As a writer, I’m not perfect, of course, when it comes to grammar, but I certainly do try to put my best foot forward in anything I share with the public. Whether it’s a simple post on Facebook or a short comment to a friend on social media, nothing is too small to care about for me. Does that mean I don’t have typos I’ve missed? Or that my phone doesn’t like to go rogue on me and change words or make up words with my intended words?  (The cheeky thing!). I think you know the answer to that!

No one is perfect, and I certainly don’t expect people to be, but (yup I just negated everything that came before this, which I’ve written about before) I think some people don’t know basic grammar rules. And this worries me. Why? Because these are writers. When a writer asks me to share their books in my newsletter or a post on social media for them, and it’s riddled with typos, I find myself questioning what is going on with expectations of writing today. (My goodness, I just sounded like an old lady! Ha!) As a teacher by day, I expect these problems. It’s partially my job to help rectify those things. But when writers are putting out typo-infested work, in their blurbs for instance, does it make me question what I might find inside their books? Hell, yes it does! Should it? Am I being too picky? Ridiculously pompous even? I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Like any “job,” and make no mistake, when you share your writing with the public, it is, indeed, that, I think it’s our obligation to do it well. No one gets accolades for doing a shitty job.

My concern is not for the esoteric rules or rules that are archaic and no longer make sense (we don’t read or write or speak in Latin, folks!), but things just seem to have been forgotten or are being ignored completely. Are these things important? Is grammar just in a state of flux and ever-changing? Are some things just silly rules that should be ignored? Is grammar becoming a thing of elitism?

Take a very simple rule about titles. What is capitalized? And what isn’t? In the Heat of the Night. Notice what is capitalized and what is not. Why is this rule important? So what if I capitalized everything in that title? In The Heat Of The Night, for instance. But it’s WRONG, I scream inside my head! Fix that! How can a writer putting out work not KNOW that?

And then I give pause. Who really cares about such minutia? Who even came up with these rules?? Will the story be any less enticing if a word is or isn’t capitalized? Are grammar rules simply becoming a thing of the past? Or are these basic rules being tossed aside a reflection of bigger problems in society? Is grammar simply a microcosm of what is happening in the world? In the United States more specifically? And what is that? A loss of manners? A loss of attention to detail? A sense of entitlement or laziness? A society that doesn’t want to work at things but wants to cheat and cut corners? A society that encourages mediocrity? A society too concerned about appeasing people rather than being honest? Or is grammar simply snobbery, a measuring stick that tries to say: I’m better than you, because I understand when to use whom and when to use who?
​
I’m not sure the answers as I write this. I always try to remember what my 5th grade teacher once said: Grammar is important, because the intended message will be lost. If the grammar is good enough as to not "ineffectuate" the meaning, you’re good. So then, if I capitalize an article or a conjunction in a title that shouldn’t be, does it at all hurt the meaning? Maybe my concern about such a thing says more about me than anything else. Chill out, Rose. And live and let live. You know, there was once a time that starting a sentence with a conjunction was frowned upon. Pfttt. We all know that is rubbish now! So who gets elected to be the grammar police? And, further, shouldn’t I have just capitalized that? 😊

There is a trend and debate right now about paying college athletes. The arguments are long and make sense—these college athletes are raking in the dough for their universities, and not seeing a dime they, and others, think they are “earning.” Many of the colleges have caved and decided it’s a good idea. After all, these players are working so hard around the clock to practice and play their games, they don’t have time to hold jobs. Without them, many argue, the institutions wouldn’t be making the money they are, so shouldn’t the players see some of it? Some colleges are saying yes. What say you?

The real issue lies in how much emphasis we put on sports in my opinion. And money. If that is what we, as a society, value, sports and money, it seems we’re lost. These athletes get free rides to education, including housing and food. Is that not enough? They say no, because they don’t have time to work, and their “fame” and popularity is what is driving the revenue.

But what about everyone else? What about the music or art or writing or dance student with no financial aid, who works minimum wage, and leaves in debt, because sports isn’t their thing? Many of the "arts" programs have very little in the way of scholarships. You don’t think their auditions and practices and performances are grueling outside of the classroom too? Okay. Maybe they’re not gonna literally “break a leg”  like an "athlete" might, but—yeah—sports isn’t so great on the body--or the head--for that matter. And if it's about the injury or the grueling hours that allow for no job outside that, then there are a helluva lot more students that should be getting paid. Dancers or actors or performers who get accepted into these BFA programs work their asses off too. And a dancer just might, indeed, break a leg. Not a sport, you say? Then you're clearly not a dancer.

Today I ponder gender identity. And what it means for the future. If you haven’t noticed, the world is changing, and hopefully, becoming more aware and accepting and tolerant. I work in a liberal environment, and in an establishment that recognizes this. It’s as natural as breathing where I live and function. But I realize it’s not so in other parts of our beloved country. And to me, that is tragic.

But I’m not asking about whether you believe in the changes. What I wonder is how the changing world is going to handle this in writing and in speaking. Having taught now for 7 years, I see the trends from when I first started teaching to now. As English teachers around the country used to cringe when pronouns didn’t match in number (one is he or she not they), in writing or public speaking, we’ve started to loosen our grip on those “rules.” While we’ve certainly learned a long time ago that “man” and “he” no longer apply to men AND women, it started to become cumbersome to ALWAYS have to write “he” or “she” or say “he” or “she.” We finally agreed—Okay. Okay. Use “they” if you must but change it to people or persons to match! And that can work…but it’s not. Trust me.

“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.” ~ Socrates

Do you agree with this quote? Is this true for everyone? Is it human nature to never truly be satisfied? I wonder…are we always looking for…more?

In one of my classes the other day, a student bragged that she can get all her music at such and such a place for $5, that she needn’t buy the music, that the entire album could be gotten for this cost. She bragged of the money she was saving, and I asked her: “But what of the artist who created it? Shouldn’t they be compensated for the amount of work they put into it? For their art?” And she looked at me like I was crazy. “Who cares,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
​
Ironically, in another conversation I overheard, a physics teacher discussed jobs vs. careers with one of his students, saying that many of the “great” scientists had “jobs” to pay the bills but did things in the arts, the things they loved, on the side to be fulfilled and happy.

Are, then, the arts and so forth, something that should be given away for free? Would we all be better off with “jobs,” contributing to society in a well-oiled kinda of way, the arts and music and writing be left to everyone to share with one another more freely? Would we all be happier this way?

There’s been a bit of…hmmmm…I’m not really sure what to call it. Nastiness? Drama? Controversy? Whatever you call it, I’m not being a part of it. Perhaps you’re wondering what I’m talking about? And I took a long time today deciding whether or not I should write about it. Am I just adding fire to the flames by writing my whole response this way? I don’t think so. I have every right to voice my opinion. And I believe there needs to be more support in the indie community rather than in-fighting. I'm tired of it.

Let me say this: If you’re an author/writer/poet, and you think putting down other authors publicly is fun, or you think you’re one hundred times better than other writers, or you can’t have a conversation or healthy debate about writing but turn to name-calling or worse, have others do it for you, I’m out. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to raise and lift others, write, share my work, and celebrate the written word with readers and fellow authors. If I don’t like another author’s writing, that’s that. I don’t read it. Or support it much or at all. (If it is abuse or something nefarious, that is different. I’m not talking about that.)

And if you enjoy being involved with authors who do that as a reader or as their fan club, and if I see you being a part of that or a leader of it, jumping on a bandwagon to verbally assault other authors, I’m out of there too.

No one likes dishonesty or being fed a crockpot of lies. No one. But in this indie community, if readers can’t figure that out for themselves, it’s not my job to take care of it. That shit takes care of itself. Watching authors act like petulant and jealous competitors is not my jam. I like to stick with those who support others vying for a chance. I like the underdogs. I love the indie community and the authors I’ve met along the way with the same mentality. I have too much going on in my flesh and blood life to worry about people typing anonymously behind a screen, suddenly so brave, who believe it’s okay to attack and ridicule others. If we can’t have a conversation like adults, if you’re here to make waves to sell books, good luck drowning. I won’t be there to lend a preserver. I’ll be long gone by then.
 
Peace.
 ​

Do you ever feel like you don't exist? Like you don't matter? It hurts, doesn't it? 

Today, I share my thoughts from a few recent trips I took and an event that happened. As I traipsed the city of Minneapolis a few weeks ago, going out to different parts, exploring as I often do, the scooter my best friend, I realized how the United States has failed and continues to fail on the issue of homelessness. Some cities seem to hide it better than others, painting a false perception with a simple police baton, or some, like Portland, go in the opposite direction, even embracing it as a separate subculture. It's no secret we have a serious issue here, so I won't bore you on what we already know. That we need change. That we need more social programs. That we need governments who make it a priority. That we NEED. But in NYC a couple weeks ago, the problem was even more prominent. And I still wake up some nights with that sinking feeling that we must to do better.

But this woman wasn't being ignored. Instead, people cared. They cared, not about her, but about her cat. That was the sticking point. I heard murmurs: 'OMG. That poor cat.' And yup, stupid me, I started to cry. Maybe I was exhausted. Maybe I was hormonal. But the point is, no one cared about her. She wasn't important. But her cat? Her cat was important.

And the hardest part of all this reflection is that while food and hunger and shelter and all that is vital, it's the emotional part that keeps us living. I know. I have a dog that wasn't supposed to live through a week and with love and care, is going on 14! And I also know first-hand what being ignored feels like. It's awful. It kills self esteem. It can make us have moments of the darkness of feelings, of self-loathing. Imagine that feeling every day? Now imagine that feeling times 50 or 100 or 1000. Imagine being ignored by EVERYONE. Every. Single. Day. 

Yes, America. We MUST to do better. ​

Have you ever tried to shut down for just 24 hours? No technology whatsoever? No phone. No internet. Just quietude? Or what about just Social Media? Staying away from Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and the myriad other places you might frequent. How did it make you feel? I want to try to go at least one day without checking into my accounts, just one day of not going onto Messenger. Just one day of not checking book sales.

As I sat down to write this, and opened my computer, the screen saver was a universe of blue and purple and teal and bright and light stars. Beautiful really. Like a Van Gogh painting of space. But the longer I sat behind my laptop, the more I saw myself blending into it. The longer I stared, the more I could see myself in its reflection, just a shadow, and the stars became blurred and universe, so pretty when I opened it, faded into the background as I became more prominent in the picture. It was the exact reverse of when I first opened my computer and stared at the screensaver image, full of color and wonder, now it was just me, faceless, a black outline. Sounds like a bad acid trip, doesn’t it? But I’m afraid, it’s who we’re all becoming, extensions of technology.

I’m becoming 
the screen, 
the glare 
all I see--
mesmerizing 
addictive 
vapid--
a black hole
of light,
swirling 
with impermanent 
nothingness. 

I fade 
Into the background 
of its rectangle. 
Everything blurs.
Everything’s lukewarm. 
Everything’s grey.

I’m bored to tears, 
the plop
of them,
hard 
and heavy,
echoing 
in my ears 
of sleep 
and wake,
my thumb,
my brain, 
the click click
tap tap
of another
digital number
turning its red face. 

And I 
am a constant 
blue.

​R.B. O'Brien Author

I've had a few strange things happen to me lately, regarding my health. And of course, WedMD and the like don't help with hysteria. After some blood tests, I'm perfectly fine. Chalk it up to some sleepless nights and stress, and our bodies and mind are quite in tune with one another. Sometimes, we need to put ourselves first. And while many people have no problem doing that, many of us do not. 

I'm not sure exactly what molds a person that way. I think mine comes from my childhood, something I've written about before, so forgive me if I sound like a broken recording. Growing up with a brother whose intelligence was way beyond mine, perhaps I overcompensated in other areas. That my accolades often came from "doing" rather than "being." The good daughter. The good dancer. The good student. It took me a very long time to get to a place where I understood myself. I'm still on that journey. Perhaps I will go to the grave that way.  Maybe it's not about childhood at all, but just how we're born, wired. Maybe my work ethic, the way I like to stretch my body till it hurts, work until I see blurry lines in front of my face, stay up way past reasonable hours thinking and perfecting and sighing when I feel I'm not there, is just who I am. Maybe a little pain lets me know I'm alive. 

I have always been creative, artsy, one might say. From fashion to dance to writing, my mind seems to see the world in images and art. It’s an odd thing, or at least I used to think so. What can you do for a career with that though? Being "artsy" isn't practical. I’d often hear. So when a certificate course of study was offered for high school students to finish with college credit in Interior Design, I jumped at the chance.

Of course, nothing is as easy as picking out pictures and furniture or paint colors and style, and so it’s one of those things that never fully took hold. When I dated an older man from a bit of a wealthy background, I found myself dabbling for people, first for free, and then for small fees. I think he just wanted me to have a “career,” but I was only just in college then, finding myself, discovering who I was, making sense of my urges, and growing into the person and career I wanted.

What I discovered is there wasn’t much that was creative about it. In fact, it stifled creativity. It wasn’t MY creativity. It was THEIR creativity. I’m sure that brings people much joy, to exact a plan to specifications, perfectly to someone’s expectations, to watch their joy about the completion and fruition of a vision. It can be. Do not get me wrong. But more often than not, it was just frustrating. My taste and style may not be someone else’s, and frankly, it didn’t matter. If someone wanted things I found repulsive, I followed through. After all, that was the job. And more and more, people would say they wanted a particular style or time period, but really what they wanted was a page out of Pottery Barn over and over. This wasn't about me feeling satisfied with art or beauty or creation; it was about basically doing what I was told. And I don't like doing what I'm told (unless maybe in the bedroom. :) But I digress!)

This concept is no different when it comes to writing, especially poetry. A creative person needs to create. Not for pay. Not for someone else. But only for herself. There are people who write for others. Some prompts make me feel that way. Write about THIS. But I don’t want to write about THAT if it doesn’t inspire me or touch me or reach me. It’s artificial to me. Instead, I want to write about the sky or the weather or love or my dreams or my thoughts or my fears or my fantasies or my relationships or my experiences or my self-discovery or my stream-of-conscious rants; in short, I want to write about whatever I want  to write about or feeling at that moment. It’s a burning urge that is almost impossible to extinguish. I have stopped trying.

I create because I can’t do anything else. It comes out of me. It spills forth, whether I share it with someone or not. I write so much, so much of it I’m afraid to share, the darker moments of my psyche for instance, but I have yet to fall prey to writing for what I think an audience wants. Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps that is precisely what I’m doing wrong. But for now, I see the interior design of my mind, and I try to convey it with words. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don’t. But I never have to paint it orange when I want to paint it black. ​ And perhaps that's not practical. But perhaps practical is overrated. 

In my profession, I hear this a lot: “Everyone needs a bachelor’s degree. The bachelor’s degree is the new associate's degree. Most companies/professions don’t even care what the degree is, as long is there is a degree, that someone finished a program, can show they have work ethic and drive and some common set of skills."

I’m not sure if this is true. Ironically, college enrollment is down everywhere where I live (myriad theories on that, including that most families are smaller than they used to be), and there are always those who find great success without finishing a bachelor’s degree, my brother being one, a computer guru who makes a helluva lot more than me.

And I’m seeing a lot of the younger generation, not all that removed from me to be honest, coming up with all kinds of entrepreneurial things. But can they be successful? Truly? Are they really setting themselves up for failure? Or do MANY people do just fine without a degree? 

A lot of the jobs that people used to do without a degree seem to be morphing now as society changes. While some of the past are still present--factory jobs for instance, some pretty damn traditionally good paying ones--are being lost completely, plastics as an example or outsourcing as we know it. But plumbers and electricians aren’t going anyway; police officers and firemen too; and it’s interesting to see other things cropping up: uber drivers and others like them, grocery deliverers that didn’t exist, all kinds of food trucks, youtubers, online start-ups that never existed, writers (😊 ), poets, musicians, artists, and the list continues. 
​

​It’s that time of year. Giving and receiving. Returning and repurchasing. Finding time to get together with family and friends. Spreading good cheer and love…And STRESS!

This week, I’m pondering the phrase, “Merry Christmas,” which as we all know has caused a lot of controversy in schools, in our everyday interactions, and Starbucks coffee cups! Oh, the horror.

~Robert Frost

We talk of New Year resolutions this time of year, something we use for fresh starts, new outlooks, and perhaps ways to organize our lives, reflect on what is working and what isn’t. No life is perfect, and sometimes it can feel as if it’s spinning out of control. The start of a new year gives us hope. Hope to right the rails, hope to plod through the storm, hope that we will take our lives back. I’m fortunate that I get a long vacation this time of year after the madness peaks and explodes. I am never a rash person. And I never make decisions under duress. Ever. When things settle, so do I, and I think. And this year will be a particularly pensive one, especially when it comes to writing.

This year I will rethink my journey. I’ve traveled near and far all at the same time. I’ve written my dark fantasies far removed from my world and I’ve written my autobiographical truths into them. I’ve written sweet romance in distant tales and turbulent ones that mirrored my own past. I’ve taken leaps I never thought I would into new writing territory, some long, some short, and I’ve stayed in the same place with dear friends and goals, honing my skills to be better. And I’ve bled my soul into verse, reaching new depths, publishing a collection, and continually doing so every day, challenging myself to grow, steady on the course.

​We live in an age that contradicts itself. Do you notice that? Recycle but not plastic bags. Open your mind but not when it disagrees with my politics. Don't pirate my work but, here, it's all free. And buy books, but save trees. It's a polarizing time to live, and it's also a confusing time. And what is happening to the poet in all of this? Is there any such thing anymore? Has the internet killed the poet? Does anyone BUY poetry? Or are they just cruising the internet, reading what snippets come their way?

This discussion has been on my mind lately. and I asked if people still bought poetry books. Do you? Or are poetry books a bit of a thing of the past, that the internet is littered with poetry if you want it, so why buy a damn thing?

I buy books. Oh do I buy books. Not like the ones I write much, but nonetheless, I'm constantly reading before I fall asleep at night. Many of my newer books are on my kindle now, yes, because of the environment, but also for its convenience. I used to be against the kindle, until, of course, I actually owned one and could take and read as many books as I wanted at once. But poetry books are the one thing, besides my own, I do not have on my kindle. I own Dickinson and Shakespeare and Cummings and Plath and Whitman and...and...and...all in paperback or hardcover. I read them over and over. Paper books, somehow, are just perfect to plop down in a chair with by the fire to read. One poem or two at a sitting, sipping wine or drinking tea, god, I want to be doing it right now!

Today I ask about vaping, the ever-growing trend that has risen over the last few years to a ridiculously high rate. What say you on this issue?

We glamorize or romanticize photography where people smoke. Guys covered in tats smoking on bikes, chicks scantily clad on their backs, puffing out beautiful white images against black backgrounds. The old pictures of movie stars, using cigarettes as props. Sexy. Alluring. The old movies themselves. The artistry smoke makes in a darkly-lit world of cinematography. But that’s art, right? More fantasy. Not real. Not happening in front of us, our lungs, and our environment. Maybe we can argue that.

Today I ponder Thanksgiving. How many of you celebrate? Or something similar? And do you love it? Or do you loathe it, the holiday of American gluttony? I know many of my American friends love it: Football, feasting, family, and all that jazz. But for me, it’s hard to pinpoint when I started to hate it so much, this obligatory holiday, where we celebrate things we really shouldn’t be (I won’t go all politically correct on you, but you have seen Peter Pan, right?), and where most have come to celebrate it as just a simple time to be with family and friends and pause and breathe and reflect on the gratefulness of our cornucopias aplenty.

I think I can pinpoint it a few things. One was the realization of what a turkey is. Interesting, the birds are still called what they are whereas beef and pork are not. I get it, you can’t lie down and snuggle with a pecking chicken, but you sure can with a baby calf, and even the most enthusiastic meat-eater agrees. There’s something unethical about that eating that with which you can love so tenderly. Still, friends of mine who own farms now will tell you that you can, in fact, hang and enjoy the company of our feathered-friends, even the ones  you choose to eat. Either way, it’s a very difficult time in most children’s lives when they learn the truth.  Most can get over it, having been raised to enjoy its flavor and not having to do the deed him or herself. I just couldn’t seem to.

So I think I’ve pinpointed it to being an adult. There is something "unmagical" about Thanksgiving for me. It screams time-honored tradition of stereotypical roles, where the women cook and the men watch football, and where the main chef doesn’t rest, rising at 4:00 am to stuff and cook a bird so everyone can gorge and complain later about how full they are, and where she must clean up the mess everyone has made afterwards, barely having a moment to eat herself, all her hard work, cold and dry, by the turn of the setting sun as everyone leaves ‘grateful’ to be full.

And really, it reminds me of my mother. My poor mother, the cook, the forever-traditionalist who refused paper plates or plastic, slaving for the happiness of everyone else around her. And then I begin to miss her and lament at all the times I stayed at my high school football game with friends, procrastinating, not grateful at all for what she was doing, but complaining with my friends, and doing things I shouldn’t have been doing. Then comes the guilt, at not only that, but at the fact of how much I had to be grateful for in her when she was alive. And then I just get sad…because I miss her. And though I respected her greatly, I didn’t appreciate a lot of things she did. Sigh…
​
I cooked Thanksgiving dinner once. After that, I refused. I won’t do it again. If someone else doesn’t host it, my brother and some family and close friends go out to a restaurant, come back somewhere to play games, and to have desserts only. But we don’t need a made-up holiday to do it. Or to say what we’re thankful for. Or to drive or fly on the busiest, most inane holiday there is. And so, we don’t. Often. And I? I--am thankful for that. And I wonder if someday, I realize how much I wish I had the people I love surrounding me on the Thanksgiving I once loathed. ​

​​How do you feel about bumper stickers? Are they something you own personally? Do you cover your car in them? Have one or a few? If not, do you like reading them? Is there a limit? Are too many too many already?

As I was driving this morning, I was running a little late, and of course, there was a car driving on the highway at a ridiculously slow speed, causing all kinds of insane driver responses of weaving and honking and waggling fingers and, I'm sure, huffing of choice obscenities through clenched teeth, trying, desperately, to go from Point A to Point B without getting into accidents. I was slightly furious: "The left lane is for passing! Move over!" I screamed in my head. At long last, the slow driver put on her blinker and slowly moved to the right lane, and we all got ready to finally pass, making it to our destination a whole minute sooner! 

As I got closer behind the car, I noticed a bumper sticker and around it, smaller, a few others, all related to the same topic, and when I went to pass and make eye contact, the driver was smiling, apparently oblivious, singing whatever was coming from her little Subaru, and for the briefest of moments, I smiled too, and shook my head at myself. Why was I in such a hurry? And I wondered why the driver was so calm and so happy amidst all the aggravated energy. ​ 

It got me thinking about those bumper stickers on her car. I liked them. And that, too, made me smile. "How can I be mad at someone with the same political views and humor as me?" I thought and forgave her on the spot.

But it made me think further: Was there any correlation between her attitude and her bumper stickers? Who puts bumper stickers on their car? ​Do people with bumper stickers plastered on their car actually worry less? Could it be that people who don't take themselves too seriously also put bumper stickers on their car? It's a strange theory and doubt it will hold up if I were to research it, but it did make me wonder: Is it the the carefree, the angry, the passionate, the crazy, or the every man who puts bumper stickers on his/her cars? 

I grew up in a family very anti-bumper stickers. It causes fights. It ruins a piece of property we should take pride in. It will hurt the resale. And more times than not, it's political, and with road rage at an all-time high, do we really want to be espousing our political and religious views driving in a congested city, full of angry, late, and impatient people? Would my smile have turned to something a bit more sinister had the bumper sticker said something that infuriated me or disparaged causes I care about? There is one, in particular, that really bothers me. Living in a primarily liberal state, I imagine it pisses off a few people. So do bumper stickers made sense? Is anyone going to change their minds about ANYTHING from a bumper sticker?

The government makes lots of laws about driving. Mandatory seatbelts. Speed limits on highways. What we can and can not do while in our own cars (some of which make a helluva lot a sense). Should bumper stickers be put in that category? Are they too distracting, or worse, provokers of anger and road rage? It's their job, isn't it? To get a rise out of someone? A laugh. A clap. A honk of approval. Something to ponder. Think on. Read a few times. And of course, to incite action and in some cases, provoke anger. And to read them takes our attention away from the road, doesn't it? Or are bumper stickers simply an extension, as anything else is, of our personalities just as a t-shirt we wear or sign we put up in our yard or a button on the bag we carry?

​I'm all for free expression, but should bumper stickers be relegated to places where safety and accidents and poor driving won't be compromised? I'm not sure of the answer...but I do know this. Today, I was grateful for one, because it taught me to remember that all the things I needed to get to would still be there when I arrived; and in fact, they are now over. Every moment is that way...so take your time. 

Are people moving too fast? Is no one having a real conversation anymore as a result? Is there any way to turn back? Or are you happy this way? Is this fast-paced world causing more and more disorders of anxiety and panic attacks and even agoraphobia?

In one of my classes the other day, a student lamented that she was “docked” at work for not getting the customer’s order to him in a timely 60-second fashion and that if it continued to happen, down would the ax come, clean and swift. After all, the customer shouldn’t have to wait. It’s “fast” food for a reason. And heaven forbid, we can’t stuff our faces or slurp our drinks the moment we order them the way we can find out every ingredient that went into that drink within a 10-second swipe of our fingers across our phones. Weather today? One second. Top celebrity break up? Two seconds. Country with the lowest population? Maybe you’ll have to wait three whole seconds for your answer, but it certainly isn’t close to sixty. Slow Wi-Fi? Call in the National Guard! It’s a crisis!

I thought about that today getting my coffee through the drive-thru and how recently I’ve been stressed out about finding my credit card or cash fast enough, wondering if the 18-year-old under the gun to get my order out in the fastest time possible, not bothering to make eye contact with me, would actually drop it onto my lap, thinking I’m holding it already when I’m not, and me making excuses to her (Oh, forgive me, I just need to find my credit card), because I can’t seem to get my act together fast enough! Worse, even, I begin to panic that the car behind me will start to honk its horn, forcing my credit card to sprout wings, fly into the air and onto the car’s floor, where I feel around to, desperately, find it in time all the while looking in my rear view mirror to make sure no one behind me is uttering obscenities at how slow I’m being! (And breathe.) It’s absurd. I, myself, will pull over to make sure I have everything ready to go, lest I be penalized for taking more than the allotted minute and hold up the line.
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Clearly, I’m not just discussing fast food. I’m discussing that we are now a society of fast food. We want it. We want it now. We don’t want to wait. We don’t want to take our time to enjoy things or learn. And we hardly want to think. We want our news in 280 characters of fewer, our poetry to fit on Instagram squares, and our god-damned purchases the next day damn it. Amazon is kicking everyone to the curb. I hear it everywhere. Well, Amazon can get it to me in two days. Why would I wait for the same thing elsewhere? Yup. Why wait when you don’t have to?

Has a favorite place of yours ever closed? Has it ever felt like much more than that? Almost like a turning point in your life? The way, maybe your parents or grandparents always talked about? "Things just aren't the way you used to be... " I hear "the end of a an era" in my head...so cliche...and yet--it's how I feel.

​I’m sitting in one of my favorite cafes where I often go to grade papers or write. The food is healthy and varied, and I dig the Jazz playing right now, 1920s Great Gatsby stuff, that will soon shift into Frank, the click of the CD changer almost audible. It’s hard not to snap my fingers, but I tap my feet conspiratorily instead.

The local art on the wall above my head is so expensive and you’d almost want to blow your money on it if it weren’t so damn ugly! But the sun is so warm through the huge ceiling to floor ceilings that everything seems beautiful.

I love this place. I’ve been coming here for years. The owner himself works behind the counter. You’ve got to be in the mood, because if you want to be left alone, it’s not happening until the hugs are doled out and the ‘how-have-you beens’ are answered to satisfaction and you finally find a perfect spot to yourself and wonder why you’ve gone so long between visits. I think I’ll continue to stay here a while, even if the couple next to me hasn't learned to find their ‘inside voices.’

I chose to write here today, because I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to. Word is: It’s closing—can’t compete. I didn’t have the heart to ask. I hear a couple people whispering, but I’m not sure if it’s grumblings or rumors. I hear: “I think they’re getting their liquor license,” perhaps as a wishful hope that something will keep it open. I’m not quite sure how I will get through fall, it’s been my place for so long to come after school.

But as I look around to a pretty packed room, sipping a smoothie and savoring each bite of my hummus platter, I see the laptops and phones filled with noses while cups are empty. I want to say—buy another coffee! Grab a snack! And it dons on me why such a bustling place, alive with all walks of life and topics, mostly politics (it’s hard not to eavesdrop), may not last. People come in to de-socialize, sink into virtual reality, and shut off to turn on. And a cup of Joe under $5 isn’t going to sustain a place like this. Neither is this pumpkin latte I was just given "on the house" with a wave of the hand that tells me the discussion is over. . “You’re too nice,” I say. And it hurts to know how true that truly is. Maybe nice guys do finish last. But I’d choose the nice guy every damn time.

Today I ask: Would you rather be with your best friend and have adequate sex for a lifetime or be with a passionate lover filled with angst and torment but incredible sex? You can’t have both! Of course we’d all say we want both, that we’d choose our best friend and exquisite lover, but how many of us actually can find that? How many of you have? Is that an allusion fed to us? Is it really possible to have the lover of our dreams AND our best friend? What if we find it but only after we’ve already made a commitment to someone else? How many of us settle, picking the easier life, the life that keeps us from possibly being alone?

Why? Why do we do this? Are we that afraid we can’t “have it all” and so follow like sheep and do what society expects of us? Is it really the best we think we can get? It makes wonder if that is why so many couples cheat on one another.  Sit here and say how wrong it is all you want, but it is as common as breathing. And we all know it. Just look around.
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And so this leads me to my real question of the day and my #ThursdayThoughts. Are open relationships something we should all be striving for? Is that possible? I have mixed feelings on this issue and I realize as I ponder this how very selfish it is. I think about myself. And I think about how truly spectacular it could be to have the liberty to have the best of both worlds, openly. No lying. No cheating. No deceit. No hurt feelings. Just an open understanding that monogamy is a bit far-fetched perhaps. That we find our needs fulfilled by different people at different times, much like friendships. Some days I need a break from say, my childhood best friend, and need to be with my best friend from work, who understands me now, not the Rosemary of middle school or high school. And other times, I want to revisit an ex-boyfriend, now friend, because he may understand things about me without me having to spell everything out, because he was a part of making me who I am.

I wonder if this is a topic that can be discussed AFTER the commitment or if it would destroy it if the other person isn’t on board. What is wrong with me? Aren’t I enough? What is missing? And so on…I think someone who has a need for BDSM elements who chooses a vanilla partner might struggle with this…and chooses, chooses to decide on that first question I posed—best friend or best lover. But would an open relationship keep the trust in loyalty intact? Is it healthier? Or would it destroy it?

​Today I ponder happiness. Is true happiness attainable? If I were to ask you this very moment, “Are you happy?” What would be your answer?

Sometimes I wonder if happiness exists, wholly or truly. Many will say that in order to feel happiness, we must feel the pain of its opposite. That THAT is one of life’s great paradoxes. The myriad colors of emotion. I hear that sort of reasoning often. But I can honestly say that I know feelings without their opposites, love without hate, for instance. And so, that theory doesn’t often hold up, even though it’s comforting and makes perfect sense to me. Is it just a way we keep ourselves from going rogue or crazy or off the deep end? That we must always come up with plausible explanations for things that often can’t be explained.

I can’t think of a time I’ve ever “hated.” I’m being quite sincere here. Maybe it is because our parents always told us NEVER to use that word: “Rosemary. You may dislike something but you never say you hate.” Sound familiar?
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I’m starting to think there is no lasting happiness, that maybe from a young age, we've been sold a bill of goods, and maybe that’s the thing. Maybe nothing lasts but we have glimpses of it. Does it mean I’m unhappy? Or is it just another word. Sad. Disappointed. Unfulfilled.  Bored. And are they only moments, like every moment is? No moment lasts, and therefore, no feeling lasts? Like this one, right now, already gone with each stroke of my keyboard. Poof. Like childhood, gone. 

​Today I have many questions and they all relate in some way (sure they do) to the same topic: Cheating in fiction. First, how do you feel about your main heroine cheating? Not on the hero (or in this case, anti-hero), but cheating on a former boyfriend, the minor character, sort of by chance, a man she really is not fulfilled or happy with? Further, and this is more of the question, must she fess up to it? Tell him? If someone cheated on you in real life, would you want to know if you were already broken up? What would it do for you to know except hurt you? Is “the truth” the most important thing? Or are the feelings of another? I hope you’ll indulge me to read the whole, blasted post.😊

As I edit EDGE of TORMENT (which often means rewriting certain sections as I read back), I come back to a topic that seems to disturb people. Cheating. But I’ve asked you that before. So it doesn’t end there. The novel has elements of cheating in it, but it’s more a tale of self-discovery, a woman staying in a safe relationship, because she thinks it’s what she must do, that she is obligated to do…that is until she meets someone who opens her up to a world of sexuality she’s sort of been waiting for her whole life…she just never knew it. It took him to unlock her deepest desires. And she follows her "bliss."

The issue isn’t that she should follow her heart, her bliss, and pursue happiness (at least I hope it isn’t. I would vehemently disagree with you there), it’s that she acts before she’s left the other man, albeit a bit spontaneously. And some readers get downright upset and angry with me for that. I thought of changing that…that perhaps she could be broken up with the former first. But the whole story line would change. And I rather like it as is, all angsty and imperfect. What say you? Should I rework a bit of the sequence? Or should I say: Fuck it. These are the realities of relationships, life, choices, and sexual discovery. I sort of made my mind to just leave things where they are. Annabelle is not perfect. None of the characters are. Why should they be? But…

Today I ponder plastic surgery and social media filters. What say you on these topics?

In news this week, there have been many reports about something the media is calling: Snapchat Dysmorphia. (Don’t you just love when they come up with these catchphrases everyone latches onto?)  CBS reported: “Plastic surgeons are sounding the alarm on a disturbing trend that's emerged with the growing popularity of social media: patients seeking cosmetic surgery to resemble how they see themselves in Snapchat filters,” which has “people requesting fuller lips, bigger eyes, or a thinner nose in order to look like the filtered or photo-edited versions of themselves.”

I have longed worried about this. Not the plastic surgery idea. I never in my wildest imagination thought that it would lead to plastic surgery increases to this extent, but I have worried about the foolish filters and annoying filter of Snapchat. (Sorry to those who love them. That is your call.) I remember when Snapchat first got popular, and I said to my hairdresser: “I don’t get it? What is the difference between that and other forms of social media formats?” And she responded: “You can make yourself look so much prettier and cuter. Look I’ll show you. Everyone looks good in these filters!”

​Today I ponder what we eat.

How many among us are moving towards a vegetarian or vegan lifestyle? Why is that? Why do many of us still eat meat? Is it simply because it tastes good? Is it a way to get the most nutrients and proteins as easily and quickly as possible? Do we HAVE to eat meat because of our diet restrictions as some of my friends tell me? Where do you fall into this spectrum? And why?

My thoughts stem from a conversation that started with a “friend” of mine who used the word “fat” to describe someone at an environmentally-conscious-eating-healthy-and-organically event for lack of clearer description. When he used it, the whole table hushed. It was as if the word fat was a swear word, that to use it was offensive, insensitive. I remember as a child my mom saying once when watching a dance recital video back of mine that she couldn’t attend: “Who’s the fat one?” She didn’t care how graceful or perfected her form was…ballet dancers aren’t supposed to look like THAT. I’m not sure our perceptions have changed all that much.

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This friend (really friend of a friend) said it matter-of-factly, and people, after the hush, started to berate him as being judgmental, that he was being discriminatory against a group of people. He quickly rose to defend himself. He argued that being fat was a sign of unhealth. That it was a choice one makes. That “his taxes” were paying for "their" ailments. As the discussion got more heated (it’s a wonder, really, we all stayed seated at the table), we got onto other topics, topics of poverty and how our country makes it a luxury to be healthy. The impoverished communities having to rely on fast-food and cheap eats, and the rise of inner-city co-ops, which are a great idea, but which aren’t sustaining themselves, sadly. (at least not near me). That organic food is damn expensive. That eating healthy costs bucks. That THAT is the issue… The discussion progressed, morphed, spiraled, and it really made me think.

This event I went to was all about gardening co-ops, healthy lifestyles, vegetarian eating and the alkaline charts, and living naturally with and on this Earth...and I heard a child ask: “But Mom, aren’t we killing plants too? Then what will we eat?” I stopped dead in my tracks as I often think about that too. The flowers in my vase, the many living things we kill for our aesthetics. But I thought on it and wondered how the mother might have answered.

Do you think money-making is the new morality? Or am I naïve to think that this is something new, that in fact, it has always been this way? Are humans, by our very nature, good or bad intrinsically? Do we need to fight our urges constantly? I have no idea the answers to these questions. I like to think I’m good, not perfect, far from, but ‘good.’ That my conscience tells me right from wrong. But I ask again: Is that simply naïve? Is there no such thing but only what we’ve learned from birth onward? Our environment and upbringing shaping us? Or is it a combo of genes and environment?

I’m an indie author by choice, but lately, I’ve been rethinking this. Lately, I’m disgusted. And lately, I think I’ve had enough. Let me tell you something. If you think supporting cheaters and liars and piss-poor writers is a good thing, I neither need or want your friendship. But perhaps you don’t know what you’re doing, so I give you the benefit of the doubt and, at this point,  feel it a duty to tell you.