Date: 2017-04-21 12:39
To make the most of oneself is not to forsake one’s identity as a woman or as a mother. It is not to become an art monster if the monster in question is nothing but a drunk asshole. But it is also not to bend entirely, to flap hinge open to your children and your husband and the underwear that may be nestled behind a door, and give up the terrible, wonderful, furtive dream that is the self. To come second entirely, to be only mother, maid, cook, wife, is also not to make the most of oneself. One must learn how and when not to bend.
“So Sylvia owned the house when she died, and now it belongs to the Foundation. They want to sell the house so they can get the money out of it. I’m moving next week into Stony Meadows.”
8775 I have something to tell you. 8776 She said each word with slow deliberation. Her voice wavered between strong and weak. 8775 I never told 8776 She closed her eyes. 8775 never told anyone before. Never needed to. 8776 She opened her eyes again. 8775 Need to now. Long before you were born, your mother and I joined a group of travelers. 8776 She stopped to rest.
She took a deep breath, as if telling the story exhausted her, then continued, 8775 A week later, they were running out of food and fuel for the fire. The Baker ventured out during a lull in the fury of the storm. He came back hours later, with branches, and a turkey that had frozen to death he was nearly frozen himself. He told them that he had seen an enormous black dog following him home, that wore strange clothing and walked on it 8767 s hind legs. 8776
8775 Honestly no, and this is a big fuck you to full time working parents out there. 8776
Only if they want to see it that way.
As her breathing grew ragged and her face ashen, I wept for them both the mother who raised me, and the one who lost me. I wondered how either of them had managed to live with this.
Intense and interesting Bilbo. I am looking forward to reading the continuation. I have to admit I got a little confused by some of the language on this, some of it was just the way words were ordered and as I got further I stopped having that problem. The biggest one for me was one of the ones Cosi mentioned. I was wonder why your MC threw his gun at the Chinaman, then I reread and was wondering when he got a Luger. It was just the his that made me think the MC was doing something with his own gun. Still, I think that is growing pains as you have mentioned trying to change up your style and go for shorter sentences. Any major change will cause some things like that, which we then have to work through. Great story and I definitely want the rest.
Or you may have to let go of your expectations about housework. Are you getting more satisfaction from picking up the underwear than from your writing? If not, you have choices: for example, have a clear conversation with your husband about what you’re now choosing to stop doing, what you’re asking him to start doing, what you’re willing to change, and what you’re willing to let go of. Then trust that he will do his part–but be willing to let consequences to unfold if he doesn’t. If he doesn’t pick up his underwear, leave it there. Let the towel mold, let him run out of underwear if necessary… just let go psychically and let it unfold as it will.
She pauses, her iridescent face peeking out from her half-cracked coffin of wrinkles. It curves around her body so that when she has it on, she’s indistinguishable from an aging human. Seeing her in such a demeaning costume makes me want to weep—my regal mother, reduced to having to pretend to be such a disgusting being. “Sorry, sweetie,” she says. “But you know how much I hate this thing. It makes me so claustrophobic.”