I wrote something on here last night and deleted it in the morning. A few of you read it and we can discuss it if you want. I don’t mind, I was just ranting.

Does anyone else feel that life in America is just a little too…spooky right now? Could be me, I guess, but I’m a bucket full of nerves tonight. Have been all day.

I’m thinking about looking for a part time job if that tells you anything. I’m unqualified for everything I want to do, but really incredibly great at customer service. I just don’t want to do most of that right now. Writing would be good. Anyone want to pay me to write something for you? Yeah. I know.

There’s this crazy local place called Planet Propaganda, it’s a wet dream, but I have my fantasies too.

I was ranting about NaNoWriMo last night in a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately sort of way and realizing outside of that rant that the biggest boon to my writing last November was the willingness to run face-first into walls of literary anxiety. No, not a willingness, an utter glee.

I formed a fascination with fear. Or at least, fears stemming from writing my memoir. Sort of. I think.

Sometimes writing is like slitting a wrist. Or this: @paulocoelho: Writing is a socially acceptable form of being naked in public.

The thought of walking through my old house still gives me the shivers. During a phone conversation with one of my sisters over the weekend I practically relived it.

There was also this major milestone where I contacted an old friend, a grudge I’d been living with most of my adult life, and we made friendly, even talked of dinner and wine, swapped Christmas cards and vowed to stay in touch. (How very 12 step, wouldn’t you say?) It would have been like slitting my wrist to drive up and visit her. I don’t know where she’s gotten off to, but I feel healed up from that bit anyway.

I don’t think this post ought to be published either.

Utter glee:

To those of you who commented on the last official post–Thank YOU! I can’t name a winner on the blog, that would be telling. Once I nail down the final product I’ll make it known should a copy of The Dead Shoe Society be coming your way.

Anybody know a good joke?


About E. Victoria Flynn

E. Victoria Flynn is a mother and a writer living in Southern Wisconsin. Published in a variety of venues, Victoria is currently writing the first in a series of three fantasy novels based on Cornish folklore. When not taking part in a shrieking dance party or engrossed in her own little fictions, Victoria is keen on art, the natural world and people unafraid to explore their own brilliance.
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9 Responses to Balderdash

  1. eglentyne says:

    What did the fish say when it ran into a wall?

  2. Beth Hoffman says:

    I wish you were my sister. And no, that’s not a joke!

  3. Beth Hoffman says:

    And so it is … xo!

  4. kario says:

    Sending light and love and writing juju. It is when life gets more and more like sitting naked on sandpaper that the writing begins, I think. Sorry you’re chafing.

  5. 2kop says:

    I can always count on my youngest to make me laugh. I’ll ask him for a joke and get back to you. Still wish you could come do a little customer service at The Animal Store. Where is teleporting when you really need it?

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