Myspace Blog "Timidity"

Subject - Being (to be) Verb - Subject Compliment (Adjectival).

Sentence Pattern II.

I am inspired.

Subject - Intransitive Active Verb

Sentence Pattern VI.

I write.

Subject - Transitive Active Verb - Direct Object.

Sentence Pattern VII.

I write my soul.


My greatest fear, which I am living here and now, is timidity to write. Do I know how to write, reader? Yes, I know how to write. I have given up being humble on the point. I can write so that you feel five inches away from a lover's mouth, their breath condensing on the little hairs of your cheek and, softly, their hands whispering over your body in long strokes unaware of minutes and days and the little wrinkles on your forehead which grow into chasms as the years pass.

I can write.

So why DON'T I write? I'm terrified. Not of criticism--I can take it. Not of accolades--I crave them. But of the honesty.

You see, to write a sentence like "hands whispering over your body in long strokes..." is to invest my little heart into a sentence in a way which, after all, cannot be anything less than terrifying.

Look at Hemingway. For all his angry men and cold protagonists (and horrifying grammar devoid of stylistic cause, in my opinion), he was honest. Say what you will, he was always honest. He always invested.

I have ample time to write. And I do write. But not enough. Not what I should be writing, what I could be writing.

Why don't I write my novels?

Because I am terrified you might figure me out, reader. And, while I certainly have a clearer picture of myself than most, the one called Michelle is a non-sensical, irrational creature guided so much be impulse, depravity, and--well, yes--real beauty that even I lack the faculties to fully understand her. She stands around inside of me, making uncertain demands and wagging her finger in a tell-tale way that means, "It has to be like this, of course: you know it does." And who am I to disagree with myself?

I hate rhetorical questions. Forgive me, reader.

Ah, but when I am honest in my writing. When I combine my passion for language with my love of life and its small miracles and great defeats--those little pieces I've written where I've said it, and done it, and been it, through and through... I know I've accomplished something rare--something truly of worth.

Forgive me, reader: I hate abstract vagueries.

So I am off to write. To attempt honesty. I need to relearn courage and boldness. Sure, I can write. And a musician can play music. But it takes heart indeed, as any artist will tell you, to invest.

Myspace Blog "In Two Directions Torn"

FAMILY NOTE: This is not about you! :-) This is about the unbelievable pressure I am receiving (I could show you the emails, folks) from my mentors and some of my younger/older friends about this marriage announcement. Though, this tug-of-war is a common occurrence for me, and there have been times on other issues where some family has polarized into one of the groups. But usually, almost ALWAYS, it is those outside the family (those who perhaps know me less well?).

<3 M


It's been an interesting mix of emotions and experiences this week. Heck, this past block of six months. But, I stress this week because I have felt more keenly than before the strange phenomenon consistently at play in my life.

At any given point, I have one group of people pulling me one direction, and another group of people pulling me the other. They are not polite about pulling me. No, they are vehement. Insistent. Their nails gouge my wrists. Sometimes they tug out whole bunches of my hair. The spit sprays from their mouths as they insist that the other party release me.

For example. One party of persons in my life wants me to get married. In fact, can't really be comfortable until I'm married. The other party wants me not to get married. To remain single for an indeterminate space of years.

However, the reason for each group feeling how they do is exactly the same. I need to learn a lesson. I am not fully adult. I cannot and have not learned to be an individual, a person with her own hopes and dreams. One party insists I am not a person until I am married, the other that I am not a person IF I am married.

The problem is, I am a hybrid of hard and soft, and this frankly just upsets people. Ask anyone who knows me well. I am ambitious, competitive (cut-throat, sometimes). I will almost never admit to being wrong. I am stubborn, I am woman, I will roar.

And then I am soft. I want children. I want to hold them when they're sick, stick bandaids on their knees when skinned; I want to raise a family and see it grow. I want a husband with whom to share my life--not to have it taken from me, but to really share it: two individual persons working together in equality, with mutual submission, toward developing a richer life experience. I am compassionate and warm; I want to be held and kissed lightly upon the lips; I want to be told that I am beautiful.

I am both hard and soft, and this reality gets me into trouble. Because one crowd wants me to be completely soft (guess which), and the other wants me to be completely hard (again, you can guess). Neither the soft nor the hard are in any way superior to the other, but nonetheless, I am not wholly one nor the other. The two always seem in conflict with eachother.

But I cannot be other than who and what I am. No one should, in good conscience, ask me to be otherwise. The fact is, when I review my list of life goals, having and raising a family of my own is at the top. It needn't be that way for everyone, but it is for me. Graduate studies also tops that list, as does a successful, fulfilling, vibrant writing career. These are my goals for my life. And I will accomplish these in the best way that I see possible.

Peter is instep with me on the matter. It took him a long, long time to convince me of that fact. Took him a long time to prove that I could trust him and that he would not force me into any box, leastwise the "pastor's wife" box.

Fact is, I never did envision myself getting married before Peter because I never actually thought I would find a man decent enough and whom I could respect enough to marry. Never thought I'd find a man who could not only compliment my goals, but also encourage me to defy all opposition and make those goals happen. Who is willing to sacrifice his own goals out of love to see me accomplish my own. Men have almost always been weak in my eyes, with the exception of a few I've known along the way. But Peter is not weak. He is an equal with me in all respects, from intellect to integrity. And he tells me the same. I am neither his pet nor his owner.

And though at this moment of my life, I am having to learn to rely on another--I have always been rather a rebel and independent, so this lesson comes only with great difficulty--it does not mean I am weak or incapable. People, all people, rely on others at some point in their life, if not at every point. And this is an experience I require in order to be complete, just as much as I require the experience of being independent.

So here's what I need. I need people to stop trying to teach me a lesson and let me live. Let me make mistakes as I make them. Let me be an adult rather than try to teach me as if I were a child. Let go of my bloodied wrists. I love you as much as you love me, which is saying something. And I understood you when you first began to tug--why is it necessary to tear me in two?

I speak to no individual, but to these two groups, consisting of almost every person I love in this world. The people around me always seem to polarize: it's that strange phenomenon that follows me around. I love you, I love you, I love you, but I am not a child and I am not so naive that I can't recognize that I am responsible for my own actions. That never goes away, married or not, educated or not, whether wife, family or friend.

As for the job situation, I have heard from five or six of you that you are concerned I am marrying Peter for the sake of his money, so that he can support me and I can sit around on my butt all day. He is not my sugar-daddy. He and I have chosen to keep us afloat. We do not want to be in a long distance relationship (again!). I am not going home without him, and vice versa. We are in it together. I am not marrying Peter for the sake of finances.

As if marrying him were somehow giving up and just relaxing into a life of quiet dependence! Ha! I am too feisty for that. Ask him. Like my grandpa, I am happiest when I have work to do and a busy schedule and duties and responsibilities.

I send out five or six job applications a day. I go in for interviews. I wait patiently and push for positions, whichever is necessary. However, Boston is a difficult city to get a job in. Everyone has an MA, and there is Just. No. Work. I'm not lazy. I'm not dawdling. I am working hard to get a job, but it is not the Seattle job market, nor the New York job market.

Read the news, folks, on Boston. Sources will agree: jobs are scarce, all around, whether at a tech software company or at Target.

Okay. That's enough for one evening. Sorry for the length of the blog, but had to get it off my chest.

Myspace Blog - October 9 - "In the Lion's Den"

Update time.

It's not that I don't love you, reader, it's that I'm so busy doing nothing that I find it hard to blog.

And call you (my dear friend, you know who you are particularly).

And sometimes even respond to texts (again, my dear friend, you know who you are).

I'm not sure about this phenomenon. I've known for awhile it's a part of my personality to just close off communication a little bit and survive in the moment when I feel under the gun and, more specifically, really LOW under the gun. Bear with me, my friends (and my friend most of all). I love you. I like you. I want to gossip with you. Bear with me.

I haven't a job yet, but I'm not altogether worried at this point since I'm on the cusp of a job and a few opportunities. So we'll see.

Mostly I spend my days researching Madame de Pompadour, Louis VX, their France, and then playing WoW for copious hours. I've been rather diligently studying up and adding to my surprisingly voluminous knowledge base of pre, mid, and post-revolution France. Not only does it fascinate me, but I'm in the process of writing a narrative of Madame de Pompadour's life, told in her voice, from birth until the hours before her death, at which point her protege Duke will compose a letter describing it and send it to Louis. I feel that is the best convention for me to use, though I've spent some time scratching my head about it.

I like history. Maybe I should just focus on writing historical fiction. Not, I must add, romance novels--I'm speaking of prairie romances here particularly, and Russian romances where everyone dies of tuberculosis after snogging each other endlessly. I'm not a romance writer. I may have sex in my books, but God save me if I EVER get published in the genre of romance! *shudder*

Am worried for my dear Meg. Her blog makes it sound as if she is feeling better, and is up and about. But I can't imagine how it must feel to see the road ahead of you and know that there's no escaping all that is intimately demanded of you--for example, such continued limitations in diet. Yet, here's a woman who once saved her only apple for a week until such a time as she knew she would enjoy it most--that apple, her precious only apple. So I think she's up to the challenge.

I want to send her something, but to be honest with you, I CANNOT FIND A POST OFFICE. And I don't mean I can't find an address for a post office. I mean I cannot find the post office despite having been given directions. Because the roads are bad here. And they do whatever may be their wont, which--incidentally--has nothing to do with my want.

Okay. To the day. Time to read up on O'Murphy and Lady Chatereaux. And then, running Scarlet Monastery with my bitchin' awesome 32 Blood Elf Holy Priest.


<3 M

Thursday, Bloody Thursday

Today, I go in for an interview. Not an interview with a staffing company (I get so weary of those: application after application, testing program after testing program), but with the company itself.

Job includes benefits; that alone makes it desireable to me.

Bad news: it's 50 minutes away, without traffic. Which means, it could potentially be 1 and 1/2 hours away WITH traffic. But I'm hoping, nonetheless, that I get it. I can always take public transportation, if need be, AND frankly, who cares? I will make minimum of $15 an hour, and I'm going to press for $35k/yr.

I leave for that in about an hour.

So that's THAT news.

On the other front, Peter and I have done our "I love you's." I asked him to change the rule, since I found it very silly--to say the least--that we're talking of marriage but saying "I like you." He agreed to change the rule in part. For him, 'love' just means a whole lot more than it does for other people. To say "love," there has to be at least that promise of marriage (engagement), and even then. It's a committment word that, while he is willing to say, he can't really mean fully until he's made that formal committment.

So we compromised. He told me he loves me, very much, but that he cannot say it flippantly or very often at this point. But he DOES love me. And I, of course, responded likewise.

So that's well and good. It's amazing how just hearing something vocalized can make such a difference: it's understood, yes, but not really grasped until it's said aloud. 'Bout time, in my book.

I need to go shopping!

I'm doing the portfolio thing again for grad school. Trying to get one together. It has to be my absolutely best work, and since they don't look at flash fiction, this means I have to write outside my form a little bit. Which is fine, you know. It's just difficult.

It's amazing how hard just "saying something" can be.

A story isn't just entertainment; the storywriter and the story, too, have a duty to SAY something meaningful, enduring, truthful.

Off to the day, then.

Teh Kids

I miss my niece and nephew.


I mean, I miss everyone, sure. But my niece and nephew...


I really, REALLY miss them.

Myspace Post - September 20

Folks, it is 1:30am in the morning. I sit typing, ever so softy so as not to wake my dozing (my noisily dozing) boyfriend who lies prostrate and precariously on the edge of the bed behind me. Stephen sleeps one room over. He may be noisy, but this place is soundproofed.

Troy and Alex have gone out for a stroll and a pipe smoke.

I am spending the night here tonight due to some car troubles. Some likely big car troubles. Said troubles struck like a thought in the night. Unexpected and mysterious.

But, like a cliche girlfriend, I must write of the romanticness of this boyfriend of mine.

First of all, as we were in the process of returning from the Bible study at the church where he is mentoring, with a classmate of his (Steven, not Stephen), he became very concerned with MY concern about the car troubles.

Second, when we stopped at a store so I could get some dinner, he insisted on driving it the rest of the way home. On arriving home, he jumps out of the car (this exhausted fellow, worked to the bone, jumps out of my car) and calls up his dad. He spends a great deal of time poking around in there. Finally, he shuts the hood and rejoins me in the car.

We are parked on the street. It is very dark. I am quiet, pondering how to handle this catastrophe. I begin to pack up my food and bags, and he takes my hand and kisses my cheek, promising me everything will be all right.

We enter the apartment. He moves straight to the computer, looks up auto shops in the area and searches google for an answer to what might be the cause of these odd car troubles. He enlists Alex to go with me to the autoshop tomorrow morning, insisting that we call him at the slightest sign of something funny.

I am crestfallen. Certain of a nightmarish and unfixable problem, which is likely.

I stretch out on his bed, arm over face, not wanting even to look at him. I know what he's going to tell me He sits down beside me, leans over and says, "One day, you're going to have to let me look at you."

I remove my arm doubtfully.

"You have to let me pay for this. There's no other way."

I writhe inwardly and outwardly refuse, insisting he can't do such a thing. Tears and shaky breaths: all present.

"I've got tons of money."

"You don't owe me anything," I tell him. "It's not your job to do this for me." I give a long, tearful sob. "I can't pay you back."

He hugs me and whispers, "You've already paid me back." My mind races to formulate some answer to this, some counterargument. He beats me to it. "You are not an island, Michelle. And the time is coming when we won't have to even think things like whether or not we can pay each other back."

"What if the repairs cost too much? What will I do?" He can't beat me on this one!

"We'll buy you another car."

"... You can't buy me a car, Peter. You can't."

"Why not?"

I cannot form an answer here, so I remain silent. He always wins these arguments. "I hate being poor,"I breathe at last.

"Well, I've got enough money, so you need to let me do this for you. We need to act as one unit here."

We discuss some particulars. At last, he coaxes a smile from me as I wrap my arms about his neck. And do you know what this man says to me at that moment?
"You know, I would give up all my money and everything I have just to see your face light up again like it did just now."


Men like him just cannot actually exist. They just can't.

Details, Details, Details

Grammy mentioned that I hadn't said much about the woman with whom I live. I recoiled! I often share details about her with my mother, but woefully neglect to pass along those details to all of you.

Her name is Mary. She's a sweet old woman, about shoulder high to me, with white curly hair and a slight hunch to her walk. When she speaks, you hear the East coast flow right from her lips. The accent, as you'll soon discover, Grammy, is as curvy and full as any TV portrayal of the Boston tongue.

She is Catholic. Very Catholic. So Catholic that, on mornings when I sleep in or on days when I venture up from my writing in the basement to the kitchen, I often overhear her on the phone or chatting with her cleaning ladies about crazy Protestants. She quickly adds, even when she doesn't know I can hear her, that "that Michelle girl who lives with me, yeah her and her friends, they're all right. Respectable Protestants, them. Those are kids you'd see at Mass and confession every week."

Icons litter the house--little cardboard cards and iconic statues. St. Francis on the kitchen table. St. Mary in statue form, and graced with the adorations of a few plaster angels, atop the side table in the dining area. Various Saints make regular appearances above the bathroom sink--St. Anne, even.

Mary often forgets bits of information I repeat to her ad nauseam.

What are your friends doing here?

Attending seminary. Except for Alex, remember. He's doing what I'm doing.

Did you say your grandpa had died?

Yes.

Oh, well my husband died four years ago, and I still miss him every day... What are you friends doing here?

Mary often eats my food. Last night I discovered she'd eaten my last dove bar. But she buys twice as much food as she needs in case I want some of it. She'd probably forget I pay rent if I didn't remind her. She introduces me with care to every individual who visits her during the week (and there are often two or three of these individuals a day, not counting the timely and consistent visit of her daughter Kim every morning to check on her). "This is Michelle, my roommate."

Her sister, older but almost identical in appearance, hates me. No really. Doesn't like me in the least. She spent the night with Mary a few days ago and spent most her time glaring at me whenever I dared to venture from the basement through the living room to the kitchen. I offered her coffee, when Mary was off taking a shower, and she refused even to acknowledge the question. Mary has no idea and regularly gives her sister updates about me over the phone.

In addition to an active social life, Mary has many women working for her. Two cleaning ladies, who alternate cleaning her place every other day. A woman who comes every two weeks to do her nails, and likewise, a woman who comes to do her hair. This means that every week, Mary has at least one woman to gossip with as they, in some way, groom her.

She often writes me notes to let me know she has gone to bed. She puts them on the counter, next to the bowl of pretzels that, for better are worse, are always there. Don't eat them when you come. There are bugs here, and I've seen more than one crawl out of that bowl.

I offer her coffee every morning. She always answers, "No, I'm trying to cut back." A cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee (if it can be called coffee at all) every few days is sufficient to fulfill her caffeine needs.

Every three days, like clockwork, she asks me how the job hunt is going. Then she tells me how her nephew and grandson are also looking for jobs.

She loves Peter and tells me to say hello whenever I leave for his apartment. When he is here, she fairly glows over him. Peter, in turn, enjoys Mary, and on more than one occasion, has ventured, "If you ever need a man to do some work around the house, just give me a ring, Mary." I think she wants to marry him. I can't blame her. I have a crush on him, too.

Like a good roommate, when Peter does come over, she says her hellos and howdys, chats for a minute or two, and promptly--and very clearly--clears out of the local vicinity. "Well, I'm going to bed. I'll be in my room watching television for the rest of the evening. Have a good night, you two." And she gives both of us a little smile whose meaning is impossible to miss and heads for her room.

In the morning, she asks without fail, "What time did Peter leave this morning?" And I respond, without fail, "He left last night."

In this sense, Peter and I confuse her.


Well that's my portrait. Now you'll be ready to meet her.