Melissa Llanes Brownlee

I’m surviving this short summer with chocolate and flowers, how ‘bout you?

Hilariously, I remembered to do the thing where I shut the door to write and what I wrote was a list of times to write, a list of things to enjoy, a list of shoulds, then have-tos. I don’t think one thing has altered since the last time I remembered to sit in front of a blank page for more than a minute. I probably have work sheets with boxes to check as I completed each daily task that I could copy. Planning a slow slog is reassuring and intimidating, and if it worked…I know, I know, except it does. Sort of. For a little while. Words are magic and from experience I know that if I write it down, I do Pilates and if it isn’t on the list, it doesn’t happen.

What did happen was this gentle rose. It only bloomed once this year with three buds, but it is so pretty and delicate right here.

And out of nowhere – BOOM – Literary Namjooning nominated my story from Issue One for Best of The Net. Thank you Lakshmi, Melissa, and Hema! From the bottom of my heart, Namaste.

Another thing was that I listened to a segment about baking a few weeks ago. I froze a chocolate box cake after I cooked it to the lower end of the cooking time. The cakes cooled, I wrapped them in clingfilm, put them on a plate in the freezer overnight. After they defrosted, I whipped the store bought frosting which did help with coverage, but I wish I’d beaten it longer and a friend suggested adding a liquid. I don’t think that it was heavy cream, but supposedly a half cup of heavy cream poured over the Pillsbury Grands cinnamon rolls before baking (and waiting for them to cool a little before putting on this icing) makes them taste like Cinnabons. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a Cinnabon, and I haven’t tried this recipe, but it’s stuck in my memory and what I mean to say is that freezing the cake really did make a difference to the taste and mouth feel, so I recommend it. Adding a teaspoon of vanilla to Rice Krispie Treats is good. Mixing and melting a cup of chocolate chips and a tablespoon of shortening or butter together in the microwave and after it’s cooled a bit, spread it over the top of the treats is also good.

What makes me ecstatic is that I got to spend another year with this guy and bake him a cake.

What’s less appealing is bringing in wood and preparing to build a fire. It’s August, but already we’re rearranging the furniture. I’m setting up computers in the library for writing in winter. A few plants have wandered in and the Christmas cactus that has been pawed over thrice. Today in the upper greenhouse, the shelf for the plants was put up higher than usual. The chairs slide under. If I were brave enough to face the creek and write, I could do it there.

Working in a room of many windows has drawbacks though. I can see the hummingbird feeder from there, and turkeys wandering on the patio. Chipmunks. Squirrels. Bugs so in love with each other they form a sexheart for hours. Life literally getting in the way.

 In the way of what? Indeed. Great question. I’m off to find an answer.

Just kidding. After this, there is the making of the dinner and maybe rewatching The Terminator. I’ve been sketching or reading while I eat dinner. I’ve plotted out a picture book about recycling and death. I haven’t gotten serious about the illustrations, but it’s fun and makes more sense than the musical that keeps happening lyric by riff in my head, because seriously, I’m not remotely a musical theater person or a real artist, but my drawings will never hurt anyone’s ears unless they are rolled up and inserted.

Lovely image, I know. Guess I’ll be stopping here. Have a great month.

Thank you for stopping by and reading. Thank you also for being you and not a piece of wood.

Spring(ish) Fever by the Creek and Writers

I’m thinking there’s a deeper essay in here, but I haven’t fleshed it out enough. Writing this is hard enough. I’d been distracted by the reports over the weekend of a jumper at the High Level Bridge.

Today I found out it was my old doctor who I never met. He’s literally my age.

 Was.

So many doctors recently…

In case I’ve never told you before, I hate being sick. Abhor it. Resent the amount of time it takes up so I must tell you, its extra fun to catch something at the doctor’s office during the yearly wellness exam. This time? Norovirus! Actually, Husband caught it and for days, I washed and Lysoled, slept in a mask and avoided it. Then I had to go back and got it. I mention this because doctors should mask, but don’t and I do mask and I haven’t been sick in years until I had to deal with them. I’m not sure what the appeal is for being ill. If you have a way to avoid such unpleasantness or don’t wish others to suffer, mask. Thank you. I’m doing better – except for the resentment of having time taken away from me, but it kept me from dwelling on certain thoughts…

Today, what I’m speculating about is why I bother sending out my work since it’s so often met with rejection, but there isn’t a doctor anywhere smart enough for that topic, so let’s talk about something else – like writers in the wild.

The Writing Club I volunteered to start in the local library has attracted some interesting people with neat stories and it’s exciting to feel the energy. (I’ve missed the group I’d been in pre-Covid) The other group I attend was developing a cool vibe and that was shattered. The last Friday meeting there was followed by direct messages on the socials. One of the members had a massive heart attack and died – roughly 24 hours later. This, of course, sparked a pile on of disbelief at the number of writers I’ve known who are no longer roaming the earth.

I did hear that at the writer’s viewing, our group was mentioned and that the writer had a positive experience with it. It’s going to sound like a brag, but I did encourage him to slightly rework one of his essays into a Buffalo News “My View” column. He did, it was accepted, and at least he went out as a published author, so yeah, I think it’s cool that I helped in a small way with his writing career when I had that option. To be honest, I expected to be helping him edit his book in a year, not marking the anniversary of his passing.

I know many people reject the sirening socials now with all the added bile, but it is where I find community. And opportunities. And notices of upcoming events. Yesterday, I saw a notice from Nancy McCabe. Her new book, Fires Burning Underground, will have a launch party on April 8th.   There were so many AWP pictures posted by and of people I admire. Melissa Olstrum and Mocha have brightened my day so often with their walks and her pottery. My cat climbs into my lap to be soothed by Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s singing and ukulele playing. (I’ve tried to get a picture of this, but annoying the white cat while she’s listening ends in scratches) Mike, a writer from my old group will publish his first book in June. MJ from there is on a speaking tour of sorts. Rina is decoding and polishing her father’s text. Gina from a different group is completing her series! There are so many artists sharing their lives and talents there, so it’s hard to not to cheer them on.

I think that’s the best part of being a writer – being in other writer’s lives. The blank page staring, the character wrestling, the chaos of keeping a story in your head, those are all lonely endeavors, and knowing someone else is out there struggling, too, helps with the despair. It’s sad that my old doctor didn’t have that – or if he did, it wasn’t enough.

Like I said, there’s a deeper essay lurking with better tie-ins and subtlety, but this is what I’ve got knowing the details now of a life that ended in a manner I admit I’ve contemplated for a character.

Thanks for stopping by and for the read. I appreciate the F*CK out of you, even if I don’t say it enough. It’s scary out there – resist. Do a silly walk. Sit in a box with a dog. Mine is willing – and eager – to share.

Cheers!

New Years Eve, Balls, and Possible Snow

Greetings from this side of 2024 where blanked on writing a blog post until after 7:30pm. I hope you are well where you are – and washing your hands with soap to prevent spreading infections. (If only PAs in Roswell’s Urology Department would do the same – and mask ffs. Yes Irene, I’m looking at you) The bird flu has me worried as the Norovirus runs through western New York with no end in sight. Good times!

The past month was spent doing the holiday cookie joy and I rolled and dipped enough balls to remember how much I must care for people – at least the people who had cookies sent or delivered to them. Besides the few days between Thanksgiving and Christmas this year, there were multiple doctor and dentists visits and even a writing session with Kathy Fish.  I also had to shovel multiple times because this of all years needed provide prime lake effect conditions – with even more in the forecast.

Husband has made more progress on the ceiling and the once red table and leaves are done – covered now with a marble design.

So are the chairs.

The Holiday cards and letter went out and we had a visit from Texans this weekend which was the “last thing” before I could relax, and today, I did…which may be why I forgot to write this until now.

This year resulted in 135 submissions – not as many as I’d hoped, but enough.

Thank you:

Jeff Harvey for accepting “Hearts Compounded” for Gooseberry Pie Issue 12.

Geoffrey Miller at NUNUM for accepting “Spiders Everywhere” and nominating it for Best Microfiction.

Hema Nataraju , Lakshmi Iyer, Melissa Llanes Brownlee at Literary Namjooning for loving “How It’s Done” and presenting it so beautifully.

Tamara Burross Grisanti at Coffin Bell – the one place I saw “There’s No Such Thing as a Free Meal” finding a home – and it did.

Ben The Drevlow at BULL whose edits for “Not Everyone Dreams of La La Land” made it shine for the print issue.

Tabi at Litmora for taking “Blooming” and inviting me to Fredonia’s Literary Festival

And Kim Chinquee. Wow. Thank you for accepting “Brilliance” “No Object” and “Shoo Bird” for the gorgeous Eclipse Issue of Elm Leaves Journal – and for the Pushcart nomination.

What a year in publishing- as I determine it from 11/30/2023 to 11/30/2024! Now on to the next – and soon!

Thank you for stopping by and for the read. Cheers!

Calamities with Bertie, not Jane

When do you pull the plug? How many no’s can you take? How many animals and their disasters does it take to break a fragile person? These, and other mysteries, were being pondered here as I wrote on a Friday. The aversion therapy/consequences of favorite blankie taken away were not a success. The dog didn’t learn the lesson and got in the creek again. I could not stand the smell and I gave her a bath. By myself. In the bathtub I had cleaned the day before.

While I had the bathroom door shut, the cats chased each other and knocked an entire 32 oz tumbler of chilled water on my chair – and the shawl I was wearing and took off to wash the dog. I crated one cat, toweled up some of the water, told the dog it’d be best if she went into her cage – and she did. With two of the three pets locked up, I left. I walked, I pulled weeds and cried and tried to suck it up but ended up saying, Jesus Christ Good Lord and if you’re a Savior, please, can that be enough for today at least? I’m already weary, I’m already tired. I’m grappling with things my mom said to me that wouldn’t have come up if I hadn’t spoken with my stepmother recently.

Eventually, I calmed down. I extended the walk to the road and picked some milkweed pods a little early, but their shrinking appearance means it’s seeded up inside. I set those on a shelf, walked the garden, picked some tomatoes, assured myself it was ok, things were all sorts of wonk this year with those earlier fumes from Canada.

Inside, I uncaged the brats. I used my hair dryer to help dry the chair. I went outside to retrieve the drenched cushion I threw at some point and by the time – seconds – that took, the dog had gotten a drink of water, came to the chair and wiped its mouth twice, so two more deep wet spots were added to the ocean of wet before I can sit there again.

All of this occurred before I could start the one thing I was going to do which was write a “fan girl” blog post. Now, it’s Saturday evening and I’m editing my rendition of a woman at the end of her rope thinking about her mother.

It’s just that I am trying so damn hard already to keep all these plates that are mine spinning and then there’s another nine plates and I can stop two safely only to find three more popped up – no make that four. Did I mention I was already tired? When I’m not writing, the weight of my thoughts grows until I’m pregnant with a book – sometimes unwanted, lately the too-sickly-to survive kind, but like a real child, crossing my legs won’t work to stop its birth.  

I had started Friday by reading Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s post about social anxiety. I was going to write a companion paragraph response about how being alone with one’s self is essential – but that was pre dog bath. She writes of how she’d come to recognize her previous social self was a front. Me, too, I wanted to say, but the opposite. I learned early on how I was supposed to act which was quiet, pretty, unobtrusive – be not me. It maddened me how my mother made light of everything, joked with everyone outside our home, but inside she was often dark. Now my social mask resembles hers and it unnerves me.

Congrats, too, Melissa -on swamp pink!

I’m on Bluesky now, though urged to whats app, which sounds too risqué somehow. Bluesky feels supportive, my Bestie is there now, plus, I watched a literary zine about crabs get born there so what’s not to love about that kind of social site where writers gather?

I’d like to give a shout out to Laurie Marshall, Hillary Leftwich, Margaret Elysia Garcia and Roberto Carlos Garcia. The second installment of Essentially Poetic Reading Series, a FlowerSong Press program for community building through poetry was a great event. I saw Laurie’s post on FB and wanted to support her – also Hillary, she and I have been soc friends/mutual follower forever it seems. They were fantastic, then I fell in love with the sharpness of Margaret’s poetry and the beauty in Robert’s. He said something about how the writing community is a small world, that we’re all in it. Thank god for that. It’s the writing community that holds me to earth.

Cheryl Pappas had a post about a workshop in January. I was lucky enough to land a spot so now I have something to look forward to in the darkest winter. It’s text based, too, which is a bonus.

Many thanks to star Kim Chinquee for her commitment to write a flash-a-day starting in October. I’m joining her in the challenge. One thing about her room is how 5 words can appear in radically different ways in other writer’s pieces. Cigars are not always cigars, sometimes they are cigarillos.

Nicole Hebdon is the new literary director in town and Melissa Goode has a book coming out soon. The richness continues with the prolific MaryJean Zajac restarting the Hamburg Writer’s group and Matt Boyle invited me to a participate in a play workshop. I missed the Comfort Zone’s latest monthly read-in, but hope to get back to it. Oh, there was a workshop with Ben Brindise and Jared J.B. Stone. Thanks guys! I hope to submit to Variety Pack soon. And I think it was through them that (don’t ask the click sequence) that I found The Failing Writers Podcast which led to my writing a complete flash – the first in I don’t know how long.

Without things like these – bright spots along an unsure way – I don’t know where I’d be, so please support other artists when you can. Spread their word; add your own.

I guess that’s more than enough for now. Thank you for stopping by, for the read, and to the texter who tried to help earlier. Cheers!