writing, writing, writing: i think this is me living my dream?

Sorry to wait so long to update the ol' blog. I have been writing....every day in fact. For work, I've been writing Terms of Use and a Privacy Policy for a website. And tweeting. And writing updates for Facebook and Google Plus. For my Fusion magazine job I've been writing an article on outdoor concert venues and The Decemberists. For my literary short story writer's group, I wrote a really cool, stripped down story about a tire fire and one woman who thinks she's looking for love, but really just needs to learn to trust again. For my flash fiction writer's group, I put together a little ditty about a professor/student relationship--nothing scandalous, just an accidental thing.

** I DID want to be a writer...and I feel blessed to be doing just exactly what I love, even if it's not in the acceptance to an MFA/ write a bestseller type of way. **

Oh, and I've been writing a blog post too. A really, really great one that I'm sure I could probably even charge you all admission to read. But it may or may not get the "publish post" button hit. We'll see. My blog life is generally a month behind my real life just because real life changes so quickly, and I need some time to see what's going to stick around and what's not. Like trying to eat a cookie off the cookie sheet as soon as you pull it out of the oven. It generally falls apart since it's still gooey. It tastes yummy, but it would probably taste even better if given a bit of time to set. Real life is the gooey cookie, blog life is the set one.

Does that make sense? I think I'll find that humorous after a night of sleep.  It's 2:30 am. Again. I'm tired. My metaphors are tired. But I love you so I'm writing something :)

I also realize how long it has been since I've shared any piece of my actual story writing on the blog. I have refrained simply because of the amount of submitting I've been doing, with a lot of journals refusing to publish anything that's been previously published...blogs included. But, I'm pretty sure that I'll never make it as a flash fiction writer, so I'm going to give you the middle 1/3 of my story called "The Night at a Reading My Professor Got Broken up with and Drunk." AND I promise to write something better tomorrow. Or Wednesday. After I sleep. Thank you :) ...


I took his hands, which continued to rub at the length of my back, and held them between us for a moment before letting the drop. “Let’s get your bike and put in in my trunk. I’ll drive you home and stay with you for a little while if you want, but nothing more, ok? Not like this. Not when you’re all drunk and heartbroken.”


His house was just like I thought I would be—more books than furniture, a collection of miniature Space Needles lined up along the mantle. I sat at one end of his plaid couch. Finn emerged from the bathroom, laid down, and set his head in my lap. My fingers paused over his silver blond hair before I let them wind and unwind through it. It felt like what I should do, what I would have done were we in this situation under different conditions. His breathing stretched and steadied as he fell asleep. The TV was tuned to a mountain bike race. I watched, indifferent, volume low. It was 2am. I considered just leaning over onto the arm of the couch and closing my eyes but knew that would only lead to something awkward. I imagined him waking, neck stiff from the odd position my lap had held it at all night, wondering if he should wake me, too—if, perhaps, I was late for work. He might offer me coffee, notice but not mention the meshed imprint of fabric on my cheek, the strange angle my hair was sticking out at. The space between us would be filled with strained, hung-over conversation and the faucet water–gray light of morning. He’d be wanting aspiring and a shower, anxious for me to leave so he could have them.

Then again, maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe we’d sleep late then walk a block over to the pastry shop for chocolate croissants, sit in the little corner booth. At some point during our eating we’d comment on the boundaries our sadness can push us toward. How grateful we were we’d only put our toes over the line instead of our entire bodies. Under the table, our knees would touch. I would dust a buttery crumb off his chin. He would lick his thumb and wipe a smear of chocolate from my lip.

That scene was harder to see, I guess because I wasn’t sure what exactly had gone on earlier tonight, or what Finn and I were to each other. Just that a few hours ago, he had been my professor, my editor, my friend, someone whose talent I admired. There had been the author’s voice reading in the ballroom and the more distant sound of Finn and his girlfriend, Amy, fighting at the elevators in the lobby. I was near the exit, had just gone out to make sure everything was alright, watched the doors close in front of her angry face, her crossed arms. He had taken me by the hand, led me off campus and to the tavern across the street. He cried in an unobvious way. The more the thick-rimmed glasses, empty except for an etching of foam, accumulated in the corner of our table, the more he told me he had always liked me, always wondered what it would be like to hold me. He kept tracing little circles on my arms. I told him I’d always liked him too, knowing he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

And I had.

Liked him.

Always.

---

Now I slid from beneath the soft weight of his head and stood. For another minute, I watched him sleep, shifting camera angles on the television turning his face yellow, then green, then blue—colors highlighting, diminishing the little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked sad and beautiful.

How unfair it is, I thought, that sometimes there are things you think should mean something, situations you think should go somewhere—but they don’t. And you just have to be okay with it.
 
-The End-  
Well, not really, but the end of what you're getting. If any of you are actually interested in reading all 1,000 words of this story from the beginning, speak up and I'll consider publishing the whole thing. If not, well, tricked ya into reading this far, didn't I? Also, no actual professor's or their ex-girlfriends were harmed in the writing of this story. Good Night and Good Morning :)