About me

Somebody that I Used to Know

/ Rachel / Leave a comment

About two years ago, I lost touch with someone very near and dear to myself: me. Up until that fateful day, I could be found toiling away in my house, creating new recipes, cooking things from scratch, and sewing by hand. I collected aprons, Depression glass, and old time radio shows. Then, I turned a corner. In some ways, it was fantastic. In others, though, it was detrimental.

See, two and a half years ago, I published my first fanfiction story. It was the first time that anyone had read my writing (outside of blogging) and the absolute first time that anyone had ever read any work of fiction by me. I did it because I loved to write, believed that I had a skill for it, and wanted to try it out. As it turned out, the community for which I wrote the stories was very receptive, loved my stories, and wanted more. Because I have an addictive personality, I threw myself into fic writing. Now, I have over 800,000 words of fic archived on fanfiction.net and when I look in the mirror, I don’t know who the hell I am anymore. Don’t get me wrong – sharing my fiction was wonderful because I realized that maybe I really did have a talent for turning words into stories that both captivated and touched the reader. Had I never published that first story, I’d still be wondering. The problem is that when you write fanfiction, you normally get involved in the fandom of the show/movie/book you’re writing fic for. And getting involved in the fandom is the problem, at least for me. (If you’ve never been involved in a fandom – let me explain it simply. “Fandom” is when you get really worked up about the most trivial and pointless of things regarding the show/movie/book that you love.) I have opinions on everything and everyone and I don’t like it. I don’t like the fact that I get irritated by people I’ve never spoken to, other than in a Tumblr ask box or on Twitter. I really don’t like the fact that I’ve literally become addicted to writing two characters. A novelist has to move on from her characters when it’s time to focus on the next story. I struggle with saying goodbye to this couple that I’ve spent so long writing, falling out of “love” with them in a way, and moving on. And the thing is, I want to move on. I have two gorgeous characters (okay, actually 8 total, but I’m only focusing on two) waiting in the wings and their story deserves to be told. And the best part of all of it is that they’re ALL mine! No Hollywood conglomerate owns these two characters; they are completely my creation. They are beautiful and flawed and they have a strong story to tell – I just have to tell it.

So all of that brings me back to my first thought – reconnecting with myself. I have to flush fandom and those characters that I don’t own out of my head. I have to get up from my desk, log off Twitter and Tumblr, and do the things I used to do. It’s only once I shut off those influences that I’ll be able to dim the voices that have lived in my head for so long and let two others begin to speak loud and clear. That might mean picking up my yo-yo quilt for the first time in two years, or focusing on that unfinished cross-stitch picture. I have to reconnect with the person I used to be in order to move forward. It feels like a bit of self-detox and it’s highly challenging, but it’s my reality and what I’m ready to tackle. This past weekend, my husband and I did a few things around the house that allowed me to feel like the old Rachel, the one not chained to her laptop. It was nice. I actually like that woman. I need to let her shine through more because she has a fantastic story to tell. She just needs a little push in the right direction.

“Now is the Hour” – a World War II-era short story

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Ben told Iris a lot of things over the years as they played in the street or went ice skating on the pond. And as much as she told Ben about her hopes and her dreams, there was one thing she always held back. She never told Ben, or anyone else for that matter, what her biggest secret was. It was the kind of thing that Mama had told her girls should never talk about, especially not to the boy himself. A boy should be the one to come calling on a girl, not the other way around. “The fact is,” Mama told Iris as she dropped warm dollops of butter over the mashed potatoes on Sunday afternoon, “that good girls never chase after boys. Your job is to look pretty and smile – if it’s meant to be, he’ll notice.”

He’s about to go off to war and she’s not sure when he’ll be back. All Iris has to do is get up the nerve to tell Ben how she feels before he leaves. After all, he was the one always encouraging her to go after what she wanted.

Full story located HERE

“Chance and Happenstance” – a World War II-era short story

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When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and catapulted America into the war, Ella was just past her seventeenth birthday. Up until that very moment when her quiet Sunday afternoon had been torn apart by the steady but frantic words that poured through the radio speakers, the war was just something she heard Pa talk about in passing. Life inside their small but neat brick home outside of the Indiana town of Greensburg was unaffected by the news on the front page of Pa’s paper or before Mama’s favorite dramatic radio show. Living in a house tucked against the woods and surrounded by farmland that was thousands of miles away from the action meant that it had very little impact on the Lansing family. On that Sunday when it all changed, though, they were sitting around the big table that filled the dining room to near-capacity, eating dessert, drinking coffee, and talking about Pastor George’s Sunday sermon. They paid no mind to the orchestral concert playing on the radio; it was just background noise. The signal was scratchy that day, clouds thick between there and where it originated in Indianapolis, but the moment those words, “We interrupt this broadcast…,” cut through the calm reverie of the music and blasted into the room, all conversation ceased. Mama, Pa, Ella, and her younger sister, Louise, all sat ramrod still as the news poured in. Ella covered her mouth in shock but even right then, she knew that she wanted to help.

She meets him in a field hospital in Belgium in 1944. The Battle of the Bulge rages nearby but in his eyes, she finds a small respite from it all. Once he returns to the line, though, will she ever see him again or was it all just chance?

Full story located HERE

Getting back in the saddle again

/ Rachel / 2 Comments

I’ve spent the last 3.5 weeks (since putting Kyle to sleep) in various emotional states, ranging from super depressed to almost numb.  For a while, I found a bit of respite in my old standby, writing fanfiction, but now I’m in the mood to pull away from that again. (There’s only so much fanfiction you can write when the show that inspired you to publish your works for others to see in the first place starts sucking and the characters turn into pod people!)  It seems that each time I start working on my novel, something happens to make me stop.  And by the time I’m ready to pick it up again, the story and the characters have changed in ways I hadn’t planned.  My notes and ideas for this novel are so fragmented and when I go to write and get frustrated, I end up back in fanfiction-land again because it’s easy and satisfying.  (And face it, we all can’t be EL James.  Not that I would ever claim 50 Shades of Grey as my own since it’s both horribly written and moronic.)

So anyway, there really isn’t a point to this post other than to say that I’m trying to move forward and get focused on writing again.  Something of substance, I mean, not fanfic.  *sigh*

A new emotion: grief

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I’m the first to admit that I’m a total stranger to grief.  At 33 years old, I still have both my parents as well as all four of my grandparents.  I’ve never even lost an aunt, uncle, or cousin.  As a result, the grief I’ve experienced this week, after having put down my beloved dog, Kyle, on Tuesday, has been nearly unbearable.  Today is the first day that I’ve felt even close to “normal” and even then, I’ll go from completely fine to sobbing in absolutely no time.  My chest and stomach ache most of the time, like I’m worrying a hole right through both of them.  I don’t feel well, I don’t know how to relax, and nothing seems to keep me occupied for longer than a few minutes.

I’m just… sad.  I miss my companion and friend.  I miss his bossy barking when he wanted outside or when he was hungry for a treat.  I miss the insistent way he’d bump his hand against my palm when he wanted petted.  I miss his inquisitive stare and his happy bounce.  And most glaring of all is that his presence is missing.  From where I’m sitting, I can see the wooden urn holding his ashes.  That’s all that’s left of him, except for my memories.

The house feels so empty without him.  Roxie, our younger dog, has spent her week getting her bearings now that she’s no longer submissive to the alpha dog.  She’s testing her limits and testing my patience.  There’s no back and forth banter barking now because she has no one to “talk” to.  All is quiet.  Well, all except my heart, that is.  It’s a rough, choppy mess that feels like it’s been sliced into a million little slivers.  Everyone tells me that I’ll feel whole again someday.  Right now, I would prefer to not feel anything at all because this grieving thing?  Pure hell.

Dear Kyle,

/ Rachel / Leave a comment

You’ve been gone for 32 hours. I’m sorry that you got so sick and that I couldn’t save you, but I hope you knew, up until the very end, that I loved you and that I always will.  I hope that, wherever you are now, you’ve got a big, squishy toy full of stuffing and a loud squeaker and that you’re just squeaking away, content, young again, happy, and finally free of pain.  I miss you so much already.  You took a chunk of my heart with you when you left.

The worst goodbye

/ Rachel / 6 Comments

13 years ago, I was a 20-year-old culinary school student trying to mend a heart shattered by my first love.  I did that (partly) by venturing into Feeders Supply in Louisville, KY and walking out with an 8-week-old ball of fur and puppy breath.  Kyle was a German Shepherd mix, adorable, and he immediately owned my heart.  For the next five years, we moved from one Midwestern town to another and then back again.  From apartment to apartment we went – just Kyle and I against the world.  Eventually, my broken heart healed and I went on to fall in love again.  Once I got married, Kyle and I welcomed my husband, Tim, into our family.  Tim and Kyle bonded and a few years later, we adopted another dog, Kyle’s “little sister”, Roxie.

Tonight, I sit here holding a vigil of sorts, with swollen, puffy eyes and a throbbing brain due to hours of crying. I have to say goodbye.  Kyle has gotten very sick in the last five weeks and test results confirmed today what I was afraid of: cancer.  Liver cancer, to be specific.  He’s now 13, his face has turned grey, and his eyes are clouded over. He’s in so much pain that he can’t get comfortable.  Every few seconds, I watch him move and shift, his body lurching and his breathing growing more ragged.  At 4pm tomorrow, we will take him to the vet and put him to sleep.  And even though I know it’s what he needs because he’s so sick, my heart has splintered into a million pieces.

Every event of my adult life has been experienced with Kyle by my side.  He was there to lick my tears away after bad dates and fights with friends and when life generally kicked me in the shins.  He was there to cuddle on cold days, offer a listening ear whenever I needed it, and never once judged me when I made stupid decisions and did really dumb things (often with him as a witness.)  We’ve had 13 great years as a team but I’m not ready to say goodbye.  I know I have to.  I know I need to.  I know he’s suffering and that he deserves to be set free from the pain.  I know that he’s given me 13 years of absolutely unconditional love and trust.  None of this, though, makes it any easier.  I hate playing God.  I hate knowing that, unless he goes naturally in his sleep tonight, I have to force him to leave this earth.  His eyes exhibit the pain he feels and yet he holds on.  Sometimes I think he holds on despite his misery,  just because he doesn’t want to leave me any more than I want him to go.

In the last two hours, I’ve watched him deteriorate further, to the point that I wonder if he’s going to make it until the vet appointment tomorrow.  At the same time, it feels like he’s letting me know that it’s okay, that my decision is the right one, and that he’s ready to go. I’m talking softly to him, telling him that I love him over and over again, petting him, and just letting him know that I’m near.  He’s loved me through everything – from being a lost 20-year-old girl to the 33-year-old woman I am – and now I have to love him through the very hardest part of all.  I just hope he feels how much I love him up until he takes his very last breath.

The photo album

/ Rachel / 3 Comments

For years now, I’ve wondered what happened to a particular little blue photo album that I once had.  It was filled with pictures that I took from sixth grade through ninth grade, which (in my memory) were my happiest years of school.  Pictures of school trips to Camp Livingston and to Chicago.  Pictures of my friends as we goofed off around school.  Pictures from our last family trip (ever) to St. Louis and Hannibal, Missouri.  That photo album was filled with such wonderful memories but I figured it was lost in the piles and stacks and stuffed closets of my parents’ messy house.

So imagine my surprise today when my mom hands me a box of stuff she found in my old bedroom closet that included that photo album.  As I opened it up and flipped through the pictures, I wasn’t filled with the warm recollection of childhood like I had anticipated after years of wishing that I could find that album.  Instead, I was hit with unexpected pain as memories came rushing back.  I saw picture after picture of the boy who led me on in high school but would never date me because I wasn’t good enough.  There were so many pictures of the girls who were my best friends through age 16 but then started to pull away because I was too odd, my interests didn’t mesh with theirs, and I didn’t have the money like they did to go to the mall and to the movies every weekend.  I saw pictures of a girl who started horrible rumors about me and made my high school life hell for a while.  I saw friends who walked away, the boy who always said no, and people who aren’t part of my life anymore and haven’t been for a very long time.

I’m envious of people who are still friends with the people they grew up with.  Part of this is my fault, I know.  I didn’t reach out and try to maintain those friendships after we graduated.  But by senior year, I felt so isolated, so different, that I didn’t think any of them would miss me.  None of them did.  Now I’m stuck with this photo album that I so desperately wanted to find, never thinking about what emotions it would evoke in me once it was in my hands again.

I know that those events were years ago and that I should just let all of it go.  My brain knows this.  The thing is, those were my formative years – the years that helped shaped me into who I am today.  And they aren’t good memories.  I know why I have no self-esteem, why I always expect to never matter as much to my friends as they do to me, and why there isn’t enough money in the world to bribe me to move back to my hometown.

I don’t know what to do with this album now.  I can’t throw it away, regardless of the way it makes me feel.  Perhaps I’ll just bury it in the back of my own closet for 20 years and then maybe, once 40 years have passed since those pictures were taken, I’ll finally be able to tune into the happy emotions I once associated with that time of my life.