maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may by e.e.cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

— phfina commentary.

May I tell you about my day yesterday? May I tell you about my day today?

Okay, yesterday.

Yesterday rocked.

I was in group yesterday, and it was my time to share. No, that's not correct. What is correct is that I raised my hand to share (*le gasp!*) and then I got up in front of everybody and said, 'Hi, my name is Violet, and I'm an sbux barista.' and everybody said 'Hi, Violet!' all friendly and expectant.

And then I told them. I told them how I had been suffering. How I was just perfect and everybody else was wrong, and how I was really this ball of spite and suffering, and I didn't want to be around anybody, and that worked really well, because nobody really wanted to be around me, Miss Party Pooper.

And then I told them, my perfection? my smarty pants and remarks? it was really just hiding that I'm really, still, a scared little girl, but all I really want ...

All I really want is for people to be happy.

And this spite and suffering was just protecting me from getting hurt again ... by hurting others first.

And I told them. I told them my new game in life, my hug game, my love game, the game I'm playing to win, where it's not about only me anymore. It's about you. And I love you. And I want you to be happy. And when you're happy, I am so happy ... fit to burst with joy.

And then I sat down.

maggie and milly and molly and may.
may I please tell you about yesterday?

maggie/Marigold came up to me afterwards. She had brought a guest, and she told me that my story of my suffering brought that strong, strict, firm, disciplined woman to tears, and how she had opened her heart to maggie and had shared her own sorrow and asked for forgiveness.

milly/Madison talked with me after group. I'm going to be not participating this weekend: I'm going to be assisting. And milly brought me her mom (dragged her over to us, in fact) and told me she was so thankful I would be assisting, because there would be a friendly face in the room — mine — and she was so glad I would be there because whenever I come into a room, she sees it light up.

molly/Eric talked with me afterward and he told me that he had seen me when I first came to group, and he said — God! — he said he was so proud of me on how I've taken on taking on my life and how he admired me standing for other people now, that whenever I was with somebody, I would see the good in them.

may/Ieva was in the parking lot. She's in her late 60s and she's writing her first book, and she said she thinks about me all the time, how she had sold out on her life up to now and how she was just rejoicing in me that I didn't wait all this time to start to get my life back and how courageous I am to be writing what I do and how she said she was called mousy and how much that hurt, but seeing little me running up in front of group and bouncing and just sharing from my heart gave her courage and how she would be a lion now and follow her dreams with passion.

Can I tell you about my yesterday? My yesterday rocked.

Can I tell you about my today?

It didn't start well, as you can see from my 'your shit' entry. Because I got back from group and I got a PM that just cut me to the quick, and all my happiness just bled out of my cut wrists as I saw what I saw in that PM. And I spent all today just bleak and black and sad! — you know? — just sad. I put it out there: don't be my friend anymore, dear friend. I really would've felt better gnawing off my own arm than write the PM I wrote at lunch break.

And then, instead of calling me the fucking bitch that I am, and telling me I should just jump, just die, ... instead of that, she forgave me.

She forgave me. And she told me she loved me, and that she would always be my friend.

How do you weigh the value of friendship? How can you put a price on it?

You can't, right? You can sing about it, or something, but where love and affinity is, there is life, and where it isn't, there isn't.

Can I tell you about today? Today I had lost a friend of the heart, because I ripped my own heart out and threw it onto the floor. But instead of stomping on it — like I deserved — my friend? — she picked up my heart, and said: "Here, you dropped something," and put it back into my chest, healing my wound.

When I wrote about love, here's what massrié wrote back:

"I love you for your spirit. Your body, while beautiful, is not as precious to me. I love you for the way your hair sticks up in the morning, the same as everyone else. I love that when you close your eyes at night, you spend the same amount of time trying to find your dreams.

I love that you can be exuberantly happy one moment and melancholy and desolate the next. Do you know why I love those things about you?

Because you are the same as any other human on this world. Love is blind. There's no doubt about that. Love doesn't see race / religion / beauty / health / sickness. It just is.

Just as you are. You are yourself. Uniquely individual and at the same time, like any hundreds of others.

Love to me, means loving without reserve. It means baking cookies with your grandma to spend time with her, or giving your mother figure a hug just because she looks sad. Its picking a friend up by the bootstraps, or holding one tight while tears spill down their face. Its late nights on the computer, spent trying to reach out across a distance. Its the most precious gift in the world.

That's love. Unconditional. Supportive. Ultimately given freely without choice.

I love you 'Phfina, just the way you are."

Can I tell you about my today? My today rocked.

Liebst du um Schönheit by Friedrich Rückert

Liebst du um Schönheit by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Liebst du um Schönheit,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe die Sonne,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!

Liebst du um Jugend,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe den Frühling,
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!

Liebst du um Schätze,
O nicht mich liebe.
Liebe die Meerfrau,
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.

Liebst du um Liebe,
O ja, mich liebe!
Liebe mich immer,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.

— phfina commentary.

Okay, here's my translation (deep breath):

If you love me for beauty, don't love me.
Love the sun, for her golden hair!

If you love me for my youth, don't love me,
Love the Spring, it's young every year.

If you love me for my money, don't love me.
Love the mermaid, she has clear pearls.

But if you love me for Love. O, yes, love me.
Love me for ever, and I'll love you forever, too.

Okay, here's my take:

God, this is so beautiful! And Mahler's setting to music? I'm crying, just listening to it (à propos de rein I just so love lieder! I'm feeling a little melty right now ... TMI? Oh, well). And the thing is this. Do you love me? Why? 'cause I'm pretty? 'cause I'm young? 'cause I'm (not) rich? (yet)

Honey, all of these things are temporal and shallow! They will pass, you know? "For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health 'til death do us part."

But do you love me because you love me? O ja, mich liebe! Lieber mich immer and I will love you forever, too.

I can't help that. Can you get that? I still love Julia; I will always love her. Yes, she gave me my heart back, but she had it for a while. So did Cate, so did Brenda, so did ... and the list goes on ... and if you love me, truly love me, so do you. You have my heart, my love: always.

So, if you love me for this or for that, guess what? I'm so going to smell that! You think you can hide anything from me, or from yourself? I know I can't hide anything from you, I'm really bad at hiding from just myself. You love me for something, I'll know. And, on top of that, then this or that that you love me for passes away. You love me because I'm weak and sad? Well, I'm strong and happy and fierce today. You love me because I'm young ... well, I'm gonna be old and wrinkled soon ... and that soon will be today before we know it. You love me cause I'm a smart little thing and write all this neat stuff? Well, guess what, I say more stupid things when I open my mouth than anybody else I know (so I tend to keep my mouth shut and be really, really shy ... unless I'm being a real b!tch). You love me because I'm pretty? How shallow is that? Every person is beautiful, but I think I'm only beautiful when I'm loving and I'm loved, and loved not because (of this or that) but loved just because.

And if you love me like that, if you love me no matter what, if you look into my soul and see me exactly as I am, and exactly as I'm not, and love me anyway, not 'because,' but 'anyway' ...

... then, in the face of that love, I am helpless but to love you back, and oh, what love! You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a b!tch or that I'm sweet. You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a proud prowling panther or a scared little mouse. You love me. Regardless. And I cannot but help to love you, and to love you as (toppy) George Sand loved Chopin (so! the fem) — she told him: "I am not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love. That is all. But I love strongly, exclusively and steadfastly" (quoted from the movie Impromptu).

You know what? I just realized something. Bella, in my stories, loves Rosalie that way. Regardless. Regardless of her external façade of cold beauty, regardless of her black soul. Regardless. And in my counter-story, Bloodbuzz Rosalie loves Bella that way. Regardless. Regardless of her fatalism, regardless of her atrocities. Regardless.

You know what 'regardless' means? It means 'blindly.' "Love is blind"? No. Love sees the other person clearly, exactly as they are, and exactly as they are not, and still loves: "strongly, exclusively, steadfastly."

I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not. But I do ask this: if you do choose to love me, love me.

Your Sh!t

Do you know what I can't stand?

What can't you stand, 'phfina? We're just dying to know!

Thank you. What I can't stand is when somebody talks shit about me behind my back. You know what I can't stand more? When somebody talks shit about somebody else to me.

So, a few promises. You do that, and you're banned. Do you know who talks sh!t about other people? Shitty people, and I don't want your sh!t on me, thank you.

How you get unbanned? When the person you talked sh!t about PMs me telling me you fessed up, apologized, and have received their forgiveness.

That's right: that b!tch you hate? She's the one who will get you unbanned.

My other promise. I will not talk sh!t about you.

I had that fucking happen to me in high school, and it nearly killed me. That's right: cold, dead 'phfina. No 'phfina stories for you to read 'cause she slit down, not across in high school when the heat got too hot in the kitchen, so this little girl almost checked out. And, oh, not merely once, m'dears.

Don't you fucking talk shit about people to me!

Because those 'people' are people, God damn it! And they're in the same shit you are in and I am in, and yes, genius, it's their own God damn fault because they are such c.v.n.t.s. so they brought their own shit down on themselves but guess what, sister, look in the fucking mirror!

I do. Every day.

So yes, they got it coming to them. They deserve it. But I tell you what. I will take a fucking bullet for them because they deserve a chance to try to just try to just make it, and maybe smile today, and okay, so they were really mean, nasty, whatever, sure. So you're a fucking angel?

No. You talk shit about somebody else, then, sweetheart, you're the bitch. Not her. You.

And so my third promise. Catch me. And call me on it. If I talk sh!t to you about somebody, quote this entry to me. Make me eat my words, and then call me every fucking name in the book, and then tell me to get right with that person. This is my third promise: Dare I ever lapse on this and talk shit about somebody, I promise that when you call me, I had better be a god damn good little girl and take my lashings and make it right with that person. I promise.

I solemnly swear.

Guys and girls, come on! It's fucking hard enough already as it is, isn't it? Please don't make it harder for somebody who's got it hard already. PLEASE!

The Big FU

Is it okay to like a song just because? (linky to Ceelo's song FU) Haven't had a golddigger gf (don't have any gold to dig), haven't been one, but I ... well, I do wish the one I lost all the best in the world. And there are more than a couple of girls I've run from, maybe they were digging for my 'gold' ... looking for love in a loveless world? And did I give them that fully? That is my love and my self? *sigh* A silly song shows me something serious ... about myself.

A Rose by any other name ...

What's in a name? Why is Rosalie Lillian Hale so exacting, so precise, so demanding — yes: so b!tchy! — about her name?

I think I know why a little bit.  At least for myself, I know, because ... well, read on.

You see, I have three names.  Most of you know me by 'phfina ... which is a nickname of a joke of a joke.  I don't even know the original joke, but it involved my two brothers, both twice as old as me, and an XBox and Halo.  Me, it sounded Greek enough, so I bore it, and then really took it on, especially as I've been told its meaning in other languages.  And so now that name has a new joke, a new life.  I like it.  I call myself "'phfina" all the time in my self-talk.

My 'public' name is Violet.  I wear that name at work.  I wear that name to group.  I like that name, too. It matches my eyes.  It matches my disposition.  Yes, I'm blue, but blue can also be electric, ... feisty, even. And my death glare? You do not want to be on the receiving end.

I also wear that name to protect myself, because ... well, because I have been stalked ... well, not really stalked stalked but I get a little nervous when an old flame sends me a note where I work. I'm not all that sure B-... is aware she's an old flame — I mean, she's sweet, and all, but it was a little weird, her being older than my mom and her son older than me and her wanting the 'two of us kids to ... play'? and then the mothering? ... well, I'm not sure she got the hint with me up and leaving the State leaving no forwarding address — and a visit to the sbux where I'm working where none of my coworkers/partners know of my ... preference ... No, I'm not 'out' at work, and if she were to make a scene?

Shudder! Big time.

I also wear that name to hide from ... well, nearly everybody, except family. And lovers. And dear friends.  These know me by my name-name. If you've read Rosalie and Me, you may not know it, but I really, really did expose myself there.  I even gave my name.  Do you know how sick I got writing and then publishing that story?

I was actually afraid I'd end up back in the hospital ... again ... publishing that story.

But that name is actually my second first name.  I don't think about my first first name.  I haven't since I've been ... well, fifteen, 'cause, you see, at thirteen, something happened, then at fourteen I was in the hospital for a ... while, ... 'a while' meaning like for six months ... and then when I got out and got back to school, I didn't use my first first name anymore. 'Speak of the devil and she doth appear.' Well, one visit was more than too much for this little girl.

Yes, I'll tell that story ... that's coming up in Sirens and I am afraid chapter 2 will be where my first first name comes up.  And maybe I can put that to bed, and maybe I can't.  Maybe it's not for me to bed it.  I don't know.

"Love until it hurts"

But that does bring up something: "dear friends." I mean, obviously you know what a dear friend is.  Some of you have dear friends. Some of you are my dear friends. So you know what that means, right? Of course you do. Do you know that sometimes I've saved a friend's life? Do you know that sometimes — more times than you will ever know — they've saved mine? That's a dear friend to me, but, of course, it goes much deeper than that, even.  A complete stranger can pull me out of the way of a truck as I'm thoughtlessly crossing the street (yes, that happened), which shows me, as I'm writing this that, sometimes, people fundamentally do care and are caring.

'phfina, lesson for you there, and for your charity and patience with other people ... and yourself.

A dear friend will do that, like I'd gladly take a bullet for one, but a dear friend also listens to me, puts up with me sometimes, and other times, either patiently, kindly, or angrily points out how full of sh!t I am.  I think my dearest friends are the one who are the ones who get angriest with me when I'm hard on myself; I think they are the ones who test me the hardest.

"Love until it hurts" I heard at Mass one day, and it's not the Samantha-loving-Chris-hurt the priest was talking about. I'm pretty confident about that one.  No, it means that, God! Ouch! This just hurts! you are scared out of your mind for yourself because the other person is looking right into your heart, and the blunt honesty is a cudgel. It really hurts what they are saying.

But after the hurt, do I come out a better person? No, I come out a new person, and the neat thing? The person delivering the hurt? She's still there, loving me, gently, patiently, unforgivingly, demandingly, but still there, propping me up, but then pushing me forward to walk where she knows that I can. And she sees the good in me, too.

Yes, she'd save me from a truck that would have flattened me whilst crossing the street, but more importantly, she saves me from me and my self-wounding self-talk, so I can be me, so I can take off the mask of suffering, shrug off the Atlas weight and now be me, unencumbered with the worry of being me.

That's circumlocutory; so it's a round-about way of saying with my dear friends, I can be more like me, and when I'm not, they pound away at me until I am.

That's what 'love until it hurts' means to me, I think. 

[Edit: "'she,' 'phfina?" Yeah, there's my prejudice raising its head. Some of my friends are 'he's and would probably appreciate more inclusive language, right? Like I appreciate being included in a conversation? *sigh* I just have so far to go, ... all the time!]

Frustration!

*SCREAM!*

(Insert image of 'phfina throwing back her head like that cutie in the poster of the movie Drag Me to Hell)



(oh, this is a blog ... so I just did insert the image ... that was easy!)

No, sweeties, I'm okay. You haven't heard a peep from me, but that's not 'cause I've been drug to hell (haven't seen that movie, either), but because UGH! LIFE and stuff is just so-o-o-o-o getting in the way of my writing!  Really! I think it's hurting me more than it's hurting you that I haven't updated.  I mean WHAT HAPPENS TO ROSE, REN AND BELLA?!?!?!

Yeah, what!

But, you know, when I do get out and I do meet people and they are nice and sweet and smart ... well, then, they invite you into their lives, and I could be ... you know, me — a total b!tch — and tell them what to do with themselves because I just hafta write, gosh darn it! ("'gosh darn it' 'phfina?" Yeah, ... problems?)

... or I could ... sigh! ... get involved with them, their lives and pursuits and ... you know, grow, and have fun, and stuff.

And then there's work! Ugh! I hate it when work gets in the way of my writing ... I'm thinking about taking out a personal ad: "Writer, b!tchy, penniless, very high maintenance, inattentive to your convos 'cause she's writing the next chap in her head, seeking thick-skinned fem to take care of her and not get offended when the 'huh? what?' comes up when you're sharing your deepest revelations or the 'Leave me alone!' when she's at the keyboard and you're feeling a bit frisky and romantic or the staggering into bed at 3 am's and staggering out at 1pm's or the ..." well you get the picture. Yes, I am an artiste! Bohemian doesn't even begin to cover it (I mean along with the shy and boring bits: at a party, I'm the girlie texting her non-existent friendies who runs to the bathroom at the hint of eye contact). But I'm not going to take out that ad: I haven't seen nor read Misery, but I'm also a paranoid little b!tch and I think I'd have a seizure if somebody did answer it.

*Shudders!*

But, really, m'dears, I am being eaten alive by Madam Muse and her imperious demands that I write that next chapter ... for three stories AND RIGHT NOW! (1, 2, and 3 (unlinked, because it's totally unwritten but it better be sent for 'betaing' by tomorrow or I will so never forgive myself!))

But that's not happening today, nor tomorrow, nor ... sigh, again ... but, yes, I'm still here, thinking about my stories (almost nonstop) and I will get back to writing them, okay, sweeties?

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten

the plums 

that were in 

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me 

they were delicious

so sweet 

and so cold

— 'phfina comment: Got nothing, m'dears. I got nothing. But how come I want to cry when I read this poem?

Okay, I do got something. Breathe after each line. "I have eaten [breath] the plums [breath] that were in [breath] the icebox [breath] [breath] ..." This poem's soul is in its breaths. It says so much in its silence and pauses. So little is going on in the foreground, and behind it, behind the apology and regret is an entire world, a well of sadness than I can only take a tiny sip from the ladle drawn from just a bucket-full pulled from this infinite depth that is this poem. To read this poem is to die.

Damn it, my eyes are leaking! Excuse me a sec while I go to the bathroom (a.k.a. 'phfina's crying/recovery room), your drink will be on the bar momentarily, sir.

Customers

God's testing me. He [yes, He] is always testing me. I hate Him. But that's another entry, even though it's appropriate for this one, too.

So, you know, when it's 10 am and there are 17 cups lined up on the bar and some jerk comes up as I've milk foaming and asks all fakey-polite in an annoying whine: 'Did you forget my drink?'

You know those days that you don't know whether you're glad or you're sad they make you check your AK-47 at the door ...?

Actually, I prefer the Katana ... it doesn't run out of bullets, and that's important when the zombie flood rises ...

'phfina, stay. on. POINT!

Oh, right. Sorry.

So, today I had a doozy of one. This big hulking guy comes in, about my age, but I mean, football player? Hell, he could eat football players for lunch! You could pack, hm, four of me in him and he'd have room to spare. Tee shirt, shorts, flip-flops. His tee shirt proclaimed angrily: "King of the [Effing] Remote!" as he shambled off with his drink, and the look on his face? Sour puss, anyone?

And then his Dad came in: looked exactly like his son, a slob, his tee shirt said: "Still here!" and he looked positively wild with a bandana tying back his long grey hair.

Scary, the both of them. I mean, I'm a nimble thing, so I could use my grrl-ninja-skliz and take them, but if they got a hold of me, I'd be meat pies.

But then they sat down with their drinks and they just sat there, and mostly looked at each other and just talked, quietly ... for more than a half an hour.

And I was like...

And I was like, when's the last time my Dad sat and talked with me for a while, quietly, just looking at me, not distracted by himself or anything? And that man/boy, the "king of the [effing] remote," at least he was king of something, you know? What am I the queen of? Coffee? Am I proud of that? Sometimes. But am I fiercely proud of anything enough to scream it out to the whole world, damn what they think?

And I mean, who the hell am I to judge him? Had I walked a mile in his flip-flops? Did his dad give him a ride in an exclusive liberal arts college to get an oh-so-practical degree that he immediately applied to become an sbux barista? Or have a Dad who would be falling over himself to bankroll him buying a used bookstore in nowhere Greece? Like my Dad would? Who the fvck am I to be judging this father and son who obviously care, no, love each other this much?

And then, later, more customers. A ton of them, all really, really old women, and the cordoned off our big table where the father and son had been before, and they got out their crocheting things, and they started chatting away and ...

... and having fun. They were laughing and smiling and crocheting and chatting. And they were all shapes and sizes, hairstyles, styles of dress. There was one woman in the group, and she was in her 30s or 40s maybe? So a lot older than me, but I thought: how brave! She looked so comfortable in that group because the group was just so comfortable with each other, so warm and accepting. And I felt a pang, because I know they would just let me join them, but I am just so different than them.

Then, oh-my-God! a girl about my age just joined them with her crocheting needles and the group just continued along as if nothing amazing had just happened, because it was the most ordinary thing, this really cute, hot chestnut girl (and girls, hm, she was so cute in that blue tank-top!) joined a group whose average age was senior as in citizen.

And then I saw them all, and they were all so, so beautiful. A smile would light up a girl's face, be that girl 65 years old, and it was just so beautiful to see, them all being with each other and for each other.

'phfina's brilliant observation for today

Yes, today is Friday, the thirteenth. Thanks so much for telling me that again for the thirty-seventh time today. *sigh*

I'm on a tear here

You know what I love about judgmental people, says 'phfina the judgmental person: there is just no slowing them down or stopping them. They know what they know, because they know it. Sophists.

You know who judgmental people hurt? I sure do! They hurt every single person they come into contact with. You know why? Because they don't treat people as people. No, they treat them as: 'what's wrong with you' and 'this is why I hate you' without even giving the other person the benefit of a doubt.

That other person over there? She's me. That's what I try to think: she's me, where I was sitting, or where I will be sitting.
So I give her a chance when I have heart that's beating. After all, that's why I have a heart, right?

À propos de rein, that Samantha ... she sure is an annoying little fvck, isn't she?

l(a leaf falls)oneliness by e.e. cummings

l(a leaf falls)oneliness by e.e. cummings

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

— 'phfina comment: You know in japanime (you know ... yuri *blush*) when a character is so overwhelmed by whatever, by emotion, by the other person, by the circumstance, she is supposed to say something, but she can't so the speech-bubble shows this: "..."

Have I experienced loneliness like this? Like in ch 2 of BloodBuzz? Sure. But it's also so easy to snap out of that feeling. How do I do it? Well, sometimes (okay: a lot of times) I just wallow, and I waste the night in tears. But sometimes I get fed up with my emo angst, and I just get off my butt and just go out, you know? Go out to eat (mmm, grilled salmon salad!), or go to a bookstore or go ... Clubbing ... and get picked up by this really pale cutie (but why are her eyes so black?) or not ('cause she dumps me for her famous cousins ... b!tch, who cares if she's related to the great C.J. Rae and Vogue cover model Rosalie Hale? What am I? Chopped liver?) and just people watch, and even just doing that, I feel a bit more connected and alive.

So, yeah, I'm a good moper (one of the best), but I'm actually finding out I can choose not to do that if I don't want to. And finding that out? Trying that on? It's pretty cool, sometimes.

Samantha the Panther

Gee, 'phfina, that Sam is sure annoying!

Yeah, Sam was being annoying. Ever meet a girl like that ITRW, or are all the girls you know sweet demure things?

Sam is being annoying, because she's just being Sam: she doesn't care, she has no fear, and she's just going to ask the question, and keep asking the question until she's bedding you or until your 'no' is loud and clear.

Actually, if you look at it that way, Sam is pretty brave, 'cause she just asks, she doesn't overthink it (or even think at all), she just asks for what she wants.

Now, that CAN get her into trouble with Rosalie, but then again, Rosalie's pretty sure of what she wants, too. This surety of both girls can make them enemies in a heart beat, OR it could make them recognize a comrade, as they do in this chapter.

You ever notice that ITRW? Tough girls hang together. Sometimes they are friends, sometimes they are frenemies, and sometimes they are just enemies, but they do gather; just like the fems and the smokers and the partiers and the nerds. Like hangs with like. ... Even the loners hang together.

So, who do you hang with? What's your group? You find out a lot about yourself by looking at the people you are with. AND you also find out a lot about yourself by how you judge others. I sure get that for myself. What are you getting, reading these chapters?

No shit

So, like a good little girl, I've been responding to my backlog of reviews to my stories.

Hm. Looking at some of these gems, now I know why I had been holding off on this.

Look, okay, it takes courage to review my pieces.  I know that.  And why? Because I'm as scary as all get out, throwing around big words that you have to look up and my obscure references don't help any, AND THEN my characters are these complex people, nothing at all like the obvious caricatures you read in other fan-fiction pieces where Edward's a god, and Bella's a klutz, and Alice is chirpy-chipper-shoppy and Rosalie's a b!tch and that's all there is to them.

Look. I know, okay. My writings aren't the easiest stories to read on fan-fiction.

So you should have been forewarned, and, being forewarned, been fore-armed.

AND on top of that, you know, already, that I detest stupid people, and not just any stupid people, oh, no: I hate LAZY stupid people.

So when you ask me, "Oh, what does this word mean?" when it's right there in the dictionary? Or I can google the definition?

Or when you tell me, "No, 'phfina, what was in your story is totally wrong, okay? It's like this ..." When I can cite the wikipedia article that supports my writing and destroys your 'oh, no, you're wrong' claim?  Or where I can cite the book and page number of the canon that shows you you just ... ARGH!

So, just know, if you're going to be all certain of your facts that you don't look up or be asking questions that have obvious, easily retrievable answers?

Know this: I am not your secretary. I am not your dictionary. My stories are not little serio-comedy episodes on television or youtube that have an obvious conclusion, all tidily wrapped up in 25 minutes (leaving 5 minutes for commercials so you can rot your brain further with sugar that they peddle on that infernal box) (yes, I am grousing like my father).  No. I expect you to think, to ponder, to extend yourself when you read my stories. I am not going to spoon-feed you sh!t.  No, I respect you, as a reader, too much to do that.

So, do I expect you to think when you leave your review? Do I expect you to extend yourself?

Goddamn right I do.  Goddamn right.  So you can say, "Nice chap" and I'll say "Thanks! :)" back. So you can say what you liked or what you didn't like in the chap and tell me why, and I'll respect your position or I'll defend mine or I'll do both.  Maybe even nicely. So you can tell me I'm wrong ... but you had better be more than just 'Oh, 'cause I know' sure, you had better be goddamn sure (citations will really, really help your cause) because sweetie, I REFUSE to allow you to be LAZY stupid around me.  And you had better answer your own 'why' questions to the best of your ability. Like, you had better not be like: 'Why is Rosalie such a b!tch? Why is Bella so spineless?' without first putting on their moccasins and walking a mile, because another kind of person I hate is the stupid PREJUDICED person, that is, the person who makes a snap call on somebody (we all do that, but) without at least trying to get them and where they are coming from.  You don't do that? Well, then, why are you even reading my stories?  I mean, really! Read something that has 10K+ reviews, read another one of those BxE AU/AH smut-a-thons that require zero brain cells to read or to write.

My stuff: my stuff is precious. I wrote it for you, with love and with care in my heart.  So, write your review, please, preciously.

Because me? A prowling panther? No: I am a ton of bricks, iced with sarcasm.  Yeah, maybe that will be your experience.

Honey, it's not my job to educate you past third-grade reading comprehension.  It's not the schools', even now, especially with the "No Child Left Behind" rallying cry.  It's not Mommy's nor Daddy's.  It's yours.  You are reading my stories, for whatever reason, that means you are a smart cookie.  WAY smarter than most the readers and writers on ffn.  So, there's this thing called a computer: it has google, it has wikipedia.  You now have everything you need to make a pretty good claim that may be even able to stick against me.

Now, for a really good review: write what you liked, what you didn't ... and why.  Do you know that that last part is?  That's putting you, that's putting your heart, on the line.  You do that ... well, I mean, really: you either put your heart on the line, or you don't.

Me, I put my heart on the line, every time. In my review replies, in this post, in my PMs to you, in each and every chapter I publish.  Girls, this is me, I am risking everything, I'm all out, all the time.

'Cause I know what it's like to live scared.  That's not living at all, that's just surviving or existing.  Live. Please.  Dare to live.  Don't rely on 'oh, this is true.' Don't rely on what you think you think you know.  Actually make a stand for what you believe, and actually know what you believe, don't slight anywhere in your life.  You are your weakest link. I know this.  And you communicate with me?

I will call you on the sh!t you pull with other people, be it your lazy-@$$ed sh!t or your prejudiced sh!t.

Don't pull your sh!t on me, because, really, the only person you're sh!tting is yourself.

Why is Bella such a ... kitty?

So I received a review of chapter 4 of my story Monsters. The review asked where Bella's backbone had gone.

That's a good question, if you look at it from Rosalie's perspective, as this is the perspective from which the story is told.

It's a good question that perhaps most of fandom asks. Why is Bella such a pussy/wuss/disgrace to feminism? Yeah, why!

Okay, the thing about Bella. Well, you have to be careful about the perspective in the story. This is a first person point-of-view story from Rosalie's perspective, so we see Bella as Rosalie sees Bella, as this weak little indecisive girl, right?

But what is actually going on in this chapter? Bella stood up for what she wanted to do, against Rosalie, and what happened? Rosalie backed down. Not Bella. So why isn't the question 'why is Rosalie so weak?' instead?

It's because of the perspective.

If you look at what Bella says and what Bella does, not what Rosalie is thinking about all this, do you see that the behaviors Bella is exhibiting are consistent with the Twilight books?

I think my writing is doing something that most readers don't expect: I honor the characters. Bella is like Bella is, but instead of making her OOC ("Out Of Character"), I honor her for what and for who she is.

And to me, Bella is strong. She is so, so strong. Here is a girl who is in the world of vampires and werewolves. I don't think you get that. If you did, you would see that there is absolutely nothing Bella can do in any situation. In every case, she could be torn to shreds by one creature or another, even by mistake. I mean, she broke her hand on Jacob's chin, and he didn't even feel a thing. And the bloodlust? She cuts her finger and she clears the house of the family she loves and who loves her.

Because if she didn't clear the house, she would be supper.

Bella is helpless, trapped, powerless.

BUT!

But she still demands that she be treated as a person, not even as an equal, but just as somebody you just can't step on. Could they step on her? Sure. But she demands that they don't. And do they listen to her? Edward didn't. She had to say 'I'm going to go insane here if you don't ...' before he would even think only of what he thought was best for her (which would have ended up with her being Victoria's supper, no doubt there at all).

In this chapter, Rosalie could say: no, you're doing the project. And what could Bella do? Cry like a baby? Give in? She did neither. She stood for what she wanted and she made Rosalie accept that.

AND she was still entirely sweet, shy, humble Bella doing it. Rosalie let her, yes. Rosalie had to let her, and that's why Rosalie is Rosalie, and not Edward. After all, Rosalie is the only Twilight character who didn't walk all over Bella but listened to her and respected her wishes. No, more than that: stood by Bella. The only one.

But even if Rosalie were Edward, Bella would still prevail. And why?

Because Bella is Bella. And that's all she's got going for her. She knows this, down to her bones, down to her marrow: Bella is 'just' Bella, and Bella is all she's got, the only thing she's got in this crazy mixed-up topsy-turvy world. She knows this: that she has this one thing, herself.

And that's one more thing that she has than what most of the rest of the people in this world have.

Bella is Bella in this chapter, and I am so, so proud of her for being just that here, and always.

Grown Up by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Grown Up by Edna St. Vincent Millay

WAS it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

— 'phfina's comment: Heh! "retire at half-past eight"? I should be so lucky! ... Yes, I am writing again, m'dears.

I'm sorry

I'm sorry you had to see that. No, dear reader, it wasn't about you. Really. Sometimes I make myself smaller than I am. I don't like it when I see other people do that, but that's okay with me? No, it's not. It's so unfair to you and yucky any way I cut it, so that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to cut my crap, and clean up myself with you. If I've hurt you, tell me, and I'll make it right between us.

After all, there is so much sadness and beauty in the world that I am creating here, on this site, with you; so much to express and to share.

And isn't that something? Sharing a bit of beauty that I see with you, and you, sharing back what you see?

I mean, really, 'phfina; what else is there: I share with you, you share with me, ... and that's ... beautiful.

Just like you. Just like me. I see you as beautiful, and you see me that way. Thank you.

I'm happy!

Sometimes happiness is just so easy to know that I have. "I'm happy, I'm feeling glad; I've got sunshine in a bag. I'm useless, but not for long: my future is comin' on!" I mean there it is: that glow-y feeling, and I'm happy. That's obvious.

But sometimes I have to dig for it, and not in a bad way at all, but I have to know that I'm happy. Like, for example, right now. Little OCD me? (anybody guess that, reading my stuff?) with an inbox with 41 unanswered message and 69 messages total? Do you know how many messages I normally have in my inbox? Zero! Because as soon as I get an email, I respond and then I file it in one of my folders. I did say OCD, right? Good.

And, like, I've got a story I've got to finish so I can finish a story (so I can finish a story (so I can finish a story that everybody and her sister is wanting me to work on ("'phina, when you getting back to Bells Ringing?" me: "Um ... soon?"))). Check my plan ... AND I'm getting story ideas up the ... um, what word do I write right now? ... *blush* I mean, I'm finishing the two-shot "BloodBuzz" but then "Sirens" comes along mid-buzzkill and then I've got this birthday present I'm sketching.

And 'phfina the completer? With so many balls up in the air?

So it's a little bit of a whirlwind.

But then, looking all this, and so wanting to complain, bitterly about it and, oh, btw, I do have a life, ...

Well, I stopped myself from the whining and moaning I was going to indulge in, because ... because ...

Because if you looked at me a few months ago, you know: those two months where I didn't write a word except for a few PMs here and there? I'm busy now. Yeah: I'm superbusy, but I'm productive, and I'm writing some stuff that I like and some stuff that I'm like: ick, but other people like sometimes [stop belittling yourself, 'phfina, and say: 'that a lot of people like a lot!'] and a full inbox with messages that I have to attend to is better than, what just a year ago for 'phfina with an empty inbox and no friends at all. Way better. And, yes, I'm out this weekend, away from the computer and the appt. But isn't that great, too! I'm out. I'm with people ITRW. I'm smiling and talking and listening and they are doing the same.

So, no, I'm not going to get to your PM this weekend. I will get to it. And, yes, I'm pumping out all these varied story ideas. I will get back to the incomplete ones.

Or I won't. I'm mortal. I can get flattened by a truck. I almost did this winter. So I'm busy, busy, busy now, but that is so sweet! I have something to be busy about and I have something to write about and I have readers to read what I write!

I am so happy right now! *glow*

My 'phfavorite 'phfina one-shot is ...

Background

So, I write a bit. Some of these are one-chapter stories, called one-shots. One reader said, "Oh, What She Said [my most recently written one] is your best!" So I was like, hm, is that so? So I did something I've never thought I would have done: I ran a little poll asking which one-shot was your favorite.

And here are the results:


And the winner is...

Drum roll, please.

Fireworks! Yay! *throws confetti*

What did you get out of this poll, 'phfina?

What I got out of this poll was that every one of my one-shots was voted on by somebody, and that warmed my heart. It tells me that there's something I wrote in each of my one-shots that touched or moved somebody.

Did you vote, too?

Yes, I voted.

Which one-shot was your fav?

Not telling.

Aw, c'mon, 'phfina!

Oh, all right! I am such a push-over! (um, don't tell anybody, and don't use that to your advantage, you know ... somewhere horizonal, either!) Tell you what, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. "Dear 'phfina, I voted (would have voted) on X and here's why! ... Okay, now show me yours? You got pics? *blush* Eek! I didn't write that! You've turned me, 'phfina, you've turned me into such a perv! So ... this weekend ... EEK! *scampers away*"

Um, you don't need to follow that PM format precisely ...

But actually, when I voted, it was so, so hard, and then I got scared away. I couldn't do it. They are all my favorites, I can't choose one of them! But I had demanded you pick a favorite fav, so it would be unjust for me to chicken out. So I picked the one that called out to me, and actually cried a bit about not being able to pick the other ones. I'll give a run down of my one-shots and why I love each one of them here some day later (or 'real soon now').