Some months seem to stick around forever, and then others seem to happen in a snap of the fingers. For some reason, February seems to be moving at light speed. For example, I meant to do this post in the first few days, but here we are, past the midpoint of the month, and I’m just now getting to it.
This is the month I dove back into my first new screenplay in a number of years. While I didn’t really work on anything last year, the few years before that had been spent reimagining, rewriting and polishing previously written scripts. So starting one from scratch again has been fun, awful, exciting and a total slog. Which is pretty much how I remember it.
January was spent researching and outlining, and I set myself a deadline of February 1 to begin.
I haven’t met my writing goals daily, but as of this morning I’m sitting at 36 pages, and I’m OK with that. I’m definitely dealing with that writerly phenomenon of the words on the page paling miserably in comparison to the movie in my head. I love that movie in my head, and I know I can get closer to it in subsequent rewrites. But you have to have a first (shitty) draft to do rewrites, so I am struggling onward and making sure I get at LEAST a page in daily, even when it is literally the last thing I want to do (and given I typically do most of my writing between 4 a.m. and 5 a.m. before work, that’s not all that rare).
Speaking of rewrites, I did rewrite an old script (mostly a polish, really, with a couple of scenes getting a total makeover), and I’m scheduled to do the final read-through on that later this morning. Trying to get into the GITS habit of stacking projects.
I’m also taking my first Skillshare class: The First Steps of Hand Lettering. It’s a way to do some art with my hands, and I’m one of those weird folks who enjoy actual hand-writing things, so it’s been a good fit (if you are interested in taking a Skillshare class, you can click on that link and get us both $10 to use).
There are all sorts of classes in all sorts of subjects at Skillshare, usually for about $20 (they offer discounts pretty much all the time, though), so it’s definitely worth checking out. Granted, the class has been at least partially responsible for me wanting to do a print with a background that looks like blood spatter, so….
I’ve also been going through this sort of belated nesting phase (and yes, I still hate the term “nesting,” but my former choice of “pregnancy-induced mania” doesn’t apply here since I am not pregnant). So I’ve been attempting to cook a lot more this month. Which has actually gone pretty well, except I feel like I’m perpetually cleaning the kitchen. Which I guess is better than perpetually not cleaning the kitchen (not that I’ve ever gone through phases like that…).
Lastly, I started P90X3 back at the end of December, and I have miraculously made it through almost two blocks (we’re in the last few days of the second transition week) without missing a workout. It’s been the perfect program to get back into working out daily since the workouts are only 30 minutes (which T has lovingly sacrificed for me, despite the fact that he already has to wrangle the Pipsqueak while I’m at work every day).
So, things are pretty busy around here, but it feels good to be busy again near the levels I used to keep myself pre-Pipsqueak. I feel like I’m myself again, which is an awesome feeling, and I actually feel like I’m way more present when I’m hanging out with Pip and/or T now that I’m pursuing my own passions again.
For my first #fridayflash story of 2014, I’m taking part in Chuck Wendig’s Fairytales Remixed challenge (subgenre: “grimdark fantasy”). I actually already had this story in mind when his post popped up, so apparently it was fate. Or at least good motivation to actually get the words out of my brain and into the world. Please enjoy, and be sure to check out the other entries in the challenge as well as stories from the #fridayflash community!
SLEEPING BEAUTY’S SECRET
Aurora stole away just as dawn was breaking. The king would not rise for another hour, and the nurses would tend to their little ones until breakfast. This was her time—precious and rare—and she had to use it wisely.
Dressed in peasants’ attire from a lifetime ago, she kept her dark scarf draped over her golden hair and kept her eyes downcast as she made her way through the village and toward the woods. Though she knew it had given her many advantages, sometimes she cursed the gift of beauty bestowed on her by the fairies.
She thought of the other gifts she’d received as an infant and tried to remember the last time she’d sung anything. Her children were too old for lullabies now, and the nurses had taken care of that most of the time anyway.
Stepping into the thick, damp air of the forest was a relief, but she didn’t slow her pace. Not until the din from the village had been silenced by the swaying of the trees and the chirping of the birds did she relax. Finally, she heard a sharp cawing, and she stopped. She was here.
Before her was a small clearing where the green had faded away, as if shrinking back from something different, something fearsome.
Aurora approached the center of it where the smallest black vine pierced through the ground. She saw that it had sprouted thorns in the week since she’d last visited, and the sight sent a thrill through her body. Perhaps there was still hope.
She had been so young when everything happened. Only sixteen. What had she known of true love? Even now, she knew that it had been true, and maybe even that it still was. But she also knew that love was not the same as happiness.
Despite everything, she could not explain why she was here. She knew it was dangerous. Perhaps it was some remnant of former magic, drawing her once again into the grasp of evil. But there were no fairies now to hide her from her fate, and she had found no weapons or spells to fight the darkness in her own soul. So she tended to the little black vine, in hopes of some day facing the being that had put it there.
She pulled out a small knife from a pocket hidden in her skirt. She grimaced. This was the part she hated the most. Another sharp caw from the sky beckoned her onward. She glanced up and met the crow’s red eyes as she removed her glove. And then she grit her teeth and slashed the blade across her palm, breaking through the barely-closed gash that was already there. She held her hand over the soil surrounding the little vine, and let her blood soak its roots.
© 2014 Elizabeth Ditty
Every year I sit down and review how the past 12 months have gone: what I’ve accomplished and what I wish I had. And then, from that analysis, I set my intentions for the next year.
As I detailed in my 2013 Year in Review post, my word for this year is CORE, and I have a sort of three-pronged approach to that in 2014.
The first bit of returning to my core values is getting back to my “fighting weight.” I’m tired of carrying around this extra 15ish pounds. I fit into most of my old clothes, but they don’t fit how I want them to fit, and I’m ready to feel confident in my appearance again. On a non-aesthetic note, the extra weight isn’t doing my knees any favors, and motherhood has a way of really messing with your skeleton and connective tissues.
The plan is, for the first three months of the year, P90X3. I’m already a week in and love-hating it. I’ve been rotating in the occasional P90X workout (along with Jillian Michaels, Bob Harper, and the occasional cameo appearances by Shaun T’s Insanity, Minna Lessig, and even old-school Cindy Crawford) for years now, but I’m super enjoying the new 30-minute program so far. My sister and I started on Christmas Day (and my other sister started on her own a few days later), so we’ll all be keeping one another accountable.
After the 3-month cycle is up, we’ll see where I am and what I want to do next. I have workout ADD, so I’m sure I’ll be ready for a break from Tony Horton, as much as I enjoy his goofy antics. Luckily the weather should be improving then, so maybe I’ll get a chance to start pounding the pavement again soon after.
In any case, ramping up the exercise and improving my diet by getting back to basics (eating a whole-foods-based, balanced diet and calorie counting) should get me back into tip-top form this year.
There are a lot of focus areas that fall under the umbrella of life, but here’s the quick version:
- Cook more. It saves money and offers the opportunity to cook healthier meals, plus I enjoy the exercise in creativity. Cooking can be art, too.
- Travel. I need to get out of the country for a while, folks. I’ve got a touch of wanderlust in me, and it’s been almost 4 years since I’ve left the States. I was planning a big trip for my 30th birthday, but then life decided a metaphorical trip was in order instead. But 2014 is the year I make it outside these borders. I always make it a goal to go to three new and/or awesome places, and this year I’m hoping to get a little bit further from home at least a couple of times.
- Orderliness. My modus operandi has always been “organized chaos,” but the “organized” part of that has fallen a little bit by the wayside in the past year. Learning how to live with another human being and then adding a third one to the mix — not to mention one who comes with his own impressive and constantly changing paraphernalia — has thrown whatever habits I might have had into the maelstrom. But I feel more focused when things aren’t so chaotic in the house, so I’m going to make an effort to get better at keeping routines for cleaning and mess-containing.
This is the area of my life that took the biggest hit last year, but toward the end of 2013 I rediscovered my passion for writing and creating. Fitting the creation of art in with the first two prongs is obviously a challenge, but plenty of people do it, and I’ve discovered that I can actually do it pretty well, too, when I put my mind to it. I’ve got big goals and big expectations for 2014, and here they are.
- Read 24 books. I hit this goal in the most technical sense last year, but this year I want to read 24 actual books written for adults (though young adult totally counts). I’m making a habit of reading before bed instead of playing Candy Crush, because Candy Crush is the DEVIL.
- Watch 52 movies. And here I’m talking actual movies. TV is great and has its own viewing benefits beyond entertainment, but the medium I write is film, so I need to be watching more of those. And 52 is a drop in the bucket compared to what I used to watch.
- NaNoWriMo. National Novel Writing Month is near and dear to my heart, and this will be my 10th year participating (and presumably winning, since I’m stubborn like that). I’ve already got a candidate for the story this year, but November’s a long ways away, and I’ve got plenty to focus on before it rolls around.
- Write 12 short stories. The #fridayflash community is great for this. If you’re looking to get into the habit of writing on a regular basis, the weekly commitment to writing a short story of 1,000 words or less is a great way to get started. Plus the #fridayflash community is not only talented but also supportive. I plan on participating monthly this year at the least.
- Write (at least) one new screenplay. It’s been a very long time since I’ve written a brand, spankin’ new screenplay, so this is the year. I’ve got one in the works right now, and I’m hoping to write “FADE IN:” by Feb. 1.
- Rewrite two screenplays. I’ve gotten notes back on several screenplays, and I’ve got enough time between my last drafts that I’m ready to go back to them. I’ve got one major rewrite (the one that has plagued me since, oh, 2008?) and one hopefully lesser but still important rewrite to tackle before the year is out.
- Make other art. Last year I did a couple of art projects: one mixed media piece for Halloween and a painted sign for Christmas. They were fun and totally not writing-related, but they exercised parts of my creative brain that sort of whet my appetite for writing efforts. Austin Kleon talks about this in Steal Like an Artist (highly recommended, by the way), and I’m pleased to report it works quite well for me. So I’m planning on keeping up with the arts & crafts this year again. I’m also a quasi-monthly participant in #fmsphotoaday on instagram, which is an excellent way to train your eye to see the details of life.
Setting Intentions for 2014
I think there’s a lot of value in setting your intentions for the year (or month or week or day). If you’re looking for some guidance on how to get started, might I recommend the 2014 Writing Goals series over on the Go Into the Story blog? Whether you’re a screenwriter or not, there’s a lot of good advice. Just insert whatever your passion is when Scott is talking about screenwriting, and his advice will set you on the right path.
I’d love to hear about goals from you all, too, plus it’s good juju to get them out into the ether by posting the publicly.
In any case, here’s hoping that 2014 holds a lot of magic for you and that you find the wherewithal to see it, grasp it and send it back out into the world.
2013. One minute here, the next gone. This year has both flown and taken forever, depending on the moment or milestone or how many times Pip woke up during the night. But at least I sort of knew it was going to be like this going in, and for the most part, I feel like I’ve been able to take things in stride. A clumsy, tripping-over-blocks, sore-knees, lumbering sort of stride, but a stride nonetheless.
- 2008: The Year Everything Fell Apart
- 2009: The Year I Put Everything Back Together
- 2010: The Year I Became Me (aka The Year of Awesome)
- 2011: The Year of the Roller Coaster
- 2012: The Year That Threw Me for a Loop
And so 2013 joins the ranks as
- 2013: The Year of Constant Evolution
My word for the year was “EVOLVE,” and that proved to be right on target.
Looking Back at 2013
I’ve survived almost 10 months of motherhood, and I’m happy to say I still love my life, even if it looks quite different than it did a year ago. In the interest of pure honesty, there are of course plenty of aspects I didn’t/don’t love.
- Pip not sleeping through the night from 3.5 to 9ish months
- Post-partum depression
- The hopefully somewhat temporary (let me have my dreams, OK?) disappearance of spontaneity from our lives
- Buying diapers
- Constant spinal misalignment due to lugging infant carrier/breast pump/baby/all the baby’s stuff everywhere
- Getting up at 4 a.m. on weekdays to pump (which I am thankfully not doing anymore, though still getting up at 4 a.m.)
- Missing out on 9 hours a day with my family to earn a paycheck that doesn’t come from writing or writing-related things
- Carrying around 15 extra pounds because the “breastfeeding makes you lose ALL THE WEIGHT” promise is a terrible, terrible lie
- Not writing (or even rewriting) a single screenplay
- Pip not sleeping through the night form 3.5 to 9ish months
Yes, I put that one on their twice on purpose. But I digress.
The truth is, between my truly amazing co-parent and my always-willing-to-babysit family, I am very, very, very lucky. And even though this year was extremely difficult in some ways, it was also extremely awesome.
- Managed (barely) a drug-free childbirth
- Made it through post-partum depression
- Took 7 trips
- Family vacation to Tampa
- Day trip to Joplin
- Overnight Getaway to Kansas City proper (our first night without Pipsqueak, so it counts as a trip)
- Weekend trip to Springfield, Mo. (which we now believe is a terrible place, except for they have the Best Cookie Ever at the big huge Bass Pro place there)
- Road trip to Plymouth, Wisconsin, to see T’s family
- Weekend getaway to Branson, Mo.
- Family vacation to Disney World
- Wrote 17 short stories (this one was my favorite)
- Finished my short film, STILL, and began submitting to festivals
- “Won” my 9th NaNoWriMo
- Read 17 books that weren’t kid books plus a bunch that are kids books so technically exceeded my goal of 24 books DON’T JUDGE ME
- Saw somewhere around 50 films (way less than a typical year, but still close to one a week on average, plus doesn’t count all the Chuck/Dexter [no spoilers; I'm only on season 5]/Orange is the New Black/Game of Thrones/Breaking Bad/House of Cards/Parenthood/Derek/Doctor Who I watched)
- Picked up four new freelance clients (Need editing, writing, document/ebook formatting or blogging? Check me out.)
- Wrote 35 posts for my freelance blog before motherhood took over my life
- Wrote more than 75 freelance blog posts for clients
- Wrote 11 posts here on this blog
- Lost all but 15 pounds of the 70 or so I gained (granted 29 of those were shed in the first week after, BUT STILL)
- Ran the Thanksgiving 5K for the 4th year in a row with my sisters + T + his mom & brother
- Did two art projects toward the end of the eyar
- Took a bunch of photos and even put some up for sale
Looking Forward to 2014
“Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid.” – The Rev. Basil King
I thought about using the word “center,” but that sounds a little too peaceful. I want to get a little nuts.
For a few months after Pip was born, if I’m being totally honest, life was about survival: making sure I was surviving, making sure T was surviving, and — above all — making sure this tiny little quasi-human we’d brought into this world was surviving and thriving. While some days (and weeks) still feel that way, I feel like we’ve found a groove more or less. It’s sort of like a river, “always changing, always flowing” (yes, quoting Pocahontas because I am a total nerd). But it’s generally in about the same place at least.
So, if 2013 was all about preserving (and regaining and redefining) sanity, then in 2014 I want to get a little nuts again. I want to challenge myself to get back to the core of who I am — and I’ve long professed that the core of who I am is a writer, a creator, an artist. And while my output in 2013 wasn’t completely terrible, it was nowhere near, say, 2009-2011. And that’s OK. But I need to get back to it, because that’s who I am.
Happy New Year to You & Yours
That’s it for me and 2013. Here’s wishing you find the magic you’re looking for in 2014!
It’s the last Friday of the year, which is hard to believe. Thanks to the #fridayflash community for helping me keep up the writing, at least sporadically, during my Evolutionary Year.
TIME IS MONEY
Henry couldn’t see what all the fuss was about time, but he was bound and determined to find some. Being only five years old, there were many subjects on which he’d only scratched the surface, but he’d heard lots about time.
He knew, for instance, that time was quick, and that, if you weren’t careful, it would pass you by without your ever realizing it. He figured if he could launch a surprise attack, he’d have a good shot at catching it. He wasn’t sure how long he spent crouched between the potted ficus tree and the sofa, but his entire left leg fell asleep, and his mom started calling him for dinner. He would try again tomorrow.
He’d also heard that time flies, so he spent the next day up in the branches of a tree with his slingshot, on the lookout for flying time. All he saw were sparrows and the occasional airplane flying high above, but he never saw anything that looked liketime.
Henry began to suspect that time was much sneakier than he’d given it credit for. Perhaps it was hiding right under his nose all this time. He ransacked the living room, pulling the cushions off the sofa, curling up the rug, and digging in the dirt that held the ficus tree. When his mom came in and saw what he’d done, she yelled, “Henry, I don’t have time for this!” Which, he thought, was exactly the point. But he knew better than to say anything at a time like this.
That night, before his parents came in to tuck him into bed, Henry had a long timeout, which gave him time to think. As his eyes drooped, one last thought surfaced: “Time is money.” It was something he’d heard one of his father’s friends say one time, when they’d all been over playing games with black and red cards, and having drinks Henry wasn’t allowed to taste.
His eyes flew open and drifted to his piggy bank. He’d been saving for a big boy bike, but maybe this was more important. By the time his parents came in to tuck him into bed, he’d made his decision. They entered to find him on the floor with the rubber disk from the bottom popped out and the pig’s contents spilled on the floor.
“What are you doing, Henry?” his father asked.
“I tried to find more time,” he said, “but it was hard. I couldn’t do it.”
His parents looked perplexed, and Henry knew they didn’t understand. He sighed and gathered the few bills and coins from the floor.
“You and Mom are always saying you don’t have time and that you wish you could find more.” He saw his parents exchange a look, but he didn’t understand what it meant. “I looked for it everywhere, but I don’t really know what it looks like, I guess. But anyway, I remembered that time is money, so I thought this might help.”
He handed them what amounted to his life’s savings. His mom looked like she might cry, and Henry began to fear that he’d really messed up this time.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
His parents shook their heads, and his mom scooped him into her arms.
“Not at all, darling,” she said. “You’re the best boy in the whole world.”
He nestled his head into that space between his mom’s shoulder and neck, and his dad wrapped his arms around the two of them. He loved it when they did that.
As they tucked him into bed, he couldn’t help but feel the problem still hadn’t been solved.
“Maybe if we all hunt for time tomorrow, we’ll have better luck,” Henry said.
“I bet you’re right,” his dad said. “But for now, it’s time for bed.”
Henry didn’t have the energy to protest. He yawned, and his parents took turns kissing him on the forehead.
“Good night, sweet boy,” his mother said.
“Good night, son,” said his father.
Henry closed his eyes and soon dreamt of clocks and wings and skies.
© 2013 Elizabeth Ditty
He wasn’t scheduled for retirement until the end of the universe, but he was just so damn tired.
The world was very different than when he’d started. Expectations had grown and grown and grown until he could no longer keep up with the demand placed upon him by his customers.
When he first noticed that his work was being supplemented by parents, he breathed a sigh of relief. But then they started doing more than supplementing. They started wearing his clothes and using his name, all without ever asking his permission — not to mention the thought of proper compensation.
He began pushing his employees to work longer hours and to increase their output, but eventually they began pushing back. And the worst part was he couldn’t even blame them. There were some lean years when strikes hurt what he could deliver, but he noticed the world didn’t seem to notice at all.
His wife had what could best be described as a conniption fit when he first broached the idea of early retirement. It was his purpose, his reason for existence! But he had been feeling more and more like it was his cross to bear instead, and he was ready to set it down.
She packed her bags and left, in an attempt to teach him a lesson, and while he missed the comfort of her warm embrace, at least it was one less set of expectations weighing upon his shoulders. He soon announced layoffs for all but one of his employees. He would keep his valet around as long as the funds were there to pay him.
The money ran out faster than he expected, but he could live frugally. All he needed was a sleeve of cookies and a gallon of milk, and he could get by for a week. His favorite red suit was reduced to threadbare tatters a few years ago, but he found he could blend in quite well in the thrift store clothing that his budget allowed.
Every once in a while, a child’s eye would land on him, and he would see the curiosity, the expectation, the hope. Every time, his heart swelled, wondering if it was time for his return. But every time, the parents pulled their children along, with no recognition, no memory of the magic they had once shared.
Another year had passed, and December 25th was so near he could quite literally feel it in his bones. Every year, he and his valet still surveyed the world, and every year everything changed, but never in their favor. The world simply grew more and more astute at meeting their own constantly growing expectations. And every year, his heart broke a little more, because Christmas looked less and less like him.
© 2013 Elizabeth Ditty
SANTA DOESN’T SWEAT
The manager sighed as he watched the bead of sweat drip off the old man’s nose.
“Let’s get some air on him,” he hollered at the woman dressed as an elf.
She scurried over to the fan and pointed it at the bearded man in the red suit. Santa doesn’t sweat. He grimaced as he watched the old man take deep breaths, trying to suck in the wind from the fan.
“All right, next kid,” he said.
The fat man pasted on a pathetic smile as the next bouncing bundle of joy walked up and bounded onto his lap. A groan almost escaped, and a look of panic shot into the old man’s eyes, hoping his manager hadn’t seen. But he had. He always saw. He’d already burned through two Santas today, and it was only one o’clock.
After the kid had given his unbearably long wish list and been wished a Merry Christmas, the manager stepped in front of the long line of hopeful children. “Santa’s going to take a short break for some milk and cookies, and then he’ll be right back to hear your deepest Christmas wishes!”
There were groans and not a few tantrums, but they had stopped phasing the manager a long time ago. He walked over to the old man.
“Please,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.
“You’re done,” he said. “Let’s go. It’ll only be worse if you make a scene.”
The old man’s eyes traveled to the mass of children. His lower lip quivered. But then he steeled his face into one last, wonderful grin. “Ho, ho, ho!” he bellowed. “Merry Christmas!”
The manager rolled his eyes, and then he escorted the man in red off the platform and into the back room.
The old man took off his hat and handed it to the manager. There was a look of defiance in his eyes. There nearly always was in their last moments.
“You know where to go next,” the manager said.
The old man said nothing and simply walked bravely through the door with the exit sign blaring above it. A moment later, a scream, and then nothing.
The manager turned around. Behind the bars sat three other old, white-bearded men — enough to last through the day hopefully.
He pointed at the most robust-looking of the three.
“You’re up,” he said. He keyed open the door, and the new old man walked out. “Suit up.”
He handed over the hat. The old man took it, sparing a glance at the men he was leaving behind, and headed toward his last chance.
© 2013 Elizabeth Ditty
JACK FROST’S GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT
People only think of wintry weather when they hear my name, but year by year, I’ve been expanding my reach.
I first had the thought back in the 1950s, but it took a decade or so to wrap my icy tendrils around the first few black hearts. The first Black Friday was a grand day for me, but each year I grow prouder and prouder.
After all, what greater cold snap is there than the one from the warmth of pervasive gratitude and gathered families to the stone cold greed and cha-ching of cash registers the day after? The whole country goes from nestling around their loved ones, gorging on warm turkey and pie, to pushing and shoving in the freezing temperatures to get the best deals before the sun even thinks of peeking out from behind its covers.
Sure, snow and icicles are my most obvious achievements — the ones everyone talks about. But more than Snowmageddon or Knickerbocker or even the Storm of the Century, Black Friday is my crowning glory. And I’m not stopping there.
My sights are set, and the next big thing is in my crosshairs.
Thanksgiving, I’m coming for you.
© 2013 Elizabeth Ditty
Every 5 to 11 years, Thanksgiving falls on my birthday. It’s been a long stretch this time around, and I haven’t celebrated a Thanksgiving birthday since 2002, when I was 19 turning 20. So, in the past 11 years, my life has changed drastically, and so, so much for the better. Since then, I’ve gotten to write, to travel, to fall in love, to have adventures, to become a mother, and to evolve into someone that I actually like pretty well most of the time. I’ve become happy. Sure, there have been some hard spells during those years, but overall, they’ve been absolutely amazing, and I’m grateful to have lived them the way I have. This year in particular has obviously been quite the capstone to the stretch of years between Thanksgiving birthdays. I didn’t do any sort of thankfulness blogging this year because I was relearning how to have a daily writing habit with NaNoWriMo. Oh, speaking of which…
I’ve written before about what NaNoWriMo means to me, but this year it’s taken on a new significance. I really hadn’t written much since NaNoWriMo 2012, save a short story here and there. I just didn’t have the drive or the ideas or, especially after Pip was born, the energy. I thought about not doing NaNoWriMo this year, but the thought of sitting out after having “won” eight years consecutively just didn’t feel right. I figured it was better to try and fail than to not try at all.
But a funny thing happened. Turned out I actually did have plenty of time to write on a daily basis. It was just a matter of actually using the time I had productively instead of, you know, playing Candy Crush. It was the most delightful discovery to find that, if I put my mind to it, I really could power through 1,000 words in the 4 o’clock hour in the morning before work and another 1,000 words in the 7 or 8 o’clock hour at night after Pip went to bed. The hardest part was reigning in my brain and convincing it to do the job set before it.
Now don’t get me wrong. The 50,000 words I wrote? Pretty much all drivel. But the whole point for me this year was really just to prove to myself I could have a daily writing habit again. And so I did. And in the process, I think I actually ended up with enough to go back to at some point, which is a nice bonus.
And that’s really just the cap on a really amazing year. So, in no particular order, some things I’m thankful for.
The cat had wandered into her yard again. She had tried everything — coffee grounds, citrus peels, cayenne pepper, even moth balls. A spray bottle was no deterrent, and neither was the hose. Even her dog was no match for the mangy thing, and he now had a gash on his nose to prove it.
Every time she stepped outside, every time she came home, her eyes began to itch, her nose began to drain, and her anger began to swell.
Through her window, she watched as the cat sprayed her flowerbeds, soaking them in ammonia-scented urine. She thought of the hard work she’d put into planting those flowers, of the hard-earned money she’d spent to make her house a home, and of the excruciating back ache the next day.
She was done.
She bolted into the garage and grabbed her son’s BB gun, a gift from her ex-husband despite her insistence against it. She barrelled out the front door and met the cat right at the front stoop. It froze at the sight of her — nostrils flared, flyaways escaping from her ponytail.
For a second, as their eyes connected, she had second thoughts. But then the cat lifted its leg and sprayed the front step.
A loud POP. A louder screech. A trail of blood drops. Likely not enough to have killed it, but enough that the cat was gone and likely for good.
Her lips hardened into a line. She didn’t like resorting to violence, but it had left her no choice. She walked back inside and replaced the BB gun in the garage.
That night, long after her children were tucked into bed, she sat in a rocking chair by the window, as she often did when fighting insomnia. Normally she read, but tonight she felt distracted. Her gaze drifted out onto the dark lawn. The street lamp was out, and had been for weeks, despite her calls to the city and electric company.
So when she saw the two red slits appear in the blackness, she was confused. And then another set appeared. And finally a third. A low rumble sounded, at first nearly imperceptible, growing, deepening, finally working its way into her eardrums where it settled and reverberated in the space between her lungs.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark just enough to make out horns, fur, black pupils in a red sea. The creatures clawed the ground, paced back and forth, but did not approach, as if held back by an invisible line.
And then they saw her, and the rumble exploded into a shrieking growl. She scrambled away from the window and dove beneath the covers, shivering so hard that the bed creaked. A million thoughts ran through her mind, too fast for her to comprehend any of them save one: she would add cat food to her grocery list in the morning.
© 2013 Elizabeth Ditty