Paula Tracey
A Tarnished Southern Belle

There is a pile of laundry next to me on the bed, but to be honest, I’m trying to pretend it isn’t there.  I know that doesn’t get it done, and procrastination is not always the best thing in the word to do, but I am.  Procrastinating.  Because today is my last full day at home before the traveling craziness of November hits.

What I want to do is go to Barnes and Noble.  I want to get a cup of coffee and peruse books.  There is a book by Samara O’Shea that I am wanting to pick up about the art of writing letters, and if they don’t have it, I’m sure I will find something else to peak my interest.  I joined Soldier’s Angels, after a suggestion from Melissa and sending a weekly letter to a couple of soldiers has reminded me that the art of writing letters is truly becoming lost in so many ways.

I love email.  And the immediacy of text messages.  But the downside is that if you don’t respond immediately, it’s as if you are ignoring someone, when, in all honesty, you aren’t.  Letters and cards are different.  They arrive quietly and can be savored - and it’s ok that if and when you respond, you take your time.  It’s also something you can tuck into your pocket and read again.

There is just something more intimate about a letter - or a handwritten note inside a card - than there is to an email or a text.  So, I’ve made it a personal mission to begin sending cards and letters to friends besides just my weekly letters to my two Army guys. So, don’t be surprised if, for reasons like birthdays and holidays, or even no reason at all, you discover a card or letter in YOUR little mailbox.

By the way, I have discovered new cards that I love.  They are from Curly Girl Designs.  This one is sitting on the shelf above my desk -my inspirational spot…. and in case you can’t read it, it says…

“She packed up her potential, and all she had learned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes, and headed out to change a few things.”

Peace out.  Laundry can wait a little longer, I think.  I have some cards to address.  And coffee waiting for me at Barnes and Noble……

Since I was in the feeling nothing mode, I decided I really needed to get out of the hotel. I had planned to go to the Cemetery, but first wanted to get flowers, but then I got distracted - or, well, my Muse distracted me.

Actually, I typically get flowers at CostCo when I am going ot go to the Cemetary because (a) they are inexpensive and (b) they are usually lovely.  But being a holiday, CostCo is closed.  And, CVS didn’t have any.  As I walked of CVS, which is a block behind my hotel, I realized that the National Archives (and the Metro Stop) were just as close as the Metro Stop on the other side of the hotel.

Only 4 blocks away is the Navy Memorial and another block over is the National Archives.  I was going to go on through to the Metro, but as I passed, I realized that the Navy Band was setting up for a concert there at the Navy Memorial.  I paused…explored a bit…took photos for a group of tourists….

The Navy Memorial is a large fountain with bronze plaques around it depicting different scenes from Navy Life.  I stood a moment to take it all in and realized that something was off:  the smell.  It was the fresh scent of chlorine and while I understand the need for the chlorine, it seems like the Navy Memorial should smell like Salt Water….

I knew that my muse was speaking to me.  I could feel him around me and took my time walking through the memorial and then I crossed teh street to enter the National Archives.  It has been way too long - six months or more - since I have visited the Rotunda and the documents that are there:  Magna Carta, Bill of Rights, Constituion and The Declaration of Independence…  I also spent some time walking through the exhibit about the National Archives - and what it contains….and ended at the gift shop, where I got a headstart on my Christmas Shopping.

I never made it to the Cemetary, but that’s ok as I know my muse understands - he’s the one that led me to the Navy Memorial instead.  I need to remember to listen to him more often.

Sweet Dreams.

I am having a day where I am feeling nothing in some ways.  I am typically passionate - with a zest for love and life and adventure, but today, I am desiring low-key and also have a list of “things” I need to do.

I wonder where the balance is?  I think part of it is I am in desperate need of a vacation - not to a place, but away from everything.  I mean, I am here in DC for the weekend and in years past, I would have gone out and about, but though I went to one of the Art museums yesterday, I am not in the mood to fight the crowds today.  I do have a hair appointment later and need to get my nails done, and I’m considering moving the appointment up a bit and heading on to the mall.  Maybe after that, I will feel like doing something?

I also want to write, but in this frame of mind where I am feeling nothing, it’s hard.  I sat down to get soem things caught up but by the time I got caught up on thigns that needed to be updated, I am too disgusted with myself to sit and write.

I wonder where my muse is.  I can feel him, but his voice isn’t clear….

I really need to get into the office early this morning.  Every single one of my technical guys are early birds, arriving in by 7 AM.  If I can get work disseminated to them earlier, I feel better about how I am managing this project.  I’ve tried doing it later in the evenings via email, but either they (a) go ahead and finish before they go to bed or (b) seem to ignore the email til I get there.

What I want to do is sit here and write.   The room is cool enough that I need to wear my light robe over the thin black negligee that I sleep in.  I have this fresh cup of organic coffee with just the right amount of cream and splenda.  I have the drapes slightly open, but the sheers still drawn, and can turn slightly to the left and watch the waking bustle of DC as it comes more awake.  I’m at street level this week, which I thought would bother me, but in all hoensty is incredibly cool.

It’s also the perfect climate to climb into bed and linger…the sheets are slightly cool to the touch, but a few moments of snuggling under the layers of sheet and thin down duvet provide just the right amount of toastiness to cuddle and caress me.  It’s soothing - the butter yellow paint of the walls in this twilight.

I also have the Washington Post just sitting there on the foot of the bed, next to my breakfast tray.  It’s fresh and unopened….just waiting for me to thumb through to glance at the headlines on the front of each section, scramble through and pull out the classifieds and the sports to put them into the trash.  The other sections are waiting to be read, knowing that I won’t have time to read each and every article - but each section is hopeful that the headline of their little piece will entice my curiosity enough to do more than scan.  the New York Times is there as well.  But it isn’t as hopeful.  It knows that I consider it second, as the Times is a tad too liberal for my tastes.

I believe the second half of my bran muffin is wondering if it’s going to make it’s way into my tummy soon - or if it will lay there, uneaten.  I’m thinking it may get wrapped in plastic and just be saved for tomorrow morning, or a late night nosh.

and then there is my suit.  It’s calling to me louder than The Post, The Times, or my muffin.  I laid it out on the bed when I thumbed through the (very few) clothes I have left in the armoire.  A huge chunk of my clothes are in the cleaners.

I was up too late.  The Major (more about him later) came over last night when he was done with class, just for a little while.  He said he had missed my face and wanted to tuck me in.  Of course, after he left, I was wide awake.  I don’t know quite what to feel about him yet.  I know that I like his company and it feels right when he is holding me.   It was what he did the first moments of being here - nothing but holding onto me and hugging on me.  Even though I could feel his desire and his urgency, he took it slowly and I was surprised slightly by the mix of the fierceness in his embrace with the tenderness in which his hands held me.  There is something different about sex with him, in that it isn’t as if he is just fucking me.  It’s like his embrace when he first got here - this mix of making love while fucking - the tenderness with the strength and power….the kissing and the way he pauses to smooth back the hair from my eyes or the way his hand cups my chin as he gazes into my eyes.

I hadn’t really intended to write about him this morning as the morning twilight begins to fade and the sun washes over the city, but I had decided when I started here that I was going to write what I felt at the moment - no major censoring, no hiding of relationships, no holding back if something was really on my mind, dying to make it’s way to the paper.  I guess it shows us that at times, we can’t quite control where our muse takes us, as we begin to let the words flow from my fingers and onto the page.  My muse was quiet for so long that I don’t want to scare him into retreating again, so I will allow this stream of consciousness flow here and keep my subject only when necessary.

Sigh.  I truly have more to say, but my coffee cup is empty and my suit is calling a bit louder to me as it’s almost time for me to walk out the door if I am to get in early.  Hopefully my morning will give me some time to steal away from work and make it’s way back here.

Happy Wednesday.

It’s almost Monday.

Tomorrow, I head back to DC for the week.  I enjoy being home in some ways, but in others, I don’t.  I am incredibly frustrated with the oldest kid, who has no concept of others’ needs. It’s close to midnight and she is doing laundry.  The ability for me to fall asleep with the washer running is low.  She is also loud, too loud, and when I ask her to be quiet, it doesn’t help much.   School starts tomorrow, and for that I’m glad, but I still don’t think it will affect her inconsideration. I also don’t tend to write well here at home - except in the early mornings.

When it comes back to sleep, though, I sleep better in a hotel these days.  I slept OK at The Boy’s house last night - at least until around 4:30 when I woke up the first time (since it was 7:30 Eastern.)  But home? It’s rare to get a good nights sleep….

Next Monday, I am going to begin to participate in a writer’s group.  I think I need the structure to get me disciplined to writing again - more than just in the blog.  I’m hoping having that accountability will help me get into a routine.

Come Monday….

Like any writer, I have a million and a half things running through my head…details and pieces that are screaming out to be included into a story here or there.  Like the elderly man sitting on the steps of the CVS eating ice cream of some sort each morning when I passed (it was different each day!) or the way a new beau leans into you, taking in your scent as he whispers in your ear “you smell wonderful”.  The task, however, seems to be taking those snippets and weaving them into something more.

I am great at beginning pieces, however, what I am lousy at is completing them.

It’s the writer’s doubt that begins to creep in of who would want to read this and where am I going to share it anyway so that someone will read it?

I had told Melissa that I had lost the joy and ability to write for the sake of writing - that everything seemed to need a goal.  Is it a piece of my novel?  Is it an article for a magazine I write for? Is it a piece geared towards one particular themed publication?

It’s as if I didn’t have a right to write something if it didn’t have a home.  I am struggling to get out of that mindset.  I have agreed to participate in a writer’s group, which I think I need desperately - to share what I am writing, to be prompted to write, to be told that what I write isn’t crap - and of course to be told when what I am writing IS crap

I may not be accomplishing much these days in completion, but I do have to say it feels really good to be able to be here and writing on a regular basis.  Something I haven’t been able to do in ages.

I’m back to listening to country most of the time.  The Wreckers are on my Itunes a lot lately….and I find myself wondering how writers of songs are able to put so few words together and create such a picture in your mind.  Though it has it’s critics, the roots of Country music are rooted in the every day of life.  When I picked the song “songs about me” for my category, the lyrics were important:  “songs about loving and living and good hearted women and family and God” as well as “songs about scars and cars and broken hearts”.

But the lyrics of various songs make me…wonder….about the people behind the songs.  What a writer has lived before he or she came up with the lyrics.  Writers, you see, I think, are better if they have lived a little bit of life.

I haven’t done any writing, but one particular novel has been playing in my head.  I am in that woolgathering stage, though, to be honest, the bulk of my research - living of some lifestyle - has been done.  I am fortunate enough to chat with many writers about how they write, and for this particular arc, I would say I’ve done the front-loaded research.  Now to just get it on paper and in a loose enough format to try and workshop it.

Stand Still, Look Pretty

I want to paint my face
and pretend that I am someone else
Sometimes I get so fed up
I don’t even wanna look at myself

But people have problems that are worse than mine
I don’t want you to think I’m complaining all the time
And I hate the way you look at me I have to say
I wish I could start over

(Chorus;)
I am slowly falling apart
I wish you’d take a walk in my shoes for a start
And you might think its easy being me
You just stand still, look pretty

Sometimes I find myself shaking
in the middle of the night
And then it hits me and I can’t
even believe this is my life

But people have problems that are worse than mine
I don’t want you to think I’m complaining all the time
And I wish that everyone would go an shut their mouth
I’m not strong enough to deal with it

That, by the way, is a perfect song for mid-way through where my character will be.  Because, as any good heroine should know, there are moments of falling apart….sometimes into lots of little pieces, before you can pick up and rebuild it.

On a different side of the page, though, is MY life, not the life of characters in my  head. Sometimes, it is seeming like a country song - which, cannot, in all honesty be a good thing.  I love men.  I do.  but I am struggling with the wants of wanting and needing - and not wanting.   At times, I am wanting a little more in my life than what I have in the world of men in my life, especially “the Boy”.   But when I think on it, I know  that he fulfills only a very small number of my needs.  He is an easy fallback for some of my needs, though, because he fills them well

It came down to a textual discussion this week…to discussed the status where this thing we call a relationship is.  He calls it friends, but it isn’t my definition of friends.  However, he wants it where it stands now…and “can’t do more than that right now”.  I told him that I always want him sexually, but when it comes to emotionally, it is where I fail.  I love him.  I do.  But the in-love part isn’t there because he doesn’t meet the needs of I have for a partner in the sense of giving and taking.

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I have been trying to find the best way to balance out the use of my logical side along with the creative side of my brain. It seems as if it should be a simple switch, but it isn’t.

In the four and a half months I have been living out of my suitcase and in hotels in DC, most of those nights were spent at one hotel. I had thought I would be writing more, but it didn’t happen. When I became unhappy with service at the hotel, my seeking of new hotels let me to a boutique hotel that could offer me the same price (important for expenses). A boutique hotel is more personal – and certainly has more personality. I feel very much at home here, despite the fact that a bust of Thomas Jefferson looks down at me from atop the armoire.

Earlier this week my boss (client) met me for a drink at the hotel. He picked up on something that I hadn’t yet, and that was that this hotel has an artistic feel and personality, whereas the other hotel was more sterile. I think he’s right.  This weekend, I will be staying over in DC. I have dinner plans on both Friday and Saturday, but the rest of my days will be open. I’m anxious to see if some quiet time sitting and looking at these rich buttery walls will help me reach some creative peace.

As much as I would love to stay up and write, I truly must go to bed. I have been shorting myself on sleep all week and I have a full day of meetings on my plate tomorrow.

A good friend of mine is at a Writer’s Conference, and each evening I am hearing a snippet of how things are going.  It is one of the scariest prospects I can think of, to put my ideas and writings out there for someone to really critique, but a part of me wants that.  I mean, I do the regular piece every month or so, but that doesn’t in any way invite critique.  I haven’t had a piece of writing truly critiqued since I wrote some fan fiction about severn or eight years ago.  She is encouraging me to go to one of the future workshops.  At times, I think I have it in me, but at other times I have absolutely no confidence in the emails I write, let alone a short story or a chapter to a novel.

Being home instead of on the road is a challenge for me, to be flat out honest.  Because I have been gone more than home, I have no semblence of a life here.  The consideration of moving has been on my radar for quite awhile, probably the last year or so, but I am feeling it a bit more lately.  I MISS home, but with 90% of  my time spent not at home, it’s just weird to be here.  I don’t know what that says about me as a person that I’d rather be in a hotel.  I feel suffocated. I am at Starbucks writing instead of being there.

I think part of it goes back to the divorce.  We moved into that house before our first anniversary and I ended up keeping it as my residence after the divorce.  At first, I tried to make it my own.  I re-did the bedroom first, did a little bit of painting here and there, etc.  It was my children’s home, and because I needed to be the “good mother” and do “what was right” for them, I fought to keep it so they wouldn’t have to move from the only home they ever knew.  As many mothers do, I sacrificed my feelings for place.

I dated and invited “The Boy” as well as “Buddy” into my home, and at times they exorcised the demons left behind of my ex-husband.  It was the site of a love-affair with a woman that turned  bad, that put me in a position of not trusting women easily, either.  Part of that changed when I took a career detour and pretty much stopped dating.    I went over a year with with my bed there being the site of nothing but sleeping alone, until “The Boy” visited this past November for a couple of different nights.  Now, with the oldest being the main occupant there, and the fact that her boyfriend half lives there, too, it just doesn’t feel like mine.

I don’t know what I’m going to do yet about it.  It’s entangled in the divorce decree still and in order to obtain the full equity I would have to sign off on the retirement of his that is mine.  And right now, that is a losing proposition.

Speaking of the ex-husband, I am wondering how much longer he is going to keep the youngest.

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