In case you haven't noticed, I'm really, really excited about my short story. And I'm completely over the moon and overwhelmed by all the love you all have been showing me surrounding it. So thank you to every single person that read it <3 I feel like I've been walking this fine line all week between promoting as I should promote my work and going overboard. (Forgive me if it's the latter.) I'm just really proud to have finished something at all, and sharing that something is a really important step as a writer. A step I'm ecstatic to be making.

So... I'm just gonna leave this here. The first few paragraphs of Glacier, here on the blog. Just in case, you have yet to read it. And who knows? Maybe you'll read on to what happens next :)

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My hand stung and I bent over, placing it tightly between my knees as if that would quell the sensation. I hadn’t thought I’d slapped him that hard. Surely, he was just overreacting, over acting the flop to draw the foul, Shaq-style. I leaned over the counter to access the damage. The first thing I saw was a rolling tall paper cup, its contents splattered across the tiled floor. I followed the trail to legs splayed as if they’d been swept, and then to his hands cupping the side of his face protectively. When he pulled his hand away, I could see the blood blooming beneath the skin of his cheek and then spreading to his ear and neck. Before I pulled myself away from the lip of the counter, I watched surprise chase embarrassment across his face. 

Even from behind the counter, I could see her clearly. The girl, who’d walked in with her arm looped loosely through his, was now cradling his head in her lap. Her perfectly coiffed blonde hair slipping from its pins and hanging across her face. Her mouth hanging open. It was a little dramatic, but I guess I could understand it. She probably had no idea what was going on. For all she knew, her —what was he? Her date? Her boyfriend? Oh God, her husband?— had simply ordered a double espresso when he was slapped by the barista. What she didn’t know was that she was the other woman. (Or maybe I was the other woman?) That for the past few months, he’d showed up daily during my breaks, shared his hopes and dreams with me over white linens and whispered wishes of whisking the girl he loves around the world. She didn’t know that he was a no good bastard that deserved to be face down on the floor. The sting in my hand was receding and so was the guilt.    

Except that’s not how it happened at all. 

I Wrote A Short Story!

Eep! I don't think I've ever been this nervous for a post to go live before. I've probably redrafted this post five times. But at the end of the day, nothing is going to be juussttt right, so we beat on :)

Cutting right to it - I wrote a short story! Last year, I began writing a novel and although I love it, it's a long process and I found it frustrating that I couldn't share my writing sooner. After reading My True Love Gave To Me, I was inspired to write holiday-themed short stories of my own, an idea that has evolved into simply writing and publishing short stories in general. The aim is to publish a few throughout the year.

This short story began as a ode to the holiday of love, but quickly morphed into something else. It's kind of a Valentine's Day story, but not. Kind of a funny story, but not quite that either. Truly, I'm horrible at synopsis writing and hopefully I'll improve by the time I publish a book (fingers and toes crossed!). I have no idea how to describe this short story without spoiling it. I hope you'll read it anyway :)

Big thank yous go out to everyone who supported this project and me during the craziness that was drafting, editing and not-scrapping this short story, a group of people that include my family, my friends that are family, and my boyfriend. But a very special thanks goes out to Mae - for believing in my words before having read a full sentence and for beta-ing all my sentences with enthusiasm and so much love :)

Annnddd apparently, nervous Kari writes impromptu acknowledgements? Well on that note, I hope you enjoy my short story. Please do like, comment, and share it here, on Wattpad, Twitter, Instagram - wherever your heart so desires because my heart desires for people to read (and hopefully love) it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Lost.

On Wednesdays, when our computer is still out of commission, we post fiction from the drafts files (although it's actually more of a paragraph of thought) and hope our readers don't judge us too harshly :) It hasn't be edited, and it also hasn't been looked at since it was jotted down in a haze of confusion on a post it sometime last fall. We hope to have the computer fixed by tomorrow, but in the spirit of consistency, we present a post dug from the archives of 2013. I'll stop using the enigmatic 'we' now, we think's it's creepy.
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It kinda felt like drowning. Like being held under water, but no one was holding you. You can see the surface, and the calm of the water after the crash of each wave beckons you, dares you even, to break through. Just beneath the surface of the water, you can feel the sunlight on your face if you tilt your chin towards it. It warms you as you float within the cool ocean waters. Even though you feel the warmth of possibility, even though you see the opportunity, even though no one is holding you back, you don't reach, you don't even try. You allow the depth of the ocean floor to pull you down deeper. You let the passing of each second become an opportunity lost. You see it happening, in fact, you watch it. You are powerless against it. Yet, who but you could ever have the power to remove the invisible weight you've placed upon yourself? No one's coming to rescue the girl who doesn't want to be saved.

Frustrations of Writing A Novel [Or Attempting To]

Like the total nerd that I am, I spent a significant amount of time last weekend buried in writing advice posts from some of my favorite authors and brainstorming about the WIP. I swear I really do go out and bask in the New York City awesome-ness more often than it seems! I know that a few of the people that read my blog are writers, but I'm also aware that many are not. So instead of allowing solitary frustrations to trickle into a post here or there thereby taking over said post (that's what twitter is for!), I've collected a few of them into one post, making it totally skippable for those who'd rather not read all this mumbo-jumbo. Although I'd be stoked if you all read it anyway because, you know, that's kind of what I'm here for :)

My characters are laaazzzy. Every time I sit down to write something about Lea, she's downing cups of tea and people-watching from the safety of her porch instead of, I don't know, living life! And then I'm all like "well, let's just throw Sebastian in there!" and he's all like "no, I'd rather chain smoke cigarillos and write angst-ridden songs on my electric guitar in my bedroom." Except he doesn't smoke, no matter how much I try convincing him it would totally fix his image (he's proving a little boring these days). Degenerates, these two. Get your lives together, please, so I can write them.

Being a perfectionist. Ever since I can remember, I been poppin my collar (if you don't know that reference, I'm gonna need you to look up Three 6 Mafia's 'Poppin My Collar', stat). But really, I've always been a perfectionist. I've even responded to the age-old comment "nobody's perfect" with a smart-assy "well, with that attitude, you won't be." Turns out that's a crap attribute to have when you're trying to write an entire novel. Because Rule #1 of writing a book is to plow ahead and never look back. Drafts aren't suppose to be perfect and looking back to fix things just slows down the process.

My world's falling apart. One moment it's all perfect and the next second it wants to go ape-shit. I've created a bipolar town that can't decide if it wants to be naughty or nice. And just when I think it's teetering on the edge of a choice it's all like "sike!". Have I mentioned that where said flip-flopping town falls on the spectrum completely dictates the tone of the novel? Meaning, I can't write a damn thing until it figures it out. And by it, I of course mean me.

Am I forcing it? A story needs movement, but everything I do seems so forced. I need to get from point A to point B but it's not flowing organically. My characters just aren't ready to go there despite my not-so-gentle coaxing with trails of cookie crumbs and promises of ice-cream on arrival. See complaint above, re: my characters are lazy.

Suspending reality. This is the companion to the world frustration above, because in order for this world to exist the reader needs to understand how such a world could in fact exist. Which means that I have to give the reader a reason to suspend the reality known to her and pludge head-first into mine. As of right now, I'm missing some unknown piece that would take me there. Like the causal link between what is and what could be. Because even if it's not 100% possible it has to be believable.

So goes the tune of my current frustrations. I can't even pretend - it makes me feel better to get it all out there (although I'm sure half of you probably think I'm cray cray by now). Any other writers out there having similar issues with a Work In Progress? Comment below so we can wallow in shared misery and, I don't know, maybe figure some -ish out :)


1.

Maybe Carl & I Are Just Sneaky, Unethical Bastards.

Because Time Warner is officially the worst ever, this post is over a week late. Apparently, water from the roof has leaked into my internet cord, making it water-logged. No big deal or anything; just seconds from electrocution is all.

So here's my (unusually short) writing prompt fiction I promised, which for the record was pretty much finished, right before I almost got shocked to death.
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I come to you from the depths of studying hell, a place a never thought I'd revisit ever again. But alas, due to my infamous procrastination, I have yet to pass the MPRE for the state of New York. What is the MPRE, you ask? For purposes of this blog, let's just call it "the pointless exam created by a rare bunch of morally prudent attorneys to convince the legal world they are remedying the inevitable ethical breaches young attorneys find themselves in, like having sex with clients and reporting other attorneys for snorting a line of cocaine". You see how calling it the MPRE is much simpler?

After 2 hours of practice questions in preparation for tomorrow's exam, there are two thoughts lingering in my head: (1) why am I so damn unethical?, and (2) I need a break. Unlike most people who'd take a break to watch a little reality tv or surf the pinterest boards, I aim to engage my brain further. As per my post on Monday/Tuesday, I'm responding to the writing prompt I quoted there.

*As always, basically no editing has been done.

The middle drawer would barely open. Sure, Carl was snooping around her desk while she was on a coffee run, but still. Who stuff scotch tape dispensers and a full-size stapler in the smallest drawer of a desk, he thought as he forced the drawer shut, crushing the pens Amy crammed in before she left. Reaching towards the drawers on the left side of the desk, he looked up as a co-worker addressed him. "Amy will be back any minute to help you with whatever you're looking for," she said, raising a speculative eyebrow before walking on. But she wouldn't give me what I'm looking for. No way in hell. Carl paused with his fingers poised on the top drawer handle, and then, convinced he only has time to check one place, tugged open the very last one.

There's a mass of patterned scarves on top and as he lifts them, two golden hoops fall back into the drawer. Amy walked in with the purple one tied loosely around her shoulders this morning, but by noon, Carl noticed she wasn't wearing it anymore. That's how it always was with Amy. She bounced cheerfully into work clad in multiple accessories but by the time she was fully engrossed in some article or editorial piece, said items were nowhere to be found. This must be where bangles and pashminas go to die. In a stack on the left, amidst a few mini-snickers and at least a dozen little wrappers, were newspaper clippings. Carl wasn't surprised to see a few of Amy's articles in the pile, including her first feature in the Post in 2011 and her column on the shortcomings of the city irrigation system which garnered statewide attention. But, he was surprised to find his opinion piece on the mayor's controversial education platform, upon which Amy scribbled 'exactly!' near the concluding paragraph. Carl recalled her reluctancy to join in with the office gossips as they bashed it, claiming she had very little interest in educational matters. Attached to a Bronxville paper article announcing the many successes of their very own Amy Everett was a letter from Amy's sister, with the last line circled: Never forget that daddy always knew this would happen; no doubt that's he's telling everyone up there :) Carl smiled sadly at the emphasis placed on 'up there' and put the stack back into the drawer.

Bunched towards the back of the drawer was another scarf and Carl was sure he'd find what he was looking for beneath it. The scarf was saturated in something, which might have alarmed him had he forgotten her perfume accident yesterday. Pinching it between two fingers, Carl lifted the lavender and vanilla scented fabric to his nose before tossing it aside.  As he reached back into the drawer, his hand grazed the wood backing of a picture frame. Two smiling faces, a couple, looked back at Carl from the 5x7 photograph. It reminded him of how Amy would smile at the photo when it was upright on top of her desk, right by a framed family picture. Carl put the picture back as he found it and began feeling around the bottom of the drawer. His fingers fumbled over a mini-rubric cube, which Amy fiddled with during editor meeting on Mondays whenever she was bored (which was most of the time). His eyes widened as his fingers closed around something round, but all he pulled from the drawer was a mangled hair tie. He held it in front of him, examining the strands of chocolate brown hair dangling from it, mesmerized by how the tips glistened golden in the sunlight. When he heard Amy's distant voice down the hallway, he shoved his hand back into the drawer and and frantically swung it along the bottom until he heard the crunch of a piece of paper. Kicking the drawer shut, he hopped up and away from her cubicle with a ball of paper clutched at his side. When Amy walked into the room, her chair was still swaying from side to side.  
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I really like the guidance that writing prompts provide and plan on doing them more frequently. If you'd like to join in or have done so already, please comment below with a link to your post or any general thoughts!

Have a great weekend!

Fourth Impressions

Eeeeeep! It's 10:30pm and I have yet to complete my Blogtember post for today. Today was such a long day that I am fighting sleep as a struggle to type this. And it surely doesn't help that my tummy hurts too. Ugh, now I'm ranting and complaining. But I am so indescribably excited about writing a fictional piece for today's post (even though it may not go up today). So for now, this serves as a placeholder, until I can find the strength to keep my eyes open :(.

UPDATE: Here we go!
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Write a very short fictional story that starts with the sentence: "To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century."

If only...
Photo Credit

To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century.  First impressions are everything and he had already given me a few do overs. It turns out that  I only had three chances to get it right and this was the third one.  There was that time with the wine glass which shattered at his feet as I shakily tried to place it on the bar, and the time I rose so abruptly from my seat that I flipped a bowl of tomato soup into the lap of his designer suit. Oh, and I wish I could forget how, after playfully suggesting hours before via text message that "third times a charm, huh?", he decided he'd had enough of me stomping on his toe with my stiletto and excused himself from the dance floor early. Shit, that's three. So I guess I only had four chances to get it right, but I didn't have much hope for it as my track record still had me at 0 and 3. The likelihood of success this time was some negative number that I couldn't be bothered to calculate, but I knew I had to impress him. It was "do or die." I'm being dramatic. But it was definitely "do or never see him again." I mean, how many times can you ruin a man's clothes and mildly injure him before he decides to avoid you at all costs? 

I roughly tugged a tissue over my mouth. Red lips were too sexy, and maybe even read too desperate at this point. I was going for "I'm not a total screw up, please like me," not "I haven't thought of anyone else since the day you skipped me in the Trader Joe's line, please sleep with me." Although the latter was true and I surely couldn't say I'd mind it. It was technically the fourth date after all. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror and reluctantly chose a baby doll pink lipstick. If I was destined to be embarrassed, at least I could be attractively so. 

As I pinned back my side-swept bangs, I hoped the fact that tonight was a dinner party, and not just a dinner date, would help to steady me. All eyes, his eyes, would not be on me. This night wasn't about me awkwardly, and uncharacteristically, fumbling for words to respond to the obligatory first date compliment. Madison would be there with her new photographer boyfriend that she met at Paris Fashion Week. We would all have to listen yet again to the "fantastic" story of how they met, which I didn't mind under these circumstances. The less time I had to cause some sort of unnatural disaster, the better. And although he'd be seated across from me, Jordan would surely sit next to me and poke fun at Madison's half-hearted attempt at playing hostess. At the least, I'd get a good laugh and a good meal out of tonight.  

Pulling my apartment door closed behind me and walking through the lobby, I convinced myself that it was possible to walk out of Maialino's tonight with my dignity.  I expected to peak out into the crisp air of an Indian summer evening, but instead, I watched rain drops pour from the sky. Looking down at my strappy sandals, I clicked my heels together three times. No such luck. I huffed loudly as I dragged myself back to my apartment to change. Why did Madison have to know everyone? And why did she just have to invite him?