MissMeliss: Escribition

This is a solicitation.

Writers, by and large, do not have cushy offices or corporate benefits like paid vacations or medical benefits. While I’m fortunate enough to be married to a man who is supportive of my aspirations (and gives me access to his employee health plan), taking a week off to attend a writers conference/workshop in San Francisco means I don’t work for a week, and that impacts my income.

I’ve got generous parents who gifted me with the price of the conference itself, because they believe in my talent and my dream, but San Francisco is not an inexpensive city, and I’m a little bit stressed about expenses, because I still have to offset airfare, hotel bills, and food while I’m there.

That’s why I’m asking you, my friends and readers, to help out, by donating to The Fiction Fund. This isn’t a charity. Your donation is not tax deductible. I had to do a lot of soul-searching to even ask, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

Here’s how it works:
- I’ve got a PayPal “donation” button in my sidebar.
- If you donate anything between $1 and $5, I’ll write a 100-word “verbal snapshot” or “distilled moment” based on a keyword you provide (keep it clean, please). At the bottom of the post there will be a line reading, “This post inspired by YourName.”
- If you donate more than $5, the attribution line at the bottom of your post will include a link to your website or blog.
- If you’d prefer to be an anonymous donor, that’s fine with me.

Posts will appear at:
Itinerant Imagination dot Com

Please don’t:
- tell me this is tacky
- offer criticism that isn’t constructive

Please do:
- Offer supportive notes, even if you can’t contribute cash.
- Tell me your favorite places in San Francisco
- Wish me lots of luck. My goal is not to come home without an agent.

With no small amount of trepidation, I entered the dentist’s office this morning not for any drilling or pulling, but for a cleaning, and general exam. Mai, the hygienist, was sweet and gentle, even giving me a neck rest without having to be asked, and her touch was sure and deft.

After, Dr. F. went over my X-rays, and we plotted a treatment solution (that sounds so Hunt for Red October doesn’t it?) involving no root canals, two crowns, and more fillings than I care to tally.

Sometimes, trips to the dentist aren’t horrifying at all.

Really.

Clouds growing ever thicker each time I glanced upwards hovered in the sky all day, finally darkening to ominous bruised masses just as we left home to drive to Dallas for workshop. In Starbucks, one of the places we stopped on the way, a baristo tried to wager $100 that it would not actually rain.

I should have taken the bet, because the skies opened up three minutes into our journey. While I tracked flashes of lightning, Fuzzy turned up the radio, and focused on driving. In my head, though, I was in a boat chasing sharks on choppy seas.

A friend wrote about making chef for a specific kind of bread, and I find myself wistful for the time when had time to putter in my kitchen and experiment with bread crafting. Now I see my kitchen as a vast wasteland of sky blue tile and cobalt blue appliances, the former marred only by doggie footprints, the latter dust free only because the maids make certain of it.

I remember baking with my grandfather, whose sourdough chef bubbled and grew on the counter over the dishwasher, and think he would be disappointed that I’m not keeping his legacy alive.

With the changing of the calendar page we step from July into August. My month. It was a less than positive beginning – having to backtrack home from a point almost half-way to work because I forgot my access badge.

The argiope is back in hiding, but she’s left behind a renewed NEED to write. I am entertaining the notion of being a virtual assistant. The need to earn be happy should not be outweighed by the need to earn a living wage.

Work still makes me cry, but the possibility of change brings a smile to dry the tears.

I spent the day wrapped in metaphysical cotton,waking from feather-soft sleep to muted grey light beyond my window, created not from clouds but the absence of morning sun. It was false dawn which greeted me.

At work, there was an element of disconnection, as if I was observing events, but not really participating, at least until an errant sheet of paper sliced my right index finger.

With the welling of my blood came the sudden onslaught of noise and activity, as if the cotton had finally been ripped away, and I was once more part of the world.

An open letter from a friend has me considering colors. What does it mean that forest green is a comforting color to me, and why don’t I have much blue in my wardrobe, when I love the colors of the ocean so? Today, not feeling well, I wrapped myself in white cotton and a comforter of navy, cobalt, periwinkle and white, and slept away the afternoon, choosing to lose three hours of work rather than force myself to get through the day, only to lose more time tomorrow. Soft green leafy thoughts cushioned my mind while I dreamed peaceful things.