me, "I was just trying to have fun with this [what we were talking about], but you are a person who can't have fun."

Right off at the knees. Because she told me the truth.

But whose story is better? Ask her: "Well, you could try to write something mediocre, if possible, but I don't think you can."

She told me that a few weeks ago when I confessed to her I was stuck. After all I've done, she still admires my writing.

Her stuff is published. Mine isn't.

Why.

She finished her story. She's won oodles of awards on ffn this and twilove that.

Hm. Which awards has my writing won? How many?

Why.

Because I deserve this.

You know what predestination is? It says some people are saints, no matter what. They are called the Elect.

A coin has two sides, you know.

I should not be writing this. I should not be telling you this.

There are the damned. Those are the people in hell. And God knows everything, right? Everything is ordered toward the Plan.

I get the feeling that no matter what I do, ...

The highway goes in one direction ... so you can go faster or slower, but you meet your final end sometime, don't you, 'phfina?

Why is it warm in here? Why am I smoking? I don't smoke.

...

Helen DeWitt wrote a book, called the Last Samurai. Read it. ... Please.

She wrote herself into the book. And she won all kinds of awards and love from fans including writers that I would die if they came up to me and said "Hello, can I have a latte?"

Helen DeWitt wrote her editor that she was going to throw herself off the observation deck overlooking the Niagara Falls.

Her editor, and the police, intercepted her. On the observation deck. Overlooking the Niagara Falls.

After she had published Last Samurai.

You know? Published? And sold copies? Thousands of them? Including one to me?

Helen DeWitt reads and writes German, and Latin, and Greek, and Arabic, and Icelandic, and Hebrew, and ...

She got a full scholarship into Cambridge, I think, on the strength of her German.

She didn't know German at the time, but by the first quarter, she was fluent.

And then she quit school, and then she wrote.

It's all in there in the Last Samurai (not the movie, please).

And then she tried to throw herself off the edge into the void. She had, at the time, three, I think, books in the works. One of them "This Book has no title" addressed Arabic and was designated to be given to every CIA agent for free. According to her, there are three CIA agents that are fluent in Arabic, and maybe ten more that know a little bit. There are over ten-thousand CIA agents, more than a thousand, probably, are very interested in the goings-on in the Arabic world, and how many are fluent?

That's what Helen DeWitt was up to. World Peace. Understanding. And reading Last Samurai? Self. Love. Acceptance. Hope.

And then she tried to kill herself.

Good news for you. I don't have a plan. Not today. Thoughts haven't even crossed my mind today. I'm not thinking about getting into my car and driving until I close my eyes and wake up dead. I'm not thinking about 'down, not across.' I'm not thinking about purchasing a weapon and wondering how brains sound when a bullet hits them at high velocity nor worrying about trajectories (don't want to hurt others, don't you know) or non-prescription drugs. I'm not thinking about Leaving Las Vegas.

I've come a long, long way, baby. A long way.

"are you alive???"

I shouldn't be writing this. It's admissible in court. Psychiatrists will have a field day with this. You show them this, I get 'three hots and a cot' for as long as they like. And everybody there will be so nice to me. And they won't let me use a computer. And I'll feel my scalp for incisions every morning.

I know.

Been there. Done that.

I shouldn't be writing this. The only reason I am. The only reason?

You. You care about me. You want to know how I'm doing. How I'm really doing.

And you write to me in your care.

"Update soon" meaning: "put your heart on the line"? "bare your soul for all to see"? "torture yourself with every phrase of every sentence"?

"Update soon" meaning: "we love you! we love this story!"

'Kay, I guess. Dunno when. No promises. I got nuthin, except all these screaming Furies in my head.

And then there's the small matter of 137 pending emails in my inbox: PMs, reviews, ... I had zero two months ago. Zero. Because I was on top of the game then; responding to reviews and PMs, publishing chapters.

Who was that person then who could do that? Can somebody else please be me? Please be the great authoress 'phfina?

No? "Only you can be you, 'phfina"?

Yeah. I was afraid of that answer. Oh, well. Mirror time, then bed time, then a busy-busy weekend, and then a new week beckons me forward.

But to where?

And I look down at Sartre's Being and Nothingness on my desk.

What's the point if there is no point?

... And my laptop just died. Yes, I have backups.

Goodnight moon.

p.s. en revue, You know, Sartre was dead wrong about one thing, fer sure. "Hell is other people"? C'mon! I wouldn't have made it this far without 'other people.' I wouldn't have made it this far without you.

'Other people' make me smile, make me laugh, give me hugs, give me hope.

That's what I got: you.

Thank you.

And goodnight again.

A Nonsense Song by Stephen Vincent Benét

ROSEMARY, Rosemary, let down your hair!
The cow's in the hammock, the crow's in the chair!
I was making you songs out of sawdust and silk,
But they came in to call and they spilt them like milk.

The cat's in the coffee, the wind's in the east,
He screams like a peacock and whines like a priest
And the saw of his voice makes my blood turn to mice
So let down your long hair and shut off his advice!

Pluck out the thin hairpins and let the waves stream,
Brown-gold as brook-waters that dance through a dream,
Gentle-curié as young cloudlings, sweet-fragrant as bay
Till it takes all the fierceness of living away.

Oh, when you are with me, my heart is white steel.
But the bat's in the belfry, the mold's in the meal,
And I think I hear skeletons climbing the stair!
Rosemary, Rosemary, let down your bright hair!

— 'phfina's thoughts:

I remember hearing this when I was a little child, I think, or somehow this poem pulls to me in that way. I stumbled upon it last weekend? two weekends ago? and immediately when I read it, I started reciting it out loud in my sing-songy reciting voice:

"Rosemary, Rosemary let down your hair!"

... and I couldn't help but to smile as I sang this silly song.

But, really, this song isn't so silly: it's sweet, and it's, yes: sad. The world around us — around me — is this crazy world where "the cow's in the hammock, the crow's in the chair!" but what is the image called to us in this crazy-life? It's Rosemary, my beloved Rosemary [the poet's wife], combing her hair in the morning, and putting up in a severe bun, and Stephen cries out: "Rosemary, Rosemary, please let down your hair!"

This is so New England, and yes, Stephen's from Pennsylvania, so I'll change that to 'Colonial.' Yeah! Colonial. There's something so ... 13 colonies in this poem, how the Brits came over to the New World, and wrested it from the natives, and wrested it from the French, and wrested it from anything and everything, including itself, so the 'New' England took on a character of the 'Old' England that they fled, and it wasn't even the Old England, it was what they thought they fled from Old England: that cold, unwelcoming, desolate place that the Brits entirely aren't! (I've met a few, and it's hard to find more warm, welcoming, bright, friendly people that the Brits I've met.) But this is what the colonists fled, and this is what they brought with them.

Funny how the thing we are running away from is the thing that is waiting for us when we arrive at our haven.

And so these hardy colonists carved out the land from the land and made it this prosperous, grey, heartless place. And so we have this poetry, from Benét and Frost and Wallace Stevens and other New Englanders and Colonists, so precise, so pragmatic, and so filled with longing for love and affection and something they could so easily have if they'd just do the one thing they cannot: put down the plow of their toil and dare, just dare, to open their hearts.

So.

So there's me, a New Englander, in exile in the South (but in the safe northern part of the South) (but no place is safe, is it, 'phfina?), reading this poem. And thinking about it and the images it calls forth.

And, I, well, is my hair something for my spouse to cry out this line? Well, not really. It's not full-bodied like my sisters' ... and it's not ratty, not really, it's just this straight, jet black "thing" that's this mess in the morning, and after that I don't really think about it until I'm washing the coffee smell out of it after I work out.

I really don't think about hair, except when I'm admiring it or when I'm missing it. Like, one time when I was still in high school, I visited my sister in Vermont, and I was shocked when I saw her because she was all Sinéad, and then she told me she had donated her hair for women who had lost their hair through cancer, and my approbation (had she gone skin-head?) turned to admiration. And I thought: how brave! how giving! how selfless!

Funny that, 'cause now her mom's a blond. Yes, her mom has breast cancer, and the chemo took her hair, and now she's on radiation therapy.

I wonder if I could ever do that: just cut off all my hair. And I don't see myself as vain, but here I am thinking about this little nothing while people are dying, .. and I don't see myself as ... well, I grew up where compliments weren't given, even if they were earned. I did tell you I'm from New England, didn't I? I mean, everything I did to try to make some kind of impression on my parents, what I did at school, what I did at home? But everybody in my family's a Mensan, (really) published authors with national and international accolades, teachers, professors, philosophers, for God's sake, so that makes me an also-ran, I guess, you know?

So I would get, if I were lucky, just a nod from a parent, or a slight smile, but "I love you"? or "You look nice today"? or "Good job!"? Those things weren't said. No, it was more like: "..." No, I'm not going to write it; it's too painful, even now: my family is very, very smart, and very, very critical. And I know they want the best from me, and they tried to offer their constructive criticism gently, not bluntly, ... most of the time, but I never felt I was good enough, you know? So I never saw myself as pretty, or loved even, by my parents. I mean, I know they did, and, ... but growing up was rather austere — rather ... not cold, but cool, you know? very, very cool and distant — and, thinking back to my childhood, it was rather hard, and here I am now, and I won't do this thing that my sister did.

Even though I can't really see somebody quoting this poem to me.

So, singing this silly song to myself softly, I smile, but it's a wistful smile, as I see the lover call to the beloved, seeing her as beautiful, as perfect, and hearing the longing in the voice, and then my smile disappears and I have to wipe away my tears.

You know what I've been reading? Salinger and Sartre. And I wonder: what if they are right? What if they are right, and now is the only thing we have, and it's all vanity?

"Why is Violet crying? I just said to her to look how hard it's raining outside and she runs to the bathroom!"

Yes, it's raining hard outside, and I hear skeletons climbing the stairs...

... and now is all we have ...

So, Rosemary, Rosemary, let down your hair.

In the Arms of an Angel

Of course. You know, I'm weird. You know it, and I know it, too. I have these discussions with myself, and when I write my stories, with you as well, that I don't hear anybody else having.

I think about Angels occasionally. I mean, I really, really think about them.

You know, or maybe you don't, but angels do. From forever, Angels have known everything, so I mean, there they are, forever, knowing everything.

... and their looking down at us ... they are looking down at me.

And, you know how it is: when you so know something, and you so try to tell somebody, or you so try not to, knowing if they only listened to you, they would just avoid so much trouble and heartbreak. I know you struggle with this, because I've read your PMs to me.

So there this angel is, my profile pic, and she's weeping.

She's probably thinking about me.

And, the thing is, angels don't cry. I mean, they want the best for you, but that also includes ... what do you call it? free choice? No: free will, so I screw up, and I either learn from it, or I keep screwing up until I do learn or I die, and there the angels are, cheering me on, wanting the best for me ... loving me.

And that statement, right now, really hits me like a ton of bricks ... or a ton of feathers from angels' wings? Because ... well, I grew up how I grew up, but I've always felt alone and ... well, unloved, and when I do feel love it's like WHAMMO! and I just reel under that.

I'm probably not going to keep this pic up. It called to me. Maybe there's a story in there, called something like: "My Guardian Angel" and why she's weeping, or something like that, or not, but it called to me, and I shared it with you.

They say the sea is cold, but in it runs the hottest blood of all.

Angels, mermaids, vampires.

I am surrounded by super-natural things in my thoughts, and my thoughts take life and you read them in my writing.

I am surrounded by miracles, and maybe there's an Angel looking down from Heaven, weeping for me, and my silly, silly choices and struggles. Maybe she is weeping.

But I know she loves me. That's so hard for me to believe. I'm loved by something that knows everything about my nature, but still loves me.

And, sometimes, I wonder why I exist. Heh: 'sometimes.' Okay, a lot of the times (sometimes I don't, 'cause I'm happy or sad or writing or making an iced latte or ... whatever), but I heard once that women should cover their heads so the angels won't see them and be tempted away from Heaven (I so know the temptation ... often).

AND I also heard that why I'm here? And this is a shocker for me: why I'm here is to teach the angels.

The angels know everything, but they have never, ever experienced one single thing. Not one hug, nor laugh, nor cry, nor ... writing a story nor going to the bathroom nor eating gnocchi (God! poor things!) ... and the only way they can experience that: feeling hurt or love or hungry or happy, is through us ... through me.

Right this second, me crying at my keyboard, I'm teaching an Angel, my angel, something through my experience.

And that, right now? It gives me a little bit of hope, and a little bit of strength that I didn't know I had.

Thanks, there, Angel. Be seeing you around.

p.s. and oh, btw, this pic is of the Angel of Grief, also call the Weeping Angel. The original is in Rome, but this one is a replica found in a New England (of course, do you see the stark, barren, forlorn tree? So New England. I'll touch on New England later, as I have before).

My week; The Cure

Do you know what cures the blues?

My little voice: Aren't you supposed to be in the timeout corner?
Me: I was, but now I'm out.
My little voice, looking at me shocked: Out? Out? Like after thirty seconds in the corner?

Then she shakes her head in disgust. But I don't have time to entertain Ms. Muse.

So I answer with a tight: Do me a favor, just for once? Shut the fuck up?

My little voice, looking absolutely ecstatic: Nope.

But she does shut up. She's willful and contrarian like that.

ANYWAY, as I was saying! Do you know how to cure a case of the blues? I do:

I don't care if Monday's blue;
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday, too.
Thursday I don't care about you.
It's Friday, I'm in love!

I mean, really! After The Cure got over being all gothy, they really kicked out some beauts! Here's a song that sings out week after week of just pure love and happy-poppy joy and it. never. gets. old!

I don't care if Monday's black
Tuesday, Wednesday heart attack
Thursday never looking back
It's Friday I'm in love!

Now, about a week ... do you know where we got the names for the week? Well, obvious the sun and the moon, but what about the rest? ... Somebody's just going to burst with pride now, isn't she, with what I'm about to write ... ask me if I care:

Monday you could fall apart;
Tuesday, Wednesday: break my heart;
Thursday doesn't even start;
It's Friday I'm in love!

• Well, Tuesday is from Tui the sky and weather (Norse) god.


• Wednesday is from Wootan (Odin), the AllFather of the (Norse) gods. Mr. Wednesday was the man behind the story of American Gods.
  
  Oh, he also shows up in one of my stories, too.


• Thursday is for our Thor, the red-beard, the (Norse) god of thunder.


• Friday is the only day named for a (Norse) goddess: Freyja who so totally kicked ass in the looks department, and, being Norse, would kick anybody's ass, anyway that she got her own day. The best day, too, I'll point out right here, 'cause girls kick ass, period!

Um. *blush* So, yeah, that's where the days of the week come from.

Oh, 'phfina ... you and my little voice chant teasingly, how did you come across this scintillating piece of knowledge?

Oh, um, la-di-dah! *blush*, I just ... read something (which is SO NSFW that if you're at work or school, you'd better NOT select this link nor read this!)

So, yeah, my week can be down-down-down and then, suddenly, WHAMMO! it's Friday, and I'm in love.

So my wish for you, my dear reader, reading this silly, little posting from this silly, little girl, is that you get this: I may not know you, but take away this: whatever day it is in the world, today, for you and for me, and although we've maybe never met, but I wave my magic wand and *doink!* it's Friday, and I'm in love.

With you.

kisses, 'phfina

Clicks on "Hide Profile"

Kayso, four different girls, from four different country origins, kindly put me into timeout corner.

Hm-hm-hm, not saying anything, looking around, contritely and curiously and a little bit expectantly, waiting to come out of timeout corner. La-la-la.

And Saga wrote, she's studying for an exam, so her silence was that, not the huge drama I had turned it into. Hm-hm-hm. La-la-la. (looks at clock, waits, and watches Show Me, Show Me, Show Me by The Cure on youtube ... actually, it's called Just Like Heaven; Show Me Love is an entirely different song (and despite what the vid shows I'm going on record here as saying as this is totally a les song ... I mean, really! It's the theme song for the sweetest lesbian movie out there, Fucking Åmål, which, yay!, is now up on youtube (but which you shouldn't watch at work) (even though there's no smexing in it per se) (yes, I speak in parentheses) (AND I'm on timeout ... sigh)), that I'm watching right now ... and ... well, *blush* I'm not allowed to watch other vids from ... other places ... right now that I'm in timeout corner ... poutily sung 'la-la-la' as 'phfina looks (more than) slightly frustrated now).

À propos de rein, ... (hehehe ... get that paradoxie-cherie?) ... where is the umlaut key on my keyboard? I can type 'étudiante' no problem (and I have no problems thinking about more than several étudiantes and what they are ... doing ... Rosalie and Bella, anyone? (ooh! do they have room for a third? Hm, yes, perhaps they do!) that I'm not supposed to be doing here in timeout corner (Bad, 'phfina, bad!)), so what's the magic secret to being able to type 'Amal' correctly without all this copying and pasting of umlauts?

Oh, and p.s., postie scriptiusumae (that's not a word), you ever wonder what your girl is thinking when she's sent off to the timeout corner and she looks here and looks there and hums this and hums that and fidgets about? Well, now you know (well, at least for this girl, anyway). AND I think it was a really, really bad idea for me to take my laptop with me to timeout corner, but I have so much to write and so little time, you know?

So, here I am, hm-hm-hm, sitting quietly, not saying a word, in timeout corner. La-la-la (but first two quick clicks to post this to my blog and post that blog entry to my fb page) (okay, done, now I'm really (kinda) being quiet. Hm-hm-hm).

Writing material

Thought for the day

Do you know how life is a roller-coaster ride, with it's ups and downs? Or so I'm told. And they tell you just to ride it, and not to get off?

I find myself here in the middle of this twister, a scared little girl with no ruby slippers and no toto.

They say in the center of a tornado and at the eye of a hurricane is utter stillness, so all I can do is stay in the center of this storm called life, and any step, ANY step in any direction leads to calamity. As I've seen. Today. Again.

And ... but ... if I stand still, the imperious, impersonal, dispassionate storm called life will roll, uncaringly, right over this sad little nothing girl.

Because that's what life does. It goes on. and on. and on.

God, I hope Saga writes.
God, after what I just wrote her, ... I hope she doesn't.

And then there's all the littered corpses scattered pel-mel behind me, too. 'Friends' or 'survivor victims of the 'phfina encounter.'

I am SO not cut out to be a masochist, so why do I keep doing this to myself. Why do I keep breathing? ... when I just. can't. breathe.

And I look in the mirror and ask one simple question: 'who is the cause of all this?' and look into the eyes of the girl who so knows the answer.

'You did, 'phfina. You,' she says. And she is so right: as always, it's all my fvcking fault.

Just some random thoughts for today. On the upside: 'ooh, fresh writing material! Yay!'

And the irony that I'm so present to right now is that people ask me, all the time, where I get ideas for my stories. Hm, let me think about that ... ah, yes! I know: I'm still breathing, unfortunately, so there is just oh-so-many things to write about today.

That's 'phfina's lovely little thought for the day. Happy? You want insights into mysterious reclusive little writer 'phfina? Well, then, there it is.

Oh, no! It's a P.S. to "The (Two) List(s)"

Uh-oh! That's what I always think whenever anybody sends me a P.S. PM, because, well, because my P.S.'s are something I didn't think about, because why? Because well, it might be scary what I don't want to think about, or hurtful.  You know: the 'oh, by the way,' the, as I say, 'à propos de rein' (which a cute little French girl just scolded me about my usage). And if I've studied psychology (and I have studied psychology), then I know there's a reason for forgetting something, and there's a reason for sending the P.S.  It's like the P.S. is really the message, and the message I had sent was just the cover to soften you up.

And it makes all the work, all that effort, I had put into the original PM for nought, and I die a little death when I send a P.S. or when I receive a P.S. Because, oh, noes, here it comes. And I grit my teeth, and I brace myself.

Oftentimes for "P.S. hugs" and I'm like ... aw~w~w~w~w~w~w! and sniffle a little sniffle.

So: "P.S." and "How could I forget?"

1. ('X.' because I've lost count) I've made more than one girl have to do the laundry, including me.
   
   'phfina, every girl living on her own has to do the laundry.
   
   No, I'm talking extra loads, and because of ... something happening ... with her ... when she reads my stories.
   
   AND these girls have invariably reported a new-found relationship with their washing machines ... and you know what I'm talking about ('spin cycle,' anyone?)


2. Because of you, I've learned words in languages I never knew (both the words and the languages).


3. And, 'oh, by the way' ... I've written stories. I've dared, I've been sick, I've been scared, and ... my heart has been touched by my stories. I hope my stories touch your heart, too. I wrote them for me, and I wrote them for you.

kisses, 'phfina

p.p.s. Okay, what's so frigging hard about writing a list that goes 'X., Y., Z.' in HTML? Do you know how many hours of my life I just wasted studying 'OL' and 'LI' and style-sheets and 'CSS' (whatever the hell! that is!)? And all this studying for what result? NOT to have it work on blogspot? What the Hell! I just wanna have an 'X., Y., Z.' list! What does a girl have to do to get that around here, for goodness sake!

Oh! Um. Yeah. This was supposed to be an appreciative entry, not a diatribe ... *sigh*

*blush* (mutter-mutter 'HTML is so-o-o-o-o easy!' *rolls eyes* mutter-mutter)

"The List"

Rosalie has two lists. Rosalie is a light-weight. Two lists? I'd like to get mine down to two lists. Maybe I could have two lists of my lists, but that's just me shooting for stars and breaking my chin when I hit the stone-hewn floor.

So, here's one of my lists, and you could read it like I'm blowing my own horn, because, well, I am. But I ask you to read this in a different way. I ask you to read this like it's your list.

Or, I ask you to make your own list that is, really, your own list and put it up on your profile.

OR, I ask you to read you in this list. AND if you don't read you in this list, I ask you to PM me.

"Hey, 'phfina, you little dummy, remember that time I ... and you ... and I ...? So put that on your flimmin'-flammin' list, already! Don't make me come over there, because I will so order a latte when I do!"

AND if you want your name on this list, go ahead, PM me. I'm leaving names off here out of respect to your privacy. If "respect" for you means that you are recognized by name, I'll be happy to put your (profile) name and a link to your profile, for I am grateful to you.

So, yeah, here's my list.

1. A girl wrote in her review that one of my stories saved her life.


2. A girl sent me a proposal of marriage in her PM. She was joking. But she wasn't. And that made Saga SO JEALOUS! and I don't know what I like more, the sweetness (and carefreeness) of the proposal, or the ... "reaction" from Saga.


3. A girl wrote in her review that my PM to her ... well, her BFF is now her GF and it's because a snoopy (boy) friend was reading what I was writing to her about being honest with BFF and not getting all stalker-crazy-fantasy.


4. A girl came out to her mom and her friends. And she had smilies when she told me ... that's good, right?


5. A girl admitted she started writing because of my stories. One girl I'm sure she said this, two other girls I'm not sure but ... maybe I had something to do with them starting writing.


6. A girl got a kiss from a girl, because I emboldened her to ask for it.


7. A girl told me she loves me? Yes, a girl told me she loves me.


8. A girl did her homework, for the first time, at my ... erhm, encouragement.


9. A girl blushed with glee at my review of her story. Strike that, more than one girl has done that. My reviews can make writers happy.


10. I wrote a chapter for another girl's story. I've done that twice so far. One ... wasn't received so well by the readers. One was. Both inspired the writers to continue to write. Oh, yeah. A girl dared to publish a story because I dared to demand that she do just that, and she picked up my thrown gauntlet.


11. More than several girls dared to review my works in their native and first languages which happen to be other than English. Would they have ever dared that? To express themselves sincerely and in their own language? I allowed this by asking for it ... very insistently.


12. A girl cried and cried when I told her that it was okay to be herself, whoever that self she found herself to be and that self whom she loved. And then she gave her mom a hug.


13. A girl told me I've marked her face with a permanent smirk. Yes, I do write (intentionally) humorous pieces, too, even if the humor is a bit "rye" ... but it wouldn't be Rosalie without the snide little side commentary, now would it, right?


14. A girl screamed when she saw I updated my story.


15. More than one girl couldn't wait to read my stories, so they read them in class ... both got caught red-handed. Explain this kind of "literature" to teacher, eh?
    
    [I TOLD you NOT to read my stuff in class!] [But who listens to 'phfina, hm?]

Oh, and here's another list. Gratitude, right? Well, yes!

1. A boy gave me his broad shoulders to cry on.


2. Same boy said only a handful of authors get Rosalie right ... and I'm one of them.


3. A girl ... helped me when I suddenly realized that everything had shifted and I didn't know how to go on, because I didn't know who or what I was anymore ... you know, when ... *blush* ... anyway, and she, in her wisdom, guided me from not being able to breathe to 'it's okay, lots of people experience this and it's perfectly fine.' You know you saved my life just then, sweetheart. You know that, don't you?


4. A girl said she trying reading a Rosalie fic and liked it, because I kept her character, true and her (black) heart, pure ... and loving ... and caring ... and sardonic.


5. A girl told me I really shine in my Alice-Rosalie interactions. Another girl told me my Jasper was rock star ... in fact ... "girl"? No: "girls." One girl hugged her computer when reading my story. Aw!


6. A girl called my writing astounding. Another girl said I am a writer. Another girl said I should be published in print. So did another one, and then set up a website to showcase my work, starting with my only story, my first story: Sappho's Muse.


7. A girl dedicated a story to me. Same girl wrote me into her story.


8. A girl put into my head the seed of my "hug game" in a PM to me when I was feeling blue.


9. And your reviews? GOD! your reviews. I mean, Rosalie and Me? Your reviews saved that piece from deletion. BUT THEN you got what ch 8 was up to in Our First Time ... a nothing little chapter, just like my nothing little one-shot Fireworks. Just a kiss under a tree; just a shared moment at an sbux. That's all. That is: nothing at all, except for your reviews. Thank you, thank you and thank you.


10. A girl PMed me and asked me how I was doing. Asked me if I was okay. Hm, a boy did that, too. Hm. A lot of people do that a lot of the time.

People care about me. People care about me.

A little announcement ...

So, I'll be out all this weekend, but that's not the announcement.

A girl, Saga, told me she loves me, and I told her I love her.

So what does that mean? It means nothing changes, and everything changes.

Nothing changes: I'll keep writing; I'll keep corresponding with you; I'll keep replying to your reviews (eventually) and adding that next chapter.

Everything changes: because, well, because it has and it will. I don't know how that looks like to tell you, but it has.

A good day ...

Today was a really good day. I watched a vid by Tiger Lou called Sam, as in Samantha that describes Sirens, ch 2 when it comes out. I fixed myself turkey schnitzel and had sylt lingon with it, and for dessert I had a short bread cookie with Earl Grey tea ... and I got a PM from a friend who told me what I needed to hear.

Today was a really good day.

Why I am crying now?

The Poorest of the Poor

Okay, so, today has been a really freaky day, but that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with this post (which may have something to do with you and a lot to do with me).

So, you remember in my last post that I said what it is, this game called life, is to love and to be loved in return? [OMR, I want her!] Well, okay, guess what today was at Mass (yes, I know, I go to Mass)? It was the commemoration of Blessed Mother Teresa ... she's getting her own postage stamp and everything.

Well what was the number one thing she said according to everybody who gave a speech there? She said the greatest thing was to love and to be loved in return. Well, no mystery there, because that phrase is in the Bible, right?

[I'm ashamed to admit I'm not a Bible scholar like some where I could whip out the book, chapter and verse where that's said]

But, still, very unsettling, for me to write that admonishment to you, and then have it thrown right into my face.

AND THEN!

And then Mother Teresa, jr got up (she's actually a little woman from Texas who is the Mother Superior for the Daughters of Charity in the U.S.A.) and she wasn't eloquent like the Bishops and congressmen, but she was very, very direct. She said, "Let this stamp be a reminder to us to be like her, and serve the poorest of the poor..."

And I was like, fine, okay, got it.

But I didn't get it, because what she said next floored me.

She said: "And who are the poorest of the poor? They are the people who are in your own families: those who are unloved."

And I ...

And I had to go, before I made a scene.

Why, 'phfina?

You see, a friend emailed me, very concerned after my last post. Why do I have to be so angry? So hateful?

And I know why.

You see, this past weekend, you know, when I was flying high off the praise I had received? Well, then I volunteered for group, right? And it was going to be sweet, right? I'd put myself aside for the weekend, and make sure everybody else was okay, and the water pitchers were filled and all that, right? And I'd get to feel good being little-miss-do-gooder, right?

Wrong.

I passed by Bob's office ... you know Bob? The cute big teddy bear of a man? ... to apologize for not being able to help last weekend, and he was like, huh? Saying that he totally honored for me keeping him in the loop as my schedule unravelled and why was I feeling bad about this?

And then he so kindly, gently started digging. And he told me 'What's wrong?' and 'You can tell me anything and I promise not ever to tell anyone else..."

And before you know it I was right back in high school, a quivering mass, not a human being anymore, just a crying pile of ... nothing, telling him what I promised what I would never tell these people. I told him about my 6 month stay in the hospital. I told him about the sedation, the observation, the psychiatric evaluations. I told him my fear: that that I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting for them to come take me away, again, and everybody will be nice to me, and I asked Bob if he was going to pull me off of volunteering now.

You're not allowed to volunteer if you have ... issues.

He said no, but I had to take care of myself and this not eating and not sleeping wasn't working, so I damn well better start taking care of myself.

That was incident one. There were two more incidents. Shawn after a very long day accosted me and asked me when I was going to let go of all this suffering?

WTF? Do I have a big target painted on me?

And then the next day when Shawn and I were making peace, in walks Barb and she's like, 'What's up?'

Remember that crying bowl of jelly? ... Yeah.

And then Barb pulled me into her office and asked: "Are you well?"

You know: the question.

God.

So that weekend where I just wanted to help, you know? Just be of service? It was like, pick on 'phfina weekend.

And then ... well, I wrote the post, and well, you know, that sometimes ... well, I'm not going apologize for it and use my body as an excuse, because I meant every word, it's just that I can be a little shorter at times with my temper, and when somebody writes 'update soon' on her review of my one-shot?

I did tell you I don't tolerate stupid people well, didn't I?

And so when my friend asked why all the anger? Well, the answer came to me in a flash today: if there's one person in the world I don't want you to be like, well, that would be me. "Poorest of the poor"? I mean my advice to live authentically? Getting really real? That applies to me in spades. In spades. I mean, come on! How in the world do you think that I can point out these things so viciously? I see these things in myself, my pulling away from people I profess I love, my withholding myself, my hiding. I so see that and I so hate that, and I'm like, when I read your review, I'm like, again: NO! please-please-please don't be like me! Please don't close your eyes to the greatness that is you! Please!

And yes, I can have all these deep, meaningful conversations all the time, but I just have so, so far to go.

And, like, wouldn't it be great to be able to go to my sbux, so you could have these meaningful conversations? And get your ass kicked when I see you faking it? And kick my ass and get me back on track when you see me descending into my pity-party self?

But the thing is, you're missing it. I am at your sbux. Those baristas with those plastic smiles and absolutely no time for you? She's me. I mean, if you came up to me and started a 'meaningful conversation' ...

Well, here's what'd be going through my mind: I've been on my feet from zero-dark-thirty this morning and haven't been off my feet for the last six hours, AND I have a queue of 12 cups I have to get out before other people start giving me shit for bad service and you want to have a fucking meaningful conversation? Here's your goddam latte; have a meaningful conversation with that

... and "Have a great day!" with a big plastic smile on my face.

I mean, there's no shortcuts, is there? You'd still have to get to know me over months of 'hi's, because if you approached me after shift and said, 'Hey, I'd really like to get to know you and have deep meaningful conversations ..."

I'd be like dialing 911 (emergency) on my cell, holding my mace, and well, not running-running, but kinda-quick-step-running away saying, 'Sry, gotta run!' as I'm thinking 'Psycho killer, c'est-ce que ce?' and 'Whew, I'm lucky to get away from that one with my life!'

Right? Right, girls? Right? Goddam fucking right?

I mean what is rampant on ffn/facebook/wherevs for God's sake: 'Are you a perverted old man who's going to rape and kill me and bury me in your basement?'

You know what the fuck I'm talking about!

But you see, I don't have that worry online at all. You know why? Because you can't hide who you are from yourself or from anybody. AND because an old perv actually did accost me online once when I was on XBox live playing texas hold'm. Fucking flasher. You know what I did? I didn't even bother with a 'fuck off and die' snarl. I just left that lobby and blocked him. I so do not know what the problem is with girls these days. Somebody bothers me? I tell them to fuck off and die, and then I block them. Simple as that.

But ITRW, I can't block you from coming at me. And I have been ... followed by more than one girl who realized after she so totally fucked me (in the bad way) what a good catch that got away, and so what do I do?

I hide. I change States, and when that doesn't work, I change names.

Hi, my name's 'Violet,' pleased to meet you. So long as you don't start stalking me.

So I said all that to say I don't do well with people just come right at me to, you know, ... well, actually, I don't know: my imagination is rather creative, if you hadn't already noticed.

So that girl with the plastic smile and the curt greeting at your local sbux? That's me. So having me as your friend at your local sbux ...?

Bad news: you're going to have to make the same risks that you would even if she were actually me, after all. You're going to have to put yourself forward, bit by bit, and risk that it just won't work out at all. You know? That thing you have to do going into a relationship? Risking yourself? Risking maybe not liking that person you're trying to get to know? All that hard, risky, scary stuff?

So when I said in my last post: 'Be me,' you know what I really meant?

I mean: 'don't be me' and 'really: please don't be me.'

If there was any fate that I would never wish on anybody, it would be that: to be me. And so my diatribe, when I go up one side of your fakeness and stupidity and come down hard on the other side of your shyness and scaredness, do you know what I'm attacking? I'm attacking these boundaries you set up to hide your real self from the world, or that you use to create this fake reality that you can live safe and small in.

I know what that's like; I'm an expert at that, and I came across strong and harsh and angry because I so don't want what life that gives you.

And yes, there's like a zero percent chance of you being me. I mean who ends up in the hospital for an extended stay because her genius brain went rampant in her self-examination and self-criticism in fucking high school, blaming herself for everything that's gone wrong in the world and her life, for God's sake? Like her father leaving her? As if that were my fault. Like for her being born at all? You know? And when she does get into a loving relationship with her best friend, wonders: 'Well, is this her taking pity on me?' and carrying that through the whole goddam relationship so that nothing I could do was good enough in my own eyes, because I was always second-guessing myself. Who'd want to live with somebody like that?

I wouldn't. And so I didn't. So I broke up with Julia because I couldn't stand me in the relationship.

How fucked up is that?

Why am I saying all this? Does this post invalidate what I've written before?

No. I don't think so. What I'm saying is that sometimes I come across rather harshly, and sometimes that can be rather hard to swallow, or it can raise concern about me.

Am I okay?

Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I'm doing better, and sometimes I'm not.

So, then, should you not take it personally, my diatribes?

No. I think you should take away what you take away. Challenge me if you get angry about something I've said, but just know you're angry because what I wrote struck a chord. Maybe I'm the only person in your life who is brave enough to call it like she sees it.

And why do I do that? Because you are so worth it.

You are so worth it.

Look, sometimes I can't see beyond tomorrow. Fuck, sometimes I can't see beyond this next minute, but I bother for you in your blindness because I so want you to have it, to have life, real life, and love and be loved in return.

And sometimes I can't possibly see that for me anymore. Yeah, shy little me, not even out of her twenties, not even barely into her twenties, and when I look dispassionately at myself I know it's fucking insane that I'm a hopeless case, but 'dispassionate'? All I am is passion, and one thing I am passionate for, even if it can't be me sometimes, then it's for you, always for you.

Do you know how much it means when you write and you say my piece saved your life? That you started writing because of what I've written? That you've got a new lease on life or that you finally risked saying hello and found your love from what I've written? Do you know what that means to me?

Do you know what your review means to me when you share how what I wrote really touched you?

Do I know how much my anger and my self-loathing affects you?

Yeah, I should know that, shouldn't I? So, when am I going to just get off it? as Shawn shouted at me at 2:30 am last Saturday night?

Yeah.

So easy to say, and I have done it before, too. That's the thing. I walked out of that hospital on my own two feet. I just woke up one day and decided to get off it. I can do that again. I know I can.

Just be patient with me. Kick my ass. Love me.

And one day I'll be whole.

Or I won't. Most people never get there, to being a whole, complete person, living a real life, not a fake one.

My curse? I have eyes, and they miss nothing. I'll never forgive myself ... ever ... if I sell out on myself. Or if I sell out on you.

I don't think one of the prophets ever said 'hurray!' when God anointed them. In fact, they ran for all they were worth, but they still ended up in the behemoth's belly.

I think that's it. I keep waiting to be swallowed by kind, polite, firm, professional orderlies in white smocks, pushing me on the stretcher into the maw that is the the gaping doors of a back of an ambulance again.

Each day that doesn't happen is another day I've either cheated death or evaded them and that fate, and you know what that makes me? A big, fat cheater.

These are the days when I'm by myself, thinking about myself, seeing scared little me in your thoughtless and offensive reviews.

And the days that I'm not like that? When I take myself away from myself, and I go out on a date or I'm out with a group of friends that I've made in group, or I'm playing with you, back and forth, just being happy talking about nothing and anything.

How do I sustain that? And that's another fear. What if to be real me I have to give up writing what I'm writing? That what if my writing is what drags me down, and for me to be healthy I have to stay away from it and from you? What if the cost of my health is to cut out what I love doing?

Questions. I'm living the questions now. I don't have any answers. I don't know if any answers would help, but I think I'm better now about this: that I can live in the question, and be okay with that, and be open to any answer, even a surprising one.

Life, you know? Living the questions, and being surprised by the answers that I couldn't possibly come up with, because I now realize that the answers don't come from me.

The come from you, and they come from God.

Did you know when I was a little girl I wanted to be a Nun? But that's a story for another day.

"Update Soon"

Okay, so, for those of you who want to take on writing well, read this. For those of you who don't, please don't.

You do know your review is part of your writing craft, right?

Cancel that, start ophfer, 'phfina.

Okay, you've just read my chapter, and your socks were knocked off, and you're speechless, and you wish to thank me for that amazing piece of writing, so you're going to leave me a review.

Okay, first of all, thank you for your review.

Now, here's how to avoid a tongue-lashing (the bad kind) from me.

1. share, don't describe.

Look, I know what happened in the chapter, so you don't need to (re)tell me the plot. So tell me, yes, what you liked, or what you didn't, but importantly, tell me why! Why is the 'why' important? It's important because something in this chapter struck you, and saying 'I was struck by ...' tells me nothing and it tells you nothing. And saying 'When Rosalie told you about your childhood, that really hit close to the bone,' tells me nothing and it tells you nothing.

WHY did it strike you? WHY did it really hit close to the bone?

Honey, if you can't talk about this with me or with you, you aren't in touch with yourself, and if you aren't in touch with yourself, you have no way of relating to anybody beyond superficiality. And me? I don't relate in a superficial way. Superficiality is a lie and a time-waster. You want to hide? Stay hiding, but don't waste my time playing your nasty, stupid, fearful games.

My friends and relationships? They are real. Get real with me.

And the payoff for getting real with me? You have to get real with yourself, and when you get real with yourself, guess what? You get real with others, and then you have real relationships, not fake ones.

You know the difference between a real relationship and a fake relationship? No? That's because you've been hiding, withholding, and living a lie. Get the fuck real and start living your life.

2a. don't fucking PM me your real review, hiding behind a fake, pleasant public review

Chicken. Wuss. Moocher.

Listen, sharing with just 'phfina? That's a nice, safe game you're playing. How's that working for you, playing safe with your life, playing safe in the world?

Did anybody ever accomplish anything by playing it safe? Playing it safe is survival mode, and survival mode is for back-stabbing leeches, sucking the life out of everything they can and contributing nothing. Listen, there are other people out there in the world with your exact same issue, and my stories are for you, honey, AND for them, and what you said in your PM may have helped somebody else who would've read it if you left it in a review, but no, now s/he thinks s/he's the only one who feels that way about my stories and now s/he goes and kills hirself because you were a selfish little safe b!tch and PMed me what really happened for you reading my story, leaving this pleasant little nothing of a review.

Well, guess what? Your pleasant little nothing of a review just sold out on you and sold out on that person who needed your words to make it one more day.

By PMing me your real review and hiding behind a safe public review, you just abetted somebody's suicide.

Heavy, 'phfina? Hell yes. It is heavy when you withhold yourself. Do you think I liked writing and then publishing Rosalie and Me? Do you think I was playing a small game?

If you're going to be playing a game, play the big one. The stakes are the same: you are betting your life either way, but the payoff? HUGE difference. HUGE.

2b. Oh, and don't PM me with "Oh, I'm going to review the next chap you publish."

Every single one of those PMs? Not one of those 'people' (and I use the term very loosely, the more accurate term is 'fucking cunts' ... because I'm ashamed for our sex, but every single one of those PMs have come from girls) has ever delivered on her promise, and so I write the next chapter and, behold, no review from you.

Guess what: I remember what you promised to me.

Guess what: it hurts when you break your promise because of your indolence.

Guess what: you aren't a person of your word.

The sad thing is is that the only person who's paying for your sin is me, not you, because you didn't have the guts to review all the other chapters I already have up. Look, I already did the work of publishing those chapters, but you're withholding yourself from me and from the community for my 'next' chapter? Why? The story is not in time, honey, it's forever, and, guess what? So is your review. Are you playing the small game of 'gimme this for that' or 'I'll do it when ...' or are you going to play big and put yourself out there?

3. Write your review, don't write your critique of your review.

"Oh, you're probably tired of hearing how good a writer you are."

No, I'm not.

"Oh, I'm going to say this wrong/stupid/boringly."

No, you're not.

"Oh, if only I had the way of words that you do."

Honey, news flash: you don't. You have something better than that: you have the way of words that you do.

Let me tell you something about me. I am a writer. Do you know how I know that? You told me ... in your reviews. And not only am I a writer, but I'm one of the best, perhaps the best on ffn. I didn't say that: you did. So do you know how I know that I'm touching you with my writing? You told me.

Weak of me? Sure! Yes, I should be this strong, fierce, sleek panther on the hunt, striking terror into your hearts and making your bodies all a-quiver (in several ways), but in reality I'm just a little black kitten pretending to be a panther, who, maybe, on a good day can work her self-image up to an ocelot, but only when you've told her so.

Does it get easier for me? Hell no.

Hell no.

It gets harder. Because why? Because every chapter I write has got to meet my standards, and my standards are right out there for you all to see, because I've already written that awesome one-shot Fireworks. How can I top that? How can I even match that? And here I am, writing this shit chapter, and the dialogue is not coming together and the events are all a-jumble and I'm going to publish this?

I'm fucked. I'm so seriously fucked, because now I'm a has-been who can't write shit anymore, and I put that chapter out, and what am I doing?

I'm waiting.

I'm waiting for you to call me out. "'phfina! That chapter fucking sucked! Why the fuck are you publishing this shit? Get back in the fucking game, loser!"

And so when you say: "I'm embarrassed at writing again that this chapter rocked because I sound like a broken record. I'm sorry for boring you with my repetitive reviews ..."

Do you know what I'm doing? I'm screaming so hard at my laptop that I'm crying, and I'm crying so hard that I'm screaming. Do you know what I'm screaming?

NO!

I'm screaming NO! No, you review isn't boring me. No, don't beat yourself up about fucking saving my life.

Because NO! I don't think I'm God's gift and that I'm hot shit. No, what I'm thinking is that I'm in fucking trouble, that I'm a wannabe — a never even has-been because that means I would have had something, and I so fucking don't! — that's been found out, and your review is the only lifeline that I can grasp, but you're beating yourself up for saving my life, for keeping me going? Do you know what I'm reading in your critique of your review that you sent? That your beating yourself up will beat you away from leaving your next review, and there goes my lifeline.

Honey, when you don't leave a review? I know it. Do you know what that tells me?

It tells me that my stuff is shit not worth bothering over anymore.

Your critique of your review is the precursor of you not leaving me a review. I mean who, consistently, does stuff she hates doing?

Besides me, publishing that next chapter, chapter after chapter? In my experience, not many people are up to that. If your review denigrates yourself, it'll be so much easier for you not to leave a review the next time because you've talked yourself out of the contribution that you actually are.

Honey, your own worst enemy is you. Stop this shitty self-talk. Stop it now. Because your biggest fan? That would be me. Do I want your review? Oh, yes, I do. So review my chapter, don't review your review, okay? Don't worry about how your review will fall on my ears. Don't worry: I will so fucking tell you how I received your review. Promise. AND I'll also thank you for your review.

Unless you're a complete prick, crowing about how clever you are at my expense, and then I'll ban you.

I, unfortunately, wrote the word 'prick' for a reason. Guys (meaning the male of this species), why do you have to be so fucking clever in your reviews? "Look at me, Mommy, I'm so clever!" You do know you're hurting me, and you're hurting you. I put my heart on the line and you think you're so fucking strong and manly to poke fun at me? If my piece touched you, tell me it fucking touched you. And guess what? That is manliness. That is strength, ... AND you'll have girls fucking all over you because you're strong enough to be a man and to be honest and open about your feelings.

Well, I mean, girls who ... you know ... well, ... okay, um, never mind, okay? *blush*

No, I'm not going to give you my phone number, okay?

Um.

4. "Update soon"? Why don't you just write "fuck off and die"?

... because that's what I do when I read those words.

Some of you have experienced this, by your writing or by your leaving an honest heart-felt review (in your native language). You've seen the tremendous responses you've received by daring to put yourself out there. You've felt the absolute terror of being singled out, hunted down and examined under the microscope by tens, by hundreds, by thousands of people.

Now, as I say in my story Monsters: "Be Me."

Be me when I agonize over every phrase, like "Bella's adam's apple," or every twist and turn of the plot (like, OMR, everything that happens in my one-shot Prowling Panther). Am I really going to publish this? If I do, they are going to see me behind my writing, they are going to see me, and they are going to know me, and then they are going to come with their pitchforks and torches, they are going to bust down my door, and they are going to burn me at the stake.

Yes. Every chapter. That's what I'm thinking.

And I just put out this chapter, and I'm agonizing, and I get your review that says "update soon"? So, why? So I can go through that torture again so I can get your next review that says fucking nothing about the chapter I just put out there and just says to "update soon"?

Honey, your review for this chapter is your review for this chapter.

What happened in this chapter that touched you, and why?

If you have nothing to say about this chapter in the review for this chapter, what is the point for me to write you the next chapter? In your review for this chapter, tell me about this chapter! Because you're saying "update soon" says: "I burned through this chapter and have nothing to say about it, your story means nothing to me other than what the next chapter will reveal because this chapter didn't do it for me, leaving me wanting, so you'd better step up your game and not publish a shit chapter like this one."

Sure. Sure you say: "but I'm writing 'update soon' to encourage you, 'phfina, to write the next chapter. I liked this chapter so much that I can't wait for the next one." I know that is your intent, but think out these words fall on me. Be me. Write a chapter and have a reader leave you a review that says "update soon" and see out that feels.

And not say: "'Update soon'? WTF about this chapter, b!tch? Didn't I just kill myself over this chapter? Where is the fucking love?"

And the irony is, some of you have felt this exact thing. I know because you've told me. Yet you still fucking write those words in your review. WTF is this? "Do onto others what has been done onto me"?

"Update soon"? "Can't wait for the next chapter"? Shame on you. Fucking shame on you.

And you know what? You're writing "update soon" shames your parents. Didn't they teach you to be grateful for the gift you've received? Not to be grabby? Guess what: the chapter I just wrote? That was my gift to you. You're saying "update soon"? That says not: "thank you for your gift." No, it says: "gimme more!" Did your parents raise you that way? I can see that from your review you just left that shames your parents.

Sit on that one for a while: everything you do reflects on you and reflects on your parents. Think about the next thing you write before you press 'send,' not after, right? Because your parents taught you to think before you speak, right?

So the shameful things you do shames you and shames your parents. And the honorable things you do honors you and honors your parents.

And do you know who I want to hang with? I can't stand company that says 'oh, boo-hoo, and my parents disempowered me' and all that shit. All I can think is: 'get me away from this slime ball!'

No, I want to be with a person who's at peace with their parents because they just love them or because they made peace with them.

A man who honors his father? I'm like, wow! I'm like: there's a man brimming with self-confidence; that's not a man, that's Superman! That's a hero among men!

So hard to find these days: a good man. A man who doesn't despise his father, but honors him.

A girl who loves her mom, who says her mom is her best friend?

Oh, my God!

Oh, my God! I just want to hang with her and honor her and tell her how awesome she is. That's a girl I want as a friend. That a girl who's not mired in shit. That's a girl who's up to something. That's a girl I love to love.

Honor your parents.

Oh, and for those of you hiding stuff from your parents? You know what I mean! Like you haven't come out to your own mother?

What the hell is that all about? First of all, do you think you can hide anything from your parents? They know. They fucking know something's up, that something's not right, and by hiding this from them, you are torturing them. And second of all, how can you honor somebody that you hide stuff from? Get counseling or support or whatever, but get real, for God sake! with your parents. Yes, you can get thrown out of the house. Yes, you can be disowned. I know that. I've seen that. Not personally, thank God! So do it right, do it under advisement with full awareness of what could happen. Don't just break the news to them on Christmas break, for God's sake, but do do it, if you plan to honor your parents fully and honestly.

For those of you who don't have this issue ... well, you actually do if you are hiding anything from your parents, and, by extension, from anybody. Come out of hiding. Stop withholding yourself from the ones you love and the ones who love you. Honor them.

Love them.

The Game

For those of you who haven't experienced this, well, I highly recommend this for your character development. Write something, put it out there, and see what happens. That will really show you what kind of person you are. That will really show you your strengths and weaknesses. You up for that kind of game?

If you are, do that, PM me, and I'll send you a cookie. Yay, you win the game, and here's your prize.

And, bonus, you've accomplished something. It's out there, your work, and now nobody can ever take that away from you.

If you aren't, well, okay. So then, be strong in another way: leave me a review of the chapter you just read. Share, don't describe. Leave a real review in your review, not in a PM to me. Don't denigrate your review in your review; if anything, revel in it, and don't write 'update soon' in your review and don't look for fucking synonyms to that phrase, but honor the chapter reviewed. Savor it.

... and I'll send you a cookie. Congratulations, you've won the game.

Or, be very, very brave and leave your very first review ever, and write "Good chapter; update soon" because you don't know any better, and you don't have any other words to express your admiration ... yet.

... and I'll send you a cookie. You were brave. You've won the game.

You may wish to PM me "'phfina, don't beat me up, this is my first review, and I don't know what to say in my review and ..." and blah-blah-blah.

Not that that PM will do you any good. You've been alive on this planet for how long? And you don't know what to say?

Honey, you do know what to say. All it requires is for you to step out, like you did leaving your review, and come from hiding from yourself and say what's really real for you.

And do you know what happens when you do this, when you finally begin to start to get really real?

You start to live. You start to be not afraid anymore. Those weights on your shoulders come off. Other people PM you and say "OMG! I felt the same way, too, and you're so brave!" And you are brave, and courageous, and ... loved.

You start to love and be loved.

For real. Not for fake. For real.

And then the game really begins.