tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17672563940702028322011-07-07T18:17:01.079-07:00An exploration of life, the universe and my screwed-up psycheNinth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.comBlogger291100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-36175827846334561972010-03-26T11:15:00.000-07:002010-03-26T11:18:14.030-07:00

I'll be reading some selections from this blog and a short story called "Going West" at the Barnes & Noble open mic night Wednesday, March 31 at 7 p.m. in Kennewick."Going West" is currently available in Issue One of the independent literary 'zine Font & Frock.

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-50353811146692269612010-02-03T22:07:00.001-08:002010-02-04T08:47:29.958-08:00

Tonight's self-imposed assignment was to write something incorporating the senses. I imagined taking a walk outside in the dark. I managed to use four of the five, but couldn't quite get taste in there. I think the prose is a bit overwrought, and I need to work on varying sentence structure and composition more.---The frogs are singing tonight. No one has told them it's winter.Their voices

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-72758642296253031352010-02-02T14:22:00.000-08:002010-02-02T14:24:36.344-08:00

This Year You Write Your NovelWalter MosleyThis was a fairly surface-level treatment of the writing process and elements of fiction, as it had to be by necessity considering the 25,000-word length. Yet there were some good nuggets of advice, the main being "Write every day and don't stop." Every writing how-to book will tell you that, but I liked hearing it from someone whose books I see on the

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-78130291068019873162010-02-02T13:46:00.000-08:002010-02-02T13:50:30.937-08:00

I sat down last night having set myself the task of writing for a minimum of 30 minutes even though I was exhausted. I intended to write a meditative description about how it felt to be exhausted, but my eyes rested on an old stain on the quilt covering the bed in my rented room and my imagination took off for roughly 250 words of fiction.Hmmm. Looking at this in the light of day it doesn't seem

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-34207007046757711182009-11-09T22:42:00.000-08:002009-11-09T23:01:01.801-08:00

I am once again attempting National Novel Writing Month. This is my fifth year participating. In that time, I've never crossed the 50,000-word finish line and seem unlikely to this month. I came down with a cold on Day 2 that's been difficult to shake and it's affected my productivity significantly. This virus also has eaten up a chunk of my vacation time, which is annoying.Regardless of the

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-46551788888664610622009-09-24T11:39:00.000-07:002009-09-24T11:42:50.781-07:00

I've neglected this blog for a little while now, but I just haven't had much to say lately. Work is increasingly strenuous and demands the lion's share of my time and mental energy. I'm also working on writing samples for graduate school applications, which consumes what little energy I have left after work, so not much blogging going on. Somehow despite the rigors of work, and the financial

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-14961012006280870342009-09-15T21:14:00.000-07:002009-09-15T21:16:30.197-07:00

"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."— Sylvia PlathAfter a brief hiatus, the blog is back.

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-36594124203105981272009-08-15T16:01:00.000-07:002009-08-15T16:02:03.662-07:00

About 90 minutes from now, I'm scheduled to zip off on an intergalactic adventure with a rag-tag group of spacefarers. Translation: It's game night.Game night has been a regular Saturday night fixture in my life for nearly a year, with lengthy breaks while I temporarily moved across state for a work assignment, and now for about the last six weeks as the other gamers had other commitments. I've

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-8362321630097498192009-08-02T19:06:00.001-07:002009-08-02T19:06:57.217-07:00

I'm back in Olympia, in a representation of the house where I lived last winter. It isn't really the house, and the images my brain is throwing at me at lightening-fast speed aren't really Olympia. They're just stand-ins.I'm in the house, renting from the same guy. In my dream he and his girlfriend live there. I'm taking care of a little girl who isn't his daughter. She's someone else's child,

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-41050888680187960332009-08-02T14:40:00.001-07:002009-08-02T16:10:07.868-07:00

Once upon a time, I was a young girl creature who went faithfully to Sunday school each week. I climbed on the bus wearing a pretty dress, the week's Bible verses dutifully memorized, and eagerly anticipated singing hymns and making macaroni crafts in the Sunday school class taught by my aunt. My parents didn't force me to go. I wanted to go because I liked Sunday school. I liked the Sunday

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-69685567258054058472009-06-27T10:39:00.001-07:002009-06-27T10:48:56.849-07:00

This is the song that has me dancing around my kitchen this morning.I'm almost always listening to music at home. I have mix CDs for housework, exercising, various writing projects. Life should have a soundtrack.Music isn't just about a good beat or a skilled guitar player for me. It's an emotional experience. I like music that makes me feel something or that paints pictures in my head.And it's

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-69556818865951282342009-06-20T10:20:00.001-07:002009-06-20T10:21:14.275-07:00

I'm dreaming that I'm imagining having a baby.I know the baby is imaginary, but I can see it, hold it, smell its comforting baby scent. Not it. Her. The baby is a girl, although I don't know her name. She is, however, my imaginary baby.I'm cradling the baby in my arms or bouncing her on my hip and it feels good, even though I tell the baby she should not be here. I do not want a baby. My

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-36625574736717623262009-06-19T10:39:00.000-07:002009-06-19T10:40:15.806-07:00

The dream is hazy, already receding from memory.I'm in a village. It's muddy, wooden, pre-industrial. A post-apocalyptic relic or people who have chosen to abandon modern society and create their own? It's unclear.I'm traveling with people — people from my workplace. I don't know how we got here. We're just here. We're outsiders. We don't belong.I find a library. It's clean, warm, bright. A man

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-16824220943731800252009-06-06T14:26:00.000-07:002009-06-06T14:47:55.202-07:00

Every year in late May and early June, the reporters at my newspaper are tasked with covering every high school and college graduation in our region. It amounts to dozens of ceremonies, hundreds of graduates and thousands of proud friends and family members each year. I just returned from my assigned graduation, quite possibly thankful for the first time to have reached my mid-30s.I often lament

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-1441712807883922412009-05-29T13:21:00.001-07:002009-05-29T13:31:27.872-07:00

I have a friend who often talks about a need -- palpable, physical -- to be hugged or touched. I haven't understood that, being someone generally uncomfortable with physical displays of affection, especially in public. I have to really trust someone before I'm comfortable allowing them into my personal space, and there aren't that many people I truly trust. In fact, I'd say I have a slightly more

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-54708445241489150942009-04-22T22:50:00.000-07:002009-04-22T22:52:28.623-07:00

These are poems I've been fiddling around with. They don't seem quite done, but I'm not sure what to do with them.Bury This HeartBury this heart six feet deepWhere nothing can penetrateNo light, no warmth, no love, no hurtSafe in a box in unending darkBury this heart at the bottom of the seaA cask of sunken treasureIts light, its warmth, its love, its hurtPrecious gifts forever hiddenBury this

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-11182764783255567032009-03-29T15:55:00.000-07:002009-03-29T15:56:02.877-07:00

Girl meets Boy.Girl doesn't notice much of Boy at first. He's wrapped in silence, invisible. She is wrapped in armor, impenetrable.But then Boy says something small, something unimportant, something unintentional, and Girl's heart sings.Girl is scared by the flutter in her heart when Boy looks her way. Girl has been broken before. Her torn heart is newly stitched.Girl fears Boy will break her

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-7835108694483891902009-03-29T15:30:00.001-07:002009-03-29T15:40:37.177-07:00

It gleamed on the table. Polished gunmetal gray like new. Like it isn't at least four decades old. Keys as bright white as the day they were made. Wizard Truetype. It speaks to me in its strange click-clack language, whispering of stories that will seep up into my fingers and out onto clean sheets of paper.I hover over it for a minute, testing the keys, considering the expense. There is another

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-9459771804653893852009-03-29T15:29:00.002-07:002009-03-29T15:37:14.902-07:00

"Do you love me?" I ask the cat.He only stares, enigmatic. He does not answer. Never answers.He lies on the floor, black tail thumping against polished wood. His expression is one of disdain, as if to say, Silly human with your questions.I do not believe he loves me. He loves only the metallic whir of the can opener.

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-63868426191050333122009-03-29T15:29:00.001-07:002009-03-29T15:29:15.715-07:00

So I'm walking through Wal-Mart this afternoon, sweating because the heat is turned up way too goddamned high and even though I've removed my coat and scarf, I'm sweating. There are too many people and none of them – not a single goddamned one – are paying attention to where they're going.My mission at the Wal-Mart is two-fold: I need supplies to get through the rest of my long weekend, and I've

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-22044655544148508812009-03-29T15:27:00.002-07:002009-03-29T15:28:24.476-07:00

I sit at the end of the bar, waiting for my turn to sing. A bottle of Guinness sweats on the wood surface in front of me. It's mostly for show, ordered out of some sense of duty to the dark-haired girl behind the bar who always remembers my name.A guy sits next to me. Clean cut. Blond. Nice looking. A little short. He orders a drink. I don't pay attention to what. He says something about the

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-92079031354549146722009-03-29T15:27:00.001-07:002009-03-29T15:27:33.669-07:00

A girl walks into a hockey game.No, this isn't the opening line of a joke. There's no priest, no rabbi, and no bartender, although she often feels there should be a punchline to her stories.She walks with hesitation. She's new to the town, new to the arena, new to this whole life she finds herself living. She doesn't know where her seat is, and she's late.She finds the entrance to the section

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-10876440982093275452009-03-29T15:26:00.001-07:002009-03-29T15:26:51.707-07:00

I can imagine the scene as though I was there.I can imagine my once-robust grandfather frail and jaundiced, the steady rhythms of a machine the only thing keeping him alive.I can imagine my grandmother, sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, crying.I can imagine him asking in a broken voice to be let go, it was time, he had made peace with God.I can imagine my mother, my aunts, my uncle,

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-38801235752439480572008-11-29T08:19:00.000-08:002008-11-29T08:20:54.972-08:00

Don't talk.Don't feel.Don't cry.Don't express.Push it down.Bottle it up.Let it eat you alive, but don't talk about it.Don't think you're important.Don't think anyone cares.Don't ask questions.Don't dredge up the past.Don't cause trouble.Don't talk back.Just don't.We love you.

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-42719033084125652012008-11-02T01:54:00.000-07:002008-11-02T06:13:15.158-08:00

It's Saturday night. I have two parties to attend and I'm wearing that rare kind of red dress that makes me feel sexy. An old colleague I've missed is in town. It's a good night. I meet up with work friends at the second party – a medieval murder mystery affair. That's what the red dress is for. I'm the saucy chambermaid. When the mystery is solved and the party is done, some of us decide to

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-85859705408725301212008-05-10T11:56:00.000-07:002008-05-10T12:17:03.263-07:00

Time is a slow physician.I never believed its healing powerUntil I tried to write an angry poemAnd found my anger had left me.I tried to dive to the depths of despair,but I landed in the shallows.And as I stood with firmly planted feet,a song rose up.A song of beauty and of joy.A song of strength and of peace.A strand of dulcet tones spiraling to the heavens.As my ears delighted, I wondered,What

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-8566479737069969992008-05-10T11:19:00.000-07:002008-08-06T11:34:06.240-07:00

I bought a book recently -- a dusty collection of the poems of W.H. Auden tucked away on a clearance used book rack -- simply because of the inscription.For Heather, Because poetry can heal the soul. Love, JasonI may never read the book itself, as I find I don't much care for Auden's brand of rhyming poetry. But it was worth the $2.99 I paid to have something I can carry to remind me that, yes,

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-79356808884892847972007-12-30T21:01:00.000-08:002007-12-31T11:02:20.005-08:00

Today is the kind of day to stay inside, curled up on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate and a blanket. It's December 9, the day after my 34th birthday, and snow is falling in the Tri-Cities. It's wet, sticking snow – the kind that's good for making snowmen, snow forts or snow angels. I looked outside a few minutes ago and there was a boy, probably about 10, with a snowball in his fist, arm

Ninth Wandererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00410038432225038543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767256394070202832.post-27629788935059702922007-11-12T15:19:00.000-08:002007-11-12T15:35:57.032-08:00

I've spent the last few weeks immersed in the world of Mileva Einstein Maric, the first wife of Albert Einstein. To be more specific, I've been reading Einstein's Daughter: The Search for Lieserl by Michele Zackheim. The book chronicles the author's efforts to solve the mystery of Mileva and Albert Einstein's daughter, born before their marriage and so considered illegitimate. The little girl

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