9 Original Fantasy Writing Prompts!
/Here are some writing prompts for May. Most are fantasy. All are original. Hope these work to spark the magic of inspiration!
Enjoy!
If you’d like to see more original writing prompts from Free Flying Press, click here.
Memes and More Memes!
/Hey y’all,
As I said in an earlier post, I got to making lots of memes to promote my existence here in this world and in cyber space. I think Cole and I came up with some pretty awesome images, and thought it would be cool to share some of our collection in the blog.
These memes are original in the pairings of images with words. Many of the quotes are from those who are wiser and more experienced than I - not to mention famous. Unless the author is unknown, I always credit brilliance where it is due. And of course, I didn't take the pictures. But many are quotes from my work, and in one meme, my perspective.
These are some favorites of mine as well as those pinned often on Pinterest. I don’t know how all of this will shake out, but for the sake of passing on some good advice, I recommend Canva as a great place to design memes for free. My second choice is Quotes Cover, which is where I got started. I was pretty limited with how I could design the image and where I could put words on Quotes Cover. I think Canva makes a cleaner, more pristine image, so I use it all the time now. But I had to figure it out and have somebody show me a little of how to work that site. Both sites are free to work with, which is always a bonus. That said, I hope y’all enjoy the images and feel free to share them on your own social media – especially those that have Free Flying Press on them. ;)
So there y'all have it. There are many more. I hope y'all enjoyed viewing these as much as we did making them! It's a lovely creative pursuit to make some memes!
Peace,
Montgomery
6 New Original Fiction Writing Prompts!
/They just keep on coming, these writing prompts! Get them while they’re fresh and while the floodgates are open. I may have a dry spell that lasts months after this! Then again, maybe not.
These could inspire suspense, coming of age, romance, fantasy - because after all, isn’t everything fantasy?
If you’d like to check out earlier prompts that are strictly fantasy, click here.
My Sweet Home Away From Home - On the Road # 32, Part 1
/It is absolutely excruciating to read this particular letter of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in January 2006. I had just come to Santa Cruz due to Lili, the Rock Lady, who I had met on the ferry. I ended up staying in Santa Cruz for 6 months, and it was one helluva ride.
This is one instance where I let my romantic side interfere with my common sense and my intuition.
Before making a decision on where to live, I stayed a night in the main house where Janna and Fred lived. I woke up in the middle of the night with this oppressive feeling of some dark and heavy bearing down on me. I could hardly breathe and it scared the shit out of me.
That was all I needed to know. But I moved in anyway…
Big mistake. Huge. I did end up in a good place, but it was a crazy ride to get there.
Hey y'all,
I really meant to live in Santa Cruz, close to the beach.
I’d seen a place with deer running through the yard and the roommates - Meg and Christopher - were about my age and in a similar phase in life. They were very cool.
There was lots of light, and I liked the old farmhouse feel of the place - even if the landlord was an alcoholic, lived on the property, and sat in his oversize pick-up with his elbow jutting out aggressively, drinking cans of Bud and glowering at the house.
To make matters worse, he had relatives wringing their hands in anticipation of his death so they could get their hands on his money.
“He (the landlord) has been mad at me ever since I turned down his marriage proposal,” said Meg, as she showed me around. “Maybe he’ll fall in love with you, and I’ll be off the hook.”
Given that he was eighty-plus and had stalker tendencies, I sure hoped not.
I really liked Christopher and Meg, and had pretty much decided I’d love to live with them.
But I went ahead and came to see this place that was fifteen miles into the Santa Cruz mountains because I had an appointment.
And I keep my appointments.
“When you see James Dean on the left, take a right on Alameda…” said Janna over the phone.
I hadn’t met her yet, so my first impression was from her voice.
If caramel had a voice, it would be Janna's.
Her accent, breathiness, and tone of voice pronunciation bring to mind a flow of smooth, thick liquid sugar.
Oddly enough, her girl's girl voice is easy to listen to and she has many fascinating stories.
In her late fifties with three grown sons out of the house, she is not in my phase in life.
After driving through the Redwoods on Highway 9, I saw the mural of James Dean on the side of the Brookdale Lodge - which is supposed to be haunted - on the left and made an immediate right on Alameda…
I really meant to live where the action was, but I could not resist this place...
As I write this, I’m sitting here on a mini-stage built within a half-circle of redwoods.
I smell smoke coming from the stove, burning wood from the main house. The house was built in 1907 from virgin redwood, crammed with antiques, photos, artwork, and knick knacks.
Out back is a pool built during the 1920’s, I suspect.
On the north/northwest side of the pool is the cabana with bathroom and laundry room.
On the west side is the studio where Erin lives and behind that is the “secret garden.”
On the south-central side is the main house, behind it the cathedral-stage of redwoods, and behind that…is my space.
I live in a tiny house on the north/northeast side of the property, but I get the most sun. (This was before tiny houses were a thing.)
It’s uphill from the creek, and groove on the constant trickle of water - it's like those meditation tapes that people play when they need to chill.
On one side of my place is the chicken and rabbit coop.
The rooster is lazy about cockling in the morning, and all the chickens are in cages except for Cadbury, the breeder mama bunny.
She got out and still runs free, much to the chagrin of Erin Rose and Janna.
There is a light breeze blowing, the wind chimes are gently tinkling a harmony.
I also hear the chirps, peeps, and cackles of birds as beams of golden glow are streaking through the woods to light up this place nestled in the woods.
“We took out all the Douglas firs when we first moved in,” said Janna. “And the redwoods just shot up from there.”
“This place is very magical,” said Travis, Janna’s eldest son.
He wasn’t exaggerating; I feel like I’m living inside a fairy tale.
Welcome to my home away from home.
I live in the “playhouse” of this property, but I call it the hobbit house.
It’s the size of a shoebox, not even big enough for a double bed, but it gives me autonomy.
There is a huge window Janna recycled from an old schoolhouse on the south side of the building and when I walk out the door, one of the first things I see is that cathedral of redwoods kitty corner from my slice of personal space.
I have to go to the main house to go to the bathroom and use the kitchen, but I have the run of the property with my rent.
“This place was like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Janna said. when she described the forgotten cabin that had been empty for years at the time she and Fred bought it.
The people who live here could also be characters out of a novel.
“We’re an eccentric family,” Janna said.
First, allow me to introduce Erin Rose, the caretaker/adoptee who posted the ad.
Photographer, recluse, keeper of Cooper, the ugly cat, and would-be catcher of Cadbury, the runaway rabbit, Erin Rose made his new home here a few years ago when Christian, Janna's second son, told him his mom could use some help.
He has since become a part of the family and Janna’s best friend.
Sometimes it's difficult to tell who takes care of who, or what.
“People actually got offended when I said Chief likes white animals a little too much…(Yum!) in the ad,” he said.
He’d also described chickens, roosters, numerous rabbits (including Cadbury, the breeder), along with Chief, a big white dog, and Cooper, his road-scrapping tomcat.
To be continued…Remember Cooper, the road-scrapping tomcat.
Peace,
Montgomery
Didjeridu Magic - Now There is Something to Write About!
/It was love at first sight. Or first sound, really. The first time I heard the primal drone of a didjeridu, I was at Esalen in Big Sur. The Wednesday night jam was a weekly event amongst the tubs where the spa was enclosed.
The sacrifice in the view of the cliffs over the Pacific Ocean were more than compensated for with incredible acoustics.
Somehow a didjeridu, a saxophone, and a trumpet made an effective and peculiar trio. But it was the didjeridu that did it for me. The mysterious tones of the didjeridu played into the amplifier of a clawfoot tub soared through the chamber, and I was hooked.
That was before the didj player did his rounds for a sound healing up our chakras. I had never experienced music that could be felt, physically felt as the musician played it around me.
Then I was really hooked.
Every time a didjeridu was played, I got excited.
The best New Year’s Eve I ever had, a didj was played as we approached midnight. Even though the headlining band was playing on the top floor, I knew I was in the right place to call in the New Year.
I especially love to dance to the didj. That tone brings out something buried deep in me. I move in a more thorough, embodied way that gets to all my parts. It’s catharsis in its purest form.
Beloved is one of the more beloved music festivals around Oregon, focusing on sacred music and higher consciousness. It’s lush and decadent, and very Arabian Nights with its exotic trappings. I went one year and had tickets to go to the next.
Then I heard about InDidjInUs a few years ago.
I couldn’t believe there was a gathering centered around the didjeridu. The thought of 4 days of non-stop didjeridu music made my mouth water.
The website and Facebook page was so vague, yet so specific, I wondered if it was only for didjeridu players, not didjeridu listeners or didjeridu dancers.
It also seemed that there was some kind of struggle going on about the values of this gathering. One man made very clear that they were not about a typical “festival” party atmosphere, and they’d appreciate it if the festival partiers would go to Beloved instead.
Beloved was on the same weekend.
I asked on the Facebook page if dancing listeners were able to come, or if this was only for didjeridu musicians. Ycats (Stacy spelled backwards) answered that a dancing audience was most welcome.
I didn’t hesitate. I gave away my tickets to Beloved and went to InDidjInus. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.
That first InDidjInUs, I went to sleep and woke up to the vibrating drones of didj being played somewhere near. My energy field shifted during that time, and my time there was a profound experience in healing.
I knew I loved didjeridu in music. I had no idea how diverse didjeridu could be when it came to making music.
But one of the most surprising benefits to making such a sudden switch was the genuine sense of community that InDidjInUs provided.
A lot of festivals focus on “community” and “tribe” and “getting woke” and whatever else you can think of that sounds transcendent and cool.
But this group really embodies the essence of community - with the good and the bad, especially when it comes to figuring out conflicts and the fallout that entails. Most of these people I only see once a year in the community that gathers for InDidjInUs.
I just finished my 5th InDidjInUs, and this year was the best one yet. Again, I was in need of healing. Having space when I needed it, and community when I needed connection was crucial, and then there were the various jams going on as well as the stage performances.
Anyway, I included some short clips of the amazing and gorgeous music I enjoyed this past weekend.
And if that’s not something worth writing about, I don’t know what is.
3 Ways to Love Yourself AND Get Past Writer's Block!
/I started writing for Medium a couple of days ago because:
1) I can get paid and I like getting paid and,
2) I have the freedom to write about anything and everything I want, and… still get paid. Which I like. A lot.
I can’t do that on this blog because everything I’ve read about blogging recommends getting specific in my topics.
Besides it’s evolved to cover writing prompts, novel excerpts, and resurfacing my On the Road journal sent to my friends when I was on my DIY booktour/roadtrip.
In other words, this blog is all things Indie Author oriented, and that can be very limiting.
Then it occurred to me that the article I wrote this morning could be useful to writers for writer’s block.
The article was originally titled: 3 Ways to Self-Love After a Breakup – Or for any other reason you feel like dog s***.
Since love and creativity draw from the same well, it made sense to include it here.
Besides writers have relationships and go through breakups, and one of the unfortunate side effects of that is…writer’s block.
So here is that list of some of my favorite self-love, self-care, feel-goodies that have been very effective at getting me out of my funk…and out of writer’s block.
By the way, these tips work for everything – not just breakups and writer’s block.
1. DANCE
I mean dance your butt off for at least 1 hour. This to me is the most powerful of everything I recommend.
Dance, besides being really good for your body, releases those endorphins that make you feel all is right in the world.
The more your cut loose, the more you shake it, the more likely you’ll get to bliss. And you want to get to bliss when you feel like dog s***.
The easiest is to dance in your living room or any other space where you can let go to your favorite playlist of beloved dance songs. And if you don’t have one, make one. Make several.
**My personal recommendations to include in your dance playlist songs that are dominated by percussion/drumming and/or didgeridoo. There is something cathartic about dancing to those instruments that is truly transformative.
If you live in an urban area or artsy town that has an Ecstatic Dance – also called 5 Rhythms or Soul Motion – I strongly recommend you start going on the regular. Ecstatic dance sets, if done right, are created to move energy and generate emotional release.
Another option is if there is a lot of live music – go out and dance in a crowd. I’m not quick to recommend dance nightclubs because the darkness and the vibe often make me feel alienated and alone in a crowd.
On the other hand, I’ve had some great dance offs in nightclubs. I guess it depends on what your jam is. If that works for you, go for it.
But you may have to wait until happier and healthier times to do that.
In these days of the Coronavirus, it’s best to stick to outdoor dance parties or your living room.
2. Hiking or Walking
What this really comes down to is get outside and move your body.
Ideally, you live someplace close to lots of beauty of forests, streams, and waterfalls. If you can, get out in that beautiful nature and allow it to heal your heart and so
If you can’t, find the prettiest neighborhood in your town with lots of trees and flowers and bushes and plants and walk around.
Hikes naturally take longer; but if you’re neighborhood walking, go for at least 45 minutes.
Do not stroll, walk briskly with long strides and swinging arms and breathe deeply through your nose to take in all the scents.
3. Shaking
Now, it’s time to get a little freaky because this practice makes you look crazy to the casual observer.
That said, it’s worth it.
To deliberately shake your body is amazing therapy.
Everything we experience is stored in our bodies - everything from the beautiful to the ugly.
But the ugly adds up. By literally shaking every part of your body, you’re shaking it OUT OF YOU.
It works even better if you speak gibberish afterwards – sounds that make no sense and form no coherent words for a minute or two.
This is the part that makes you look insane. But it works.
This was a crucial practice after my breakup.
I went through a period of feeling numb and disconnected.
I became acutely aware of this when I went to a Tantra Festival where everybody else was in a warm, touchy-feely, happy space and I wasn’t.
Things shifted after one workshop, when the facilitator started the dance practice with a several minutes of shaking followed by gibberish.
That one practice alone made me feel alive again.
Below is a video that shows a basic shaking practice that isn’t too mortifying (although the narrator does a little gibberish towards the end).
Go ahead and cut more loose and find other Youtube videos for some ideas. Be sure to put “shaking practice” in your search.
So now you have a few of my secrets.
Now that you’ve physically processed your “stuff,” put your butt to the chair and start writing!
The Camel Who Passed Through the Eye of the Needle - On the Road #31
/This particular letter from my email journal of the DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005/2006 has nothing to do with that trip. Right after I had landed in Santa Cruz, my godfather, Bill Demetree, passed away. He was a very pivotal figure in my life, so much that I was compelled to write about him to my community in Juneau, Alaska who had never known him. Same thing with Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in the fall of 2005, I felt like a piece of my soul had broken off. Anybody who cares to read about that, click HERE.
Other than that, enjoy this ode to one of the great humans of my life, who inspired me to always remember the high road in the decisions I make in my life.
Hey y'all,
I remember a few years ago, in that first year after 9/11, when many were paralyzed by fear of travel and becoming the tragic victim of a terrorist attack. Of course, the press did their part in to keep it that way, and a friend of my mother's came straight out and said it.
"I'm tired of being scared."
"Don't be afraid of life," said Mr. Bill Demetree in his usual, soft-spoken way.
Isn't it funny how the truly wise man gives himself such a quiet presentation?
The world lost a great man today.
It seems like on my epic booktour/roadtrip, even death is a part of the journey...
I've been struggling to find the right way to describe Mr. Demetree. He was one of those old family friends - only by lack of blood are not a member of the family - who are so close.
He was extremely supportive and loyal to my mother during some of the worst times of her life – the divorce from my father, the years she took care of Mimi (my grandmother) after her stroke, and of course, these last ten years after my mother's aneurysm.
Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were always there.
Mr. Demetree prayed every day for Mom during the weeks she had been in a coma for weeks. We didn't know if she would live, die, or suffer some awful purgatory between life and death.
Mr. and Mrs. Demetree were there with us regularly, at the hospital. My memories of that time are unclear, but I’m pretty sure he kept vigil with us on the day of her surgery.
In these times when there are many who speak of doing the right thing, Mr. Demetree was the man who actually did.
Deeply religious in his Catholic faith, and with an integrity not even the devil himself could question, we felt confident that the spiritual connections of Mr. Demetree would carry some weight.
He was in business with my father and grandfather, and later my brother. Oddly enough, I think it was through business that Mr. Demetree came into our lives. Yet beyond business, he was also a friend.
Anybody who knows the men in my family would agree that they made strange bedfellows to be sure.
But one thing that struck me about Mr. Demetree was the balance he managed between standing up for his beliefs, speaking out for doing what's right, alongside an attitude of non-judgment for those who listened to his advice, yet did not take it. He maintained his relationships with those who chose to live differently than he.
The roles he played - business partner, friend, and even counselor, he was a man who led through action not word, always setting the highest example of dignity, honor, and integrity.
There's a saying that they don't make them like that, anymore...and frankly why the hell not?
Those of us who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Demetree...let those seeds planted by his example grow in our minds, hearts, and souls.
Let us become better people for the experience of having known a such a splendid human being.
"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to get into heaven."
Said by: Jesus Christ, Source: The Bible. I don't know which book or verse, but I remember that adage clearly from memories of Catholic School.
Personally, I always thought that was harsh. But if there is a rich man who will, that man is Mr. Demetree.
It has been many years since I've considered myself a Catholic, but I have never considered Mr. Demetree to be anyone other than my Godfather.
He will be missed.
Montgomery
PS. And yes, I'll be there for the funeral.
Narcissus Must Die. Long Live Narcissus
/Narcissus must die.
Long Live Narcissus.
Narcissus was a hunter, but his distinction was that he was the most beautiful boy in the world.
He was the son of the river God Cephissus — who was the son of Oceanus and Tethys — and the water nymph, the naiad Liriope — who was likely the daughter of a river god.
Thus Narcissus was born from the essence of water, the grandson of Titans.
Although Narcissus was mortal, he was touched with the divine and blessed with immaculate beauty by the goddess Aphrodite herself.
Dazzled from the power of such exquisite comeliness and allure that belonged to Narcissus, people lost their good sense and large pieces of their dignity whenever he came near.
They would gasp in wonder at the perfect symmetry of his features, the strength and elegance of his form, and the grace of his movement.
They would whisper that he must be part God and would elevate to Olympus when he left the world.
Narcissus found the excessive admiration tedious after a time, and found his admirers irritating and beneath him.
There was nobody who could inspire Narcissus to love; he was so disdainful of everybody around him.
He was notorious for spurning the would-be male lovers who tried to seduce him, those men driven by lust and desire when confronted with the physical perfection of his form.
But there was one, Amenias, who believed he had what it took to succeed where others had failed.
He loved Narcissus for his beauty.
But Amenias also loved himself enough to recognize his value.
Although not as beautiful as Narcissus, he was very handsome. Amenias was also wealthy, educated, strong, and advanced in the erotic arts.
He knew that as a whole, he was more than equal to recommend himself to Narcissus.
When Amenias came to woo Narcissus, his would-be beloved was exceptionally cruel in his rebuff.
Narcissus handed Amenias a sword and suggested he make good use of it.
Humiliated, Amenias used the sword to slay himself on Narcissus’ doorstep, praying to the gods to avenge him for the dishonor.
Aphrodite heard his plea, and was enraged.
This was the most appalling affront to everything she held dear — love, passion, desire, lust, beauty.
She regretted blessing Narcissus with the power of immaculate beauty because he had done nothing but abuse and debase his gift.
On the other hand, the Goddess of Love and Beauty had to consider the possibility that it wasn’t in the nature of Narcissus to love other men, as men loved him.
Perhaps what he needed was feminine love, from one who might remind him of his mother. Aphrodite knew just the girl, the wood nymph Echo.
Echo fell madly in love with Narcissus the first time she saw him hunting in the woods.
She was a beautiful, spritely, and mischievous being. She followed Narcissus every time he came in the woods, which was often.
Echo was very adept at hiding in the rushes and amongst the trees, as she trailed behind him.
Over time, Narcissus became aware that somebody always followed him through the forest, and one day, he determined to find out who it was.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
“Who’s there?” Echo repeated.
“Come now,” Narcissus cajoled. “Show yourself to me.”
“…Show yourself to me,” Echo called back.
Frustrated, Narcissus thought another minute, and then decided he needed to bait this being who trailed him every day.
“Let us come together here!” Narcissus called out, and spread his arms wide as if to receive.
Overjoyed, Echo came running out of the trees, ready to jump into the arms of her beloved.
“Let us come together here!” she repeated.
Instead of catching her in his arms, Narcissus laughed at Echo and turned away.
Heartbroken and mortified, Echo ran sobbing through the woods, her grief making her disappear until there was nothing left of her but a disembodied voice doomed to repeat what was said on the open air until the end of time.
Watching from Olympus, Aphrodite was beyond livid.
Narcissus had gone too far and must be punished. After meditating on the best punishment for Narcissus, she smiled with grim satisfaction.
“I condemn Narcissus to fall passionately in love,” Aphrodite declared. “And his desire and longing will be his undoing.”
Then Aphrodite transformed into Nemesis, the vengeful aspect of herself.
Nemesis lured Narcissus close to a spring the next time he went hunting in the woods.
As soon as Narcissus looked in the water, he fell to his knees. He had never seen such a beautiful creature in all of his life, and he was suddenly consumed with the most ravenous lust and desire.
But when he tried to touch the beautiful face, the water rippled and his reflection was distorted. Narcissus suddenly knew he was looking at himself.
He lamented and refused to leave the spring.
Suddenly, Narcissus understood the yearning and the senselessness of those who had admired him all his life, for he was now overcome with the same emotion.
The problem was that it was impossible to make love to himself. The longing that would never be sated drove him to madness.
Suddenly, he decided there had to be a way to fuck himself and that always started with a kiss.
He was Narcissus, the son of Cephissus and Liriope. He was of the essence of water.
Thus leaning down to give himself a kiss, Narcissus fell into the spring and drowned.
Unfortunately, one thing Aphrodite may not have considered was the effect Narcissus would have on humanity once he wasn’t confined to a physical form.
The spirit of Narcissus spread far and wide.
Nowadays, anybody could be infected with an excessive love of oneself, a fixation on one’s own glory, and a conceit that one believes themselves above others.
We have all been rendered a little more ridiculous as a result of the disease of the psyche. And you don’t even have to be good-looking to be afflicted.
Craigslist New Year's Eve, Part 2 - On the Road #30
/Alicia was exactly what you would expect from a woman who had built her social life around the Internet and who was not a total psycho-freak.
She was a kind, warm, sweet woman, and so shy it hurt. I could easily see her being petrified in any social occasion where she would have to step forth and put herself out there.
"I got hooked on chat rooms back when you had to pay for them," she said. "My credit card bill was at least 300 bucks a month because of it."
And that was when Alicia met her best friend, David - the guy who wouldn’t stop messaging her until she met him for a drink.
David was the only good-looking man in the room, not that handsomeness did him any good. On paper, he seemed all right. He was an artist and a carpenter.
But anger emanated off of him in waves. I was uncomfortable being in the same room as David, and if others hadn’t been there, I would have made my excuses and left.
In short, his story was such that David had been married twice and begat three kids upon his wives by the age of thirty-six. He was in the throes of an ugly divorce from his second wife.
“David was stupid with that one,” Alicia piped up. “They had problems from the first week on.”
And here’s the kicker. He met her through Match.com.
I never met someone who actually married somebody they met on a dating site.
(Remember this was New Year’s Eve, calling in 2006. Online dating was fast becoming the norm, but it wasn’t yet.)
So why did David marry the Nightmare on Match.com?
He had no problem answering my question.
"She had perfect tits," he said. "And cute freckles."
He said that with a straight face and his bestie, Alicia, backed him up.
"She fit his pre-conceived idea of what he thought he wanted," said Alicia.
So why did Freckles & Tits marry David?
"Biological clock," said David.
David suspected that his soon-to-be-second-ex-wife was about to become a lesbian.
"She had a friend who looked like a lesbian and Freckles & Tits swore she wasn't," he continued. "But now she's hanging out with another who also looks like a lesbian.
David paused.
“After New Year's I'm not drinking and I'm not having sex anymore."
In this room of motley strangers, everybody looked at David like he was nuts. I thought it was the first sane thing he’d said all night.
"I need to heal from all this," said David. "This month I decided that Jesus really is my lord and savior and to let him into my heart.”
Oh hell. Never mind.
"You won't heal if you don't have sex," said Alicia to David, the voice of reason that David lacked.
To the rest of us, she explained further.
"The problem with David is that he can't find girls who can separate sex and love, especially with him. They take one look at him and peg him as the boyfriend type."
I wonder if David would have fallen for Alicia if she hadn’t been so motherly. On the other hand, Alicia was pretty matronly. Since perfect tits and cute freckles were enough of an incentive to ignore problems coming out of the gate and actually GET MARRIED, I doubt David had the sense to be attracted to depth and character.
And then there was the man of the hour...our host, Mike.
When I later told this story to a friend, she asked me if Mike had been attractive.
"No.”
No, Mike was anything but attractive. He had a vague resemblance to Mitch McConnell.
To be more exact, Mike had no chin, a prissy mouth that he pursed throughout the night, a doughy face, and the soft formless body of a man who took no advantage of the outdoors that Colorado was famous for.
But his lack of good looks paled in comparison to Mike’s personality. Bitter, rude, unpleasant, pompous – I could go on and on. But the truly sad part was that Mike had no idea how disagreeable he was.
In the original Craigslist post, Mike had said several friends were coming over. And there were no friends there because…drum roll…he didn’t have any. I’m pretty sure the date that had fallen through was also a fiction.
After a couple of hours, I could understand why. I knew I never wanted to be around Mike again long before we called in the New Year 2006.
According to Mike, he had no friends after 5 1/2 years in Denver due to the manipulations of his evil ex-wife.
A woman he had been married to for only nine months, she'd tried to kill him twice – according to Mike - and had used him as part of an immigration fraud scam she had going on with her family.
I don’t know how this happened, but I ended up telling a story to this group – the first chapter of Ella Bandita.
Mike extrapolated from that.
"You want inspiration?" he sneered. "Generations of dysfunction and evil run in my ex-wife's family."
That was a good moment to smile and nod.
Mike also claimed more horrible first dates than everyone in the room combined. He was also an aficionado of which internet sources were good, and which ones were awful.
It was a shock to my system being in a room full of people whose main source of social interaction was through a computer.
David and Mike exchanged horror stories of shrewish con-women, heifers, bitches, dykes, and other undesirable and highly suspect females they had met while looking for love online.
Mike really wanted to talk about his psycho marriage and his ugly divorce all night, and he interrupted conversations that were enjoyable to do so.
He also had this beagle, Dakota, that was so hungry for affectionate attention, it was pitiful.
"Love me," the dog’s eyes pleaded as Dakota humped people's feet. "Please..."
"Dakota!" Mike would shout. "Dakota!"
“He has a foot fetish,” Mike would explain to his guests, two of whom were allergic to dogs.
The courtesy of putting the dog away didn’t occur to Mike. And Dakota wouldn’t listen in his relentless search for someone at that party to take him away.
Because I’m pretty sure that’s what that dog wanted.
Eventually, midnight happened. We called in the New Year, and all of us hot-hoofed it out of that house by quarter past twelve.
By the time I got back to my hotel, it was around 1am – that had been a long, sober drive back. The bars were pouring out and people were cheering, hooting, and hollering Happy New Year in giddy, drunken joy.
Lesson learned.
If I’m ever in an unfamiliar city for New Year’s where I don’t know anybody, I’m going to bite the bullet, down 2 or 3 shots of tequila and party down.
Because that was the weirdest New Year’s Eve of my life.
Peace,
Montgomery
To read Part 1 of Craigslist New Year’s Eve, click HERE.
Discipline, Baby!
/So yesterday I went to a les-bi writers meetup that I’ve belonged to for at least two years, and had never attended an event.
I had joined because I liked the focus on queer women writers.
Even if most of what I write isn’t queer – at least not directly – I still appreciate narrowing the field to create community between an intersection between identities. Being lesbian/bisexual is a specific way to be in this world, and being a writer is no less specific.
Besides realizing that I just enjoyed meeting new people for the first time since I left my now-ex-fiancee, that was an excellent cure for writer’s block.
I’ve hardly written anything original, except for writing prompts in over 2 months, and lately, I’ve been borrowing from dialogue excerpts in various novels to get a jumpstart on those.
Gotta love those breakup blues that result in creative blocks!
Anyway, the event started with a writing prompt. I picked it and what came up was something that had been lacking in my world – discipline.
Discipline makes a dry subject to write about, so instead I turned discipline into a character study. The end result is that I finally wrote SOMETHING NEW, DAMMIT!
Besides being totally excited that I just wrote something fresh, I was pleased enough with the piece to share it here. Because all writers need discipline to do what we do.
Discipline.
It’s such a dirty word because it’s so necessary.
If Discipline were a woman, she’d be a rail thin, long-limbed, tight-lipped clichéd librarian type with angular features and humorless eyes.
But she gets the job done.
She gets up at 4:30 AM to meditate, eat a light breakfast, workout, shower, and dry her hair, only to put in a tight knot at the base of her neck.
Her hair is chestnut brown and her eyes are a flat hazel.
She would then dress primly and properly for her day job, which doesn’t necessarily have to be a librarian, but would have to involve DISCIPLINE because that’s her jam.
All her appointments are timed impeccably.
Any client who is not on time will lose time with her for her to welcome her next appointment, no matter how much money or power is involved. She does not tolerate lateness because she is never late herself.
Never.
Her clients are rarely late for their appointments with her.
For an hour lunch, she only spends fifteen minutes eating.
The rest of the time, she power walks around the park or gets some work done on a personal project that she does for love and giggles – like maybe writing a novel.
She will later work on this project for exactly two hours that night after work, before cooking and after dinner.
Even if she has a partner/lover/husband/kids or all of the above, nothing can sway her from her 2 hours of personal time on her project.
It is quite likely though, that Discipline is a child-free woman.
Kids are too messy and too demanding for her strictly-adhered to schedule. They have too many needs, and are prone to getting sick at the most inconvenient times.
Discipline has few girlfriends, because most women are frightened of her.
She has one best friend, who is as organized, driven, and focused as she is. They bonded over their mutual impatience and disdain for fluffy, flaky types.
If they aren’t roommates, Discipline and her bestie meet for dinner or a show at least once a week, and they talk on the phone at least twice a week. Like most besties, they text back and forth just about every day.
When Discipline has a lover, you can bet she is kinky as all get out, a merciless domme with severe red lipstick painted on her narrow lips.
She is efficient in how she doles out punishment, and of course, discipline. Orgasm is always guaranteed. For herself as well as her lover.
She prefers to dominate the dominant types. Power gives her a grim satisfaction, and the thrill makes her flesh tease and tickle.
Discipline always goes to bed between 9 and 10 PM, after a cool shower where she flosses and brushes her teeth.
The last half hour of waking is reserved for the reading that she does solely for pleasure.
Her choice of novels are those that will transport her to another world of adventure, mystery, and the erotic for those last 20-30 minutes before she relaxes enough that her eyelids grow heavier and heavier.
Then she turns out the light and collapses under the covers and falls asleep within minutes. Her slumber will last somewhere between 6 ½ and 7 hours.
During that time, she will reach the vivid dreaming REM at least three times.
Then the alarm will sound at 4:30 AM and her new day begins.
I aspire to be more like this woman, but I know that will never happen. But that is how I see Discipline. Even a few crumbs of this would make me so much more productive.
For the record, I did get back to work on the Shepherd and the Courtesan. If you’d like to see a segment of that work-in-progress, click here.
Dumb Ass Luck for a Happy Holiday Season - On the Road #29
/Hey y'all,
Yeehaw! Did Santa surprise my stocking this year!
For somebody who has not planned squat for a book tour, things sure keep falling into my lap, and all I have to say to La Fortuna is Grazie, Senora! Grazie, grazie, grazie!!!
But I get ahead of myself...
I'm in Colorado, the state of my college alma mater, to visit a college friend, and she threw her Christmas party right after I got here.
Since Kelly is immersed in the corporate world of computer software and telecommunications, she invited many folks she knew from work.
One of them, Anne, had an organization of sixty people, if you include all the contractors - which she didn't.
With a thick Scottish accent and a blunt, fiery attitude, Anne is known as an aggressive leader that scares the shit out of most people in her company.
"She's the devil," Kelly said.
Anne is often heard yelling at the top of her lungs in her office. However, unlike a lot of slave-driving bosses, her staff has the option of yelling back, which they often do.
But to reward them for all their hard work and being such good sports about tolerating and dishing out verbal abuse, she does something to surprise her team every quarter. And this quarter, she surprised them with me.
Gotta love those holiday parties, when everybody's half drunk and networking. She and her lover showed up "in drag," in that they were dressed up for the holidays. I told her what I was doing and she suggested I come and do a storytelling with her group.
"I haven't come up with anything fun for them to do this quarter," she slurred. "But you have to make it a team-building experience. How much do you charge?"
Given that I'd been doing this for free, plus book sales, I didn't really know how to answer that. I remembered Brett telling me that beginning storytellers charge $75 and told her that.
She pssshawed that.
"You need a manager, honey," she said. "I was thinking more like $500."
To tell a story? Why sure, I would love to.
Okay, I had to get a little flexible and make it a team-building experience. And I had to set my ego aside to do it.
I told Chapter four and gave six teams their own set of questions for them to construct a story around it. In other words, a bunch of computer techies had to switch to their right brain and get creative. It wasn't about figuring out what I wrote, they had to make it up.
They did pretty damn good, too. Some of the scenarios they came up with were outrageous.
Whoever thought that being a writer and travelling storyteller could translate into being a "motivational speaker" for a corporation?
If anybody from ODS should see Sarah Carter, Jean Richey, or (I can't believe I'm actually saying this!) Kevin Krein, thank them for me because I just got paid $500 to tell a story and give away 25 books.
And the exercises we did for the Small Group Communications class helped me think up my own.
$500 to tell a story? As far as karma is concerned, I know I deserve it, but still! I definitely wanna do that again!
Merry Christmas!
Montgomery
This excerpt is from my DIY booktour roadtrip journal I emailed to my friends during 2005-2006.
Since this was the holidays, this was at the end of 2005 and I’d been on the road for almost 6 months.
I’d spent a few months in the Alaskan Interior (I lived in Alaska at the time), went back to Juneau for a couple of weeks before heading down into the lower 48, where the book tour was a very different experience.
I was riding high at this time, having a very lucky stop in Ashland right before heading to Colorado. This was every bit as auspicious as the time in Ashland.
If you’d like to read about that experience, here are Parts 1 and 2 of the Fool’s Journey HERE and HERE.
I have such great memories of that time in my life. Especially because it was one of the most challenging and difficult things I’ve ever done.
The Joy of Memes
/Hey y’all,
So… I’m making memes now. It was that something new learned this week.
For the record, I’m very proud of the meme that starts this blog.
In my personal life, I’m addicted to Facebook in a love/hate kind of way. My now ex-partner hates it and I wouldn’t say I love it, but it’s become a habit. An annoying habit. Anybody who is not addicted to any kind of social media and does not participate -especially if that somebody isn’t a hermit in a cave somewhere in the Rockies – has my respect.
But I’m a sucker for memes, especially the good ones. It’s such a succinct way to get a pithy message across with words and a visual. Thanks to my flailing in the world of Pinterest, I came across a blog on how to make memes.
So I read it, and started. And I think I’m kind of hooked.
If I’m not careful memes will take over and I will stop writing. And that would be a bad, bad thing. Perhaps these are natural growing pains that come with donning lots of new hats?
It’s good for my brain to learn new things. That’s what I’m telling myself right now. I’m overwhelmed. I’m trying to embrace it.
But I loved learning about memes. I made 10 memes on my first day. Self-expression feels good to choose images and quotes – sometimes I even use my own. Or I use an image from the piece of artwork from Ella Bandita with a punch that fits in in a different way, and thus alters the meaning. The possibilities are endless. So what’s not to love?
The best part is that I already taught something the day after I learned it. My friend and former housemate, Cole is stepping in to help and I taught her how to make memes too. The ones she made were completely different from mine, but fabulous! Maybe we will rock cyber space with our fresh take on things and our memes that go viral.
Or maybe we’ll simply do a great job of getting people’s attention to this website and my stories. Because that’s what I’m really here for, you know?
What about you, dear reader? Do you like to pass the time making memes, finding memes, or both? What are some of your favorites? Let’s have some show and tell, please.
Peace,
Montgomery
PS: Here’s the link to a site that makes it really, really easy to make a meme:
https://quotescover.com/
PPS: Cole found her medium through the Adobe Spark app. And here is one of hers.
PPPS: Technically, memes have nothing to do with writing. But these can also make some good writing prompts. Pick one and do a freewrite. Come on! I dare you.