Wednesday, June 11, 2014


Nothing is impossible, the word itself says 'I'm possible'!

-Audrey Hepburn

Possible. Everything is possible. I have had many destinies yet lived & dreams to put forth. Although I have many passions, photography, design, and writing are those that actually produce work. 

I wanted to put out a photo book so I did, in fact 2. I wanted to write ebook novels so I did, 8 or 9? I wanted to write a novel and did...

The novel has never been quite finished since I have been working on it. Lately with the new pieces written, I'm close to calling it completed.

From day one since I've been working on the book, the perspectives/TIA, everyone in my life has always supported and told me this was possible. Strangers included. 

I've only met an ounce of resistance,  from one man, and yep the shitty part of it, he's actually one of my hero's whose work I admire and support. He called my writing "trash" in a visually stimulating way... Maybe he didn't mean it? Funny thing... I hope he did. It means he has an opinion of his own. Why? I suppose we all need resistance from somewhere. I digressed.

For the most part this dream has been so possible and attainable from the beginning that I feel blessed. As most artists struggle for support. I am very lucky that when I discuss my dream with most people and share the book they are incredibly supportive. 

How are they supportive? Everyone I meet & share openly with usually have insisted on giving me help in some way. Which the extreme ranges from phone numbers of writing agents and business cards of book agents to setting up lunches with their publishing editor friends who they swear "will want to publish it after a read." 

I've got the destiny I want as a writer, yet I struggle to finish the novel. No clue why everyone in my life supports the book but maybe it's time to finish... And make it happen.

Here's a short excerpt... 

Alton is one of my favorite characters who has carried more of my own offensive quirks than the others. She's a borderline sociopath and appears in only the other posted excerpts... She has a portion of her own, but this, this is a small part of Alton and she is where the idea for Adrian began...

Do the people you meet support your dream?

Kisses, m.

Things that go without saying

Things that go without saying.
The mornings start out with a feeling of despair, a sense of remorse for last nights actions. Always the guilt remains. Perhaps over the party or the people, however it isn’t necessarily the case. Some of the parties happen to be fabulous and without a doubt the peak of it all. The fabulous people can’t help but fake it, that’s just what they do. I’m not like them, I’m just me. Not cheap enough to let them own me. Guilty for letting them try.

Even this morning when he wasn’t there. Who, is not important. Just that I’m here still. In his bed, wearing his shirt and reading his tiny notes that apologize by leaving breakfast. It’s in the kitchen. Don’t worry, stay as long as you like. I can’t help the weight that sits in my chest like an anchor pulling me down.

The panic attack hits at 6am during my shower. Heart races like it can’t catch up to the rest of my body as I continue to wash the night off of me. Wash that man right out of my hair along with the 12-hr party the smoke, the drinks, and Johnny C’s blood off of my elbow. Water can cleanse my body, but not my cold dark soul. And there’s nothing to be done about my Cavalli dress with a line of Johnny C’s blow smeared across the breasts and the countless cocktails that fabulous Reggie dropped across my lap while talking to the Countess Jessica Grant.

The darkest moments are after I’ve spent the night out with a man who doesn’t know me, doesn’t love me and doesn’t want to. A man who leaves breakfast before slinking out the door, back to his life, maybe his wife, maybe his girlfriend, back to his real.

Even more revealing is that these are the things, the very REAL things I keep to myself. The pieces of raw, vulnerable me the boys will never know or ask to know. The pieces that I choose to leave behind. The moment I cross the threshold into the party begins the transformation. Put on the best FAKE. Keep it clean. Lift your chin slightly to the right. Now act natural. Posing for the imaginary camera. The one that scrutinizes every little detail that’s wrong. One false move and you are considered bitter. Ungrateful. Tired. Get out of the way. Someone is waiting to take your place.

She can have it. Let her. Maybe I’m bitter. Or ungrateful. 

Knowing that when I return back to these quiet moments alone I can remove my smile, the insincere fraud, like it was a soiled dress. Then comes the dreading for the next time when perhaps I once again won’t have the strength to say no. My hand wipes away the steam coated mirror and leaves me staring at the stranger in the mirror. The haggard woman that drinks too much, talks too loud and moves about the party just because it’s what is expected. Coming face to face with the reflection that my life feels out of control and I want out. But I don’t know how.

My towel wrapped hair and I walk through his wardrobe. Vintage Louboutin heels in the three different colors. He didn’t always live alone. She left her Chanel boots from three seasons ago and faux leather wrap. These tiny remnants of a former ‘someone’ lay at rest among his suits and jackets, demolition denim and t-shirts, watches and shoes. He probably doesn’t know. This reveals more about him than he could ever say. She probably thought maybe I’ll come back someday. And he just didn’t notice.

At least I’ll have fresh clothes. That makes up for breakfast. Not impressive without the company. Why couldn’t he be out getting coffee?  I don’t like waking up alone. Yet I choose to. Notes are getting old now. Yet I accept them. At least he’s the same no one important leaving me notes and breakfast. Consistency is better than just anyone. It appeases the feelings of guilt. And the boots don’t hurt.

These boots, the clothes, the notes, the breakfast all come after the fabulous night. Mornings all alone filled with things that I’ll never say. Things that no one will ever ask to know. Things that they don’t care to know. They’ll never know the guilt, the contempt, or the disgust. What they’ll see is the ensemble, the smile and the best piece put forward.

This used to be the life… maybe I want a new one. This is something that I’ll never say.

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