Blog Will Update Soon!

Over the next few weeks, I will be changing the layout and purpose of The Table In The Corner. Yes, the primary focus will be my life, but I'm going to change it up a bit.

See, I'm currently quitting smoking. My last cigarette was Friday afternoon at exactly 12:00pm. My friends are aware that they must do terrible things to me if they catch me with cigarettes and I'm doing my best to keep my word so they won't do nasty things to me.

My friends are vicious. I do not want to tempt their wrath.

So I'm turning back to my first love, cooking. Did you know that when I was just starting high school, I wanted to be a chef? Yeah, I love food. Both sets of grandparents instilled in me a love of creating edibles, so I've been enamored with it for a long time, but I set aside that dream in favor of one that would, y'know, not make me even fatter than I already thought that I was.

The Table In The Corner is going to be a craft/foodie blog that's going to detail a lot of my personal projects that aren't my writing -- Doing Nothing But Drinking Tea is dedicated to writing, I don't need two blogs that do the exact same thing.

So, over the course of the next few weeks -- probably by the end of December, beginning of January -- I will have updated the blog's image and purpose and gotten some material for posting.

Don't fret, though, if you come in search of wanting to know how my life is going. Cooking and crafting are stress-reliefs for me and I'll probably ramble on about what I'm stressed about / what inspired the latest projects before I start to explain how I made them.

I'll DEFINITELY keep updating about how my process to transition genders is going, but I think I'm going to use a different platform for that story. Will post with updates about when / where that's happening.

Peace out for now, ladies and gentlemen!

~Isaiah.

So, Here I Am.

I've gotten more than a few questions about this in a few different places, online and offline, and I figure I'm not going to have the guts to say it out loud for a little while longer ... so I'm writing it down.

What's up with the name?

Here's The TLDR Version courtesy of my online journal on Gaia Online.

I don't identify with myself as a woman. Standing up, working, moving, confined by a tight support for breasts that are small enough not to be noticed, but feel large enough that I sometimes lose my balance trying to keep them from moving around and chafing or becoming noticeable. I'm not comfortable in my own skin. I never have been.

But I've gotten really good at pretending I am. Dresses, high heels, makeup, styled hair, sexy clothing, revealing attitudes, and a mask so the world can't see how much I hate wrapping myself in girl trimmings, hate the way my skin itches and my face burns from the chemicals and layers of sickening, dirt-smelling powders and goo.

I've gotten good, too, at pretending I'm okay with this deception. There are days that are becoming increasingly less frequent where I feel okay about having breasts and buying new makeup and blushing as strange boys give me compliments and strange girls eye me enviously.

Not gonna lie here: I'm terrified.

I've done my research. I've seen the horror stories, the documentation of the legal battles, and I know that because this is The Internet and invariably, SOMEBODY will read it, somebody I know might find out. Only a few people know. My closest friends, the people of my generation who I trust to look at me as an entity, a person clear and whole, and not as a gender or a name, or a deviant in the eyes of God.

I can put on a brave face with my friends. Yeah, I know who I am. I'm a dude, but with lady parts for a little while longer. My friends can't see my fear. They see me, but only what I let them skim off the surface. The world is a stage and my life is a play with far too many costume changes between scenes.

The thing is, I've done so much pretending, so much hiding, and set aside so much of myself so that I can function like a real human being ... I think I've lost myself in the jumble.

The new name tag at the bottom of my posts (in THIS blog only) is my first step towards rediscovering myself. I have three things guiding me at this point:

[ 1 ] I am a writer, and nothing will ever change that.
[ 2 ] I am not meant to be a woman.
[ 3 ] God is still watching over me.

[ 3 ] is there because God is watching over me. I've struggled for a very long time with my beliefs and my faith. When I realized that I liked girls and came out of the closet, I had to stop going to church because of the hostility towards me. I sought out something new to believe in, a new power to have faith in, and eventually settled on Wicca -- I was quickly told by more than one person on an online Wiccan message board that I wasn't allowed to actually call myself a Wiccan because I wasn't a full-fledged member of one of the eight (or something) original covens started by Charles Gardner, the father of modern Wicca, in the 1950's.

But they were also quick to tell me that I was allowed to call myself whatever I wanted, it just wasn't going to be official. I decided that I was going to call myself hurt and recuse myself from the world of religion indefinitely. If anybody asked, I told them that I was a pagan, got myself a pentacle necklace and some books on witchcraft ... just to feel like I belonged.

I still don't feel like I belong, but I've finally pushed my boulder all the way to the top of the hill and I've realized that God doesn't make mistakes. If God had considered me a mistake, he wouldn't have let me survive that fall down the stairs when I was fourteen, just after I'd come out of the closet as a lesbian. He wouldn't have saved me then, he wouldn't have given me the strength and courage of conviction to rise above and beyond the bullies and homophobes populating my strange, isolated city of birth, and God certainly wouldn't continuously offer me reminders that Life doesn't suck completely.

God is all-knowing, ever-present, and all-powerful. God isn't a babysitter. I know that His purpose in my life is not to hold my hand and shield me from all of the pain and suffering that I am going to face in life. God put me on this earth to live and learn and create and exist and that's what I intend to do.

The name Isaiah, which is the name that I have discovered is my own (it just feels ... right to call myself Isaiah) is a Biblical name, Hebrew for salvation. The name fits me. There's no reason for it fitting me, or for me fitting it, it just ... it feels right.

Currently, the only time I am using the name Isaiah Moretti as my real name is on this blog as my signature. I sometimes submit my writing under the name Isaiah Moretti, but as I still have yet to have anything published, that is neither here nor there yet.

Eventually, once I feel confident enough in myself and my place in this world and seek out the required diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder in order to advance to the steps needed to facilitate gender reassignment surgery, I will legally change my name to Isaiah.

This isn't going to be easy on me or on anybody around me. Nothing important in life is ever easy. But God is walking beside me. Close enough that I can comfort myself with His presence, but not so close that I can use Him as a living shield. I have surrounded myself with people who love me and care for me and I know that no matter what I do or how long it takes me to do it, I'll be okay.

~Isaiah

Today ...

... I will not care. Today, I will have a good day. My day will be amazing. I will not need to cry, or be sad, or be unhappy, or be stressed. Today, I will have the strength to stand up for myself, the wisdom to know when that is appropriate, and the courage to speak my mind.

I will stand up and say, "Hey, can I please get a break soon?" But I will remember to be polite, because I know that my friends have not made these same promises and their days might just be bad. I will face those bad days with a coffee and a smile and a shoulder to cry on and an ear to scream into because today, I will not be selfish either.

Today, I will create, elaborate, dedicate, recreate, and all those great things ending with "Aey"-"Tee"-"Eee" because today, I refuse to be two-dimensional, hiding in the background, fading and falling and waiting and calling out into the silence of my own creation.

There are people out there, somewhere -- everywhere -- who consider living a job. To those people, I say, "You're right." Specializing, focusing, eating, breathing, we're being paid to do them. We've got the privilege of being on this earth and when we screw up big time here, we get fired and we lose that privilege. Nay-sayers will say and neigh that we've all lost that privilege already, but we are not a singular unit. We are not the Borg, we are not Legion -- we can't even tell what's going on in our own heads sometimes!

We're only paid with a short amount of time here on this earth. Some of us will go straight for that golden chalice and spend their entire lives trying to stay young so they can keep hold of that gaudy golden chalice. Some of us, well, we'll go for the carpenter's cup and be happy with ourselves for our whole lives. Most of us will fall somewhere in the middle.

Some of us won't get the chance to decide where we fall. We'll just ... fall. And when we do, we'll pray for somebody to come along and pick us up, offer us a dirty penny or share their meal with us, but few will.

Few will because they think that we made this choice to be out here, freezing in the wintertime, trying to keep a grip on our privilege until the next winter rolls around. We're not people to those people, we're not even animals. We're filth because we're not reaching for that golden chalice and we can't even seem to hold onto our carpenter's cup.

So today, I will stand up straight and tall and proud and be happy with my carpenter's cup and my small little shelter, no matter what happens or who happens or why happens, I will not care!


~Emily Grace
~Isaiah Moretti

How To Build Your Castle

... figuratively speaking, of course.

In this case, your castle is a shining tribute to your self-esteem and temperament. Crappiest metaphor evarr but that's what I'm working with because that's what I've got.

I went over a few months ago what "New Writer's Shroud" was, and how it afflicted new and seasoned writers alike, and the various evils thereof. This post is all about how to shrug off "New Writer's Shroud" and face the shining, brilliant literary world that's out there.

Step One: Learn How To Take Criticism.

This is by far the most important step in building your castle. Once you've learned that The Critic isn't somebody who can actually physically hurt you, you'll be able to start picking out colour schemes, painting murals, and hanging tapestries because your castle will be nearly complete.

There's a few different types of criticism out there, from The Critic's dickish demands that you throw yourself over the edge of a cliff because you suck that much, to The Unrelenting Fan who thinks that there's nothing better in the world than every single goddamn thing you deign to put on the page no matter how crappy it actually is. No matter where it's coming from, no matter what form it is in, as The Writer, it is your job to not react.

That's right. When you're given criticism of any kind, your primary directive is to have no outward emotional response to it. You're a big kid now and the sandbox arguments of who is a stupid doo-doo head and who looks like which popular lolcat in human form is something you should have outgrown by this point. Getting into snarky, snappy, invective-filled arguments with the people criticizing you is just going to end up with one outcome: You'll look stupid, they'll be vindicated, and you'll walk away hurt and discouraged.

That being said, you can have any opinion you want about the criticism you've gotten. The only thing you need to remember is to keep that information as private as possible. Talk to your friends, parents and/or significant others, but keep your feelings OFF of the internet and away from any place where people can see them. If you make a big, public spectacle out of a bad review or a piece of criticism you didn't like, you're going to be made to look like an overreacting idiot.

The second part of Step 1 is to always, always, always look for ways to improve. We never stop learning and we never stop aiming for perfection. And why is this still a part of Step 1? Because no matter what form it comes in, there's (usually) ALWAYS something to be gained from criticism.

Like I mentioned in my post about "New Writer's Shroud," you need to be able to dig through the comments and find out exactly what is or isn't valuable. This is a skill everybody needs to develop eventually, whether you're a writer, a scientist, a chef, or a politician. The best way to do this is to rewrite the criticism as if you were taking notes in class. The response or review to your work is the textbook, and you're taking only the important information out of it.



Step Two: Practice, Practice, Practice!

I mentioned it earlier, and now I'm going to go into detail about it.

It is the nature of all human beings to try and be the best. We are social, competitive beings -- and even if we do not actively attempt to become the best, we're always thinking about what we could have.

Writers are human beings (despite all the jokes we make otherwise.) We need to keep it in our heads that no, we're not the best. We're not the greatest author evarr and we're not making billions of dollars off book deals, movie series', merchandise, or cranking out enough profitable work to pay our bills.

Hell, we've all probably got full-time jobs on top of the work we do writing, right?

The fact that we're probably not making a whole pile of moolah off of our writing is no reason to slack off, though! Practice makes perfect, ladies and gentlemen, and it takes dedication, hard work, and a willingness to accept that we're NOT perfect in order to make our writing better.

Once you've got it in your head that while you're not the best, with a few more novels and a few dozen more short stories you could be, you're well on your way to finishing off that lovely castle of yours.



Step Three: Do Not EVER Give Up.

There are always going to be nay-sayers and haters. The people who think you're a hack, a copycat, a moron, a lazy writer, a bad writer. They exist. And when you eventually get published, you will encounter them.

How do you not take their words to heart?

Uh, well, duh. Don't listen to them. The people who are solely fixated on tearing you down? They're trying to force you out of the game for whatever petty reason they have, and it is up to you to keep your chin up and your feet moving towards your ultimate goal (whatever that may be.)

Do not EVER let somebody else strong-arm you into giving up your passion. You're writing for a reason, right? So write! And let all those nay-sayers and haters scream and rant all they want. They can't get to you in your shining castle of self-esteem and dedication to your craft.




Follow your dreams, and never let anybody take them away from you.

~Emily Grace
~Isaiah Moretti

Being a girl SUCKS.

I hate being a girl.

I hate bleeding for six to eight days a month.

I hate taking a highly ineffectual pill -- sometimes two -- and spending two days curled up in the fetal position with a heating pad.

I hate the mood swings.

I hate the inexplicable need to cry over sad movies.

I hate craving chocolate and high-fat-content foods.

I hate the lethargy.

I hate using girlie supplies and still needing to bleach my panties afterwards.

And above all, I HATE being reminded that I don't have a penis.




I'm gonna go curl up in a corner and die for a few days. I'll update again when I'm in in my hometown watching the play I helped write being produced by my old drama company.

~Emily Grace

The Weekend!

Today is Saturday and it marks the first official weekend that I've had -- that's actually BEEN a weekend -- in almost four months. Between work, life, moving, unpacking, repacking, drama coming out of my EARS, rodent problems, and friends, I haven't had two days of NOTHING to myself in almost four freaking months.

And now that I have the weekend, I'm going to be doing what I should've been doing months ago:

Writing, submitting, and making money.

... and drinking grape juice. Yum!

~Emily Grace

Yay!

I don't have to look for a new job! My manager sat me down and told me he'd feel horribly guilty for letting me leave under the circumstances I stated were my reasons for leaving, so he basically said "what can I do to keep you here?" so we worked out a bargain. No more drive-through, no more up-at-too-early-for-God, and I still get weekends off.

Now I remember why I love my job and the people I work with. This is why it felt like acid in my gut when I told him I was quitting. There will always be ups and downs, but between my therapist and my boss, I'm gonna be okay.

Speaking of boss ... Guess what's in two months?

Have YOU started your NaNoWriMo prepwork yet?

I have.

~Emily Grace

Tomorrow's the day.

Tomorrow marks the three month anniversary of my new apartment. So far, our landlords have been wonderful to myself and my new roommate, my roommate and I haven't killed each other yet, and not once have I been late and/or unable to pay my rent and utility bills.

Tomorrow, I need to tell my manager that I'm quitting. I've thought about it long and hard. I've discussed it with my therapist and my friends. Everybody agrees that while it is a wonderful place to work -- hell, I think its a wonderful place to work -- that it isn't the place where I should be working. I need to get out of the coffee business for a little while.

I'd like to get out of the customer service business altogether, actually, but that's kind of impossible right now ... maybe later. Maybe when I'm published. Maybe when I'm dead.

Wish me luck. I'll post again tomorrow with the results.

~Emily Grace

Decisions, decisions ...

I've been given a pseudo-ultimatum. Not necessarily "do this or we'll fire you" but more of a less-than-friendly "we need to know what your plans are so we can plan for replacing you." Kind of makes you feel like you don't have any worth, you know?

Everybody is an employee at one point in their lives. The replaceable, unimportant facet of a corporation with a million other replaceable, unimportant facets. A job that needs to be done, a person to do the job. To them, the corporate overlords for lack of a better term, you aren't a person, per se. They can't afford to view you as one. They need to be concerned about costs, productivity, and customer service.

The lower-downs -- the store managers, the shift supervisors, the baristas -- they've got a more humane view of things. They see the replaceable, unimportant facets as more than replaceable, unimportant facets and make a more human connection. These human connections make work as an employee more tolerable and less like toiling under the overseer's gaze.

The customers ... they are hit-and-miss. Some days, you get the customers who treat you worse than they treat their garbage simply because they are the customer and they are right. And every day, you get your regulars -- the people who have seen you grow from a new hire to an established member of the employee group, maybe even see you gain a bit of seniority while you're at it. Most of the time, though, the crap customers outweigh the warmth the regulars offer.

I love my job. I love my customers, even the bad ones, because I feel safe standing behind the counter with my green apron on over my neatly ironed black collared shirt.

At least ... I used to.

With the re-emergence of my anxiety issues, I've hit a downward spiral. A downward spiral that has been obvious, which has only made things worse. I don't like it when my flaws are so noticeable that people comment on them, from innocent inquiries as to my health and the health of my family to flat-out statements that I'm grumpier and not myself, and haven't been for at least a few weeks.

Weeks.

I let myself slip for a few weeks without realizing it. I've usually got a tight iron grip on my emotions and I have so many methods of diversion to keep people from actually seeing how small and fragile I actually am. For a few weeks, though, I've lost my grip on those defenses that have gotten me so far in my life. And because I lost my grip ... well, that was the first part of this little pity-fest.

I like my job. I really do. I get to meet so many interesting people and hear so many interesting stories that I usually don't notice the little things that usually bother me about my coworkers or my job in general. Lately, though, those things have been getting to me and with the request of a formal plan of "staying or going and when" has gotten me thinking: What's actually making me happy?

It isn't customer service. I can get the same type of human interaction by going to a bar in a low-cut dress and no underwear, I really don't need to be harassed by men and women who think that they own me because they're forking out six bucks for a coffee and a piece of bread.

It isn't the free coffee. Seriously, I'd rather just drink Nabob at home every morning. I don't need a gourmet drink every other hour just because I work there. Do you know how many calories are in a Caramel Macchiato?

It isn't the coworkers. I'm not even going to get started on this one.

It isn't the managers. Well, I should say assistant manager. And again, I'm not getting into it.

Well ... why am I still there? Obviously, the situation isn't healthy for me. With the re-emergence of my anxiety disorders and my slowly slipping defenses, my position isn't what's best for me or for the few gems of customers we serve every day. But I still love my job.

I don't know why, I just do.

But as much as I love my job, I love being sane more. And my current position is slowly chipping away at that precarious pedestal I'm crouched on.

On the other hand, my position is offering me stability. Set shifts. Constant and complete control over my routines. The ability to have a life without needing to plan it around my shifts. Stability is something that I crave, because stability is healthy. Stability means safety.

So, September First is my "deadline." I hate calling it that ... it makes me feel like I'm being forced into a corner with no way out. Which I am, in a way. I told them it would take me at least a week to decide what my plans would be for my employment, so they took the minimum and ensured that I'd have an answer when it was convenient for them -- since they are always looking five months ahead, and all.

If I leave, they won't be hurting for staff. They won't have a hard time finding somebody to fill my place.

If I stay, I risk more powerful and more debilitating anxiety attacks, but I'm guaranteed my place. I'm also being told by my therapist that I need to either quit or go back on my anti-psychotics, which would prevent me from working more than four hours at a time anyways.

Decisions, decisions ...

~Emily Grace

Summer from Hell

I've just survived the worst possible summer that a lower-middle-class girl can possibly survive in a suburban/rural town in Southern Manitoba. Between landlord issues with my old landlords and my anxiety issues popping back up, it has not been a fun time.

But I'm determined to fix my life. I am determined to fix myself too.

I've made myself a daily list of tasks to complete. Things that might be common to you, habitual, I haven't had the luxury of holding onto through all the chaos of the last twelve months. Things like eating breakfast, combing my hair, putting on my makeup, cooking dinner after work ... but I'm getting my habits back. I'm still paying rent on a regular basis. I haven't fucked that up yet. I'm still earning a paycheck. I might've fucked that one up, but I can still fix it.

Here's hoping. I'm going to start blogging again regularly because this makes sense to me. It helps. Nobody's reading this, but to be able to put my problems on a page and detach myself from them, look at them logically ... it helps. Therapy writing.

I'll be updating Tea and Tales and Doing Nothing But Drinking Tea on a more regular basis as I work on my publishing goals, so keep an eye out for my announcements and updates on the review blog and the posting blogs. And last but not least, keep me in your thoughts and minds as I try to work my way back into normal society.

~Emily Grace

I'm Safe

This past month, I've been working steadily towards one goal: Self-publishing something. The semester ended at university, thank GOD, and I have no intentions of going back.

You'll notice a new theme / site thing. I'm getting better at Blogger customization. I've also gotten better at procrastination.

The book review blog is going well.

This is a very tiny post, but I really don't have anything else to say right now.

... I think.

I'm forgetting something.

What am I forgetting?

Think, think, think ...




OH RIGHT!!!!!!

I've been evacuated from my house. The floodwaters are threatening the health and safety of about 700 people in my city, me amongst them, so I'm off and away from there. I'm staying at my aunt and uncle's while they're out of town -- my uncle has qualified for the MS Liberation Surgery in Phoenix, so he and my aunt are off doing that while the grandparents stay at the house and watch my nephews -- and ... yeah.

I'm safe. Still waiting to be able to go home and snuggle with the roommate and the cats and be happy and working again.

(Starbucks is shut down too. Its located only twenty feet away from the Gargantuan Sandbags of DOOOM that are holding back the UNHOLY WATER OF DOOOM, so we're out. Thank God Starbucks isn't like other Corporate Overlords and actually care about the employees. I actually had the district manager call me and make sure I was alright, because my new house is right there in the exact same area of the Starbucks, and she wanted to make sure I was safe and sound and had a place to stay and all that jazz. I love the people I work with and for. They're all amazing.)

Peace,
Emily Grace

Disconcerting.

I signed the lease on my house today, and paid my first month and my damage deposit. I have my keys and I know how to get there on my own. (When I was viewing it initially, and when I returned to meet the landlords, I engaged my aunt to be my chaperone. Again, I'm an 18 year old girl. I have a brain. I use that brain to keep myself safe and to know when I'm doing things that are way out of my depth, like apartment hunting and discussing rental agreements.)

The current tenant and I discussed, at great length, what my move-in date would be "officially". We eventually came to the agreement that the day I signed the papers would be my "official" move-in date, and I would be a legal tenant from that date. The landlords agreed, so . . . today was that day.

I'm not living in the same city, or region, as my parents or a majority of my belongings, so next weekend, my parents will be bringing me my own bed from home, along with a few other basic necessities of life (like what I had to leave behind when I moved into my dormitory.)

It's amazing what can accrue over eight months of residence in a place.

I have more clothes than when I moved in. I have more shoes. I have a large box dedicated to notebooks alone. I have triple the amount of books I once had, and that's not including my textbooks. I have a printer, a fridge, a laptop and a television. My collection of movies has quadrupled, as has my assortment of towels and face cloths.

And now they're all in boxes and suitcases, ready to be shifted from my dormitory to my new house. And it is a house . . . a house shared between myself and one other girl, very close to my workplace and a shopping centre, and far enough away from a main road that it is a relatively quiet and safe neighborhood.

I have a ninja plan with my in-town relatives to move all of my stuff over long before my parents arrive, so we can just spend the weekend hanging out and having fun and being a family and adjusting to the fact that I WILL NOT be moving back home to the Back-Assward Corner of Nowhere and Nothing. (That last one is more for my parents than me . . .)

It is disconcerting, to say the least, to be moving into your own place for the first time. I'm not entirely sure if I'll be able to last. Working full-time, paying rent, saving up money for what I want . . .

Oh my Gods . . .

I've got to be an adult now.

I thought I could put that off for a little longer, but . . .

At least I'll have my own place to put Ninja Coffee Cup, instead of a little tiny room with a bunch of other rooms with people in them around it.


Wish me luck. I've finished packing my books and stuff, and now I'm working on my clothing . . . Anybody have any tips or tricks for getting over the anxiety of seeing your life reduced to boxes and suitcases?



Peace,
Emily Grace

So, I'm angry.

I'm VERY angry right now.

A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) was looking for somebody to go to the bar with him and his girlfriend. I had just gotten home from Starbucks (dorm was being noisy so I took my study notes and left) and found him wandering around. I said I would be happy to go to the bar with him, as long as I didn't have to meet him there and/or go to the bar by myself.

I'm an eighteen year old girl. I know better than to go to a bar on a Saturday night by myself. I have a brain, I use said brain to keep myself safe.

He said that was fine, that we'd all be meeting at the dorm and going from there. I say okay, I go get ready.

Ten thirty, I text him to tell him I'm ready to go when he is, he just needs to text me to tell me where to meet him and his girlfriend and we'd all catch a cab together. He texts me back saying OKAY.

An hour and fifteen minutes pass, I'm still waiting for him. So I text him again at 11:45 to see what the deal is, when we're all heading to the bar. He texts me back and where is he?

He's at the fucking bar already.

The bastard fucking forgot me.

I'm an understanding person. I can forgive a lot, I can let a lot of things slide. When I am going out of my way, putting aside my personal interests (studying for my exams, in this instance) in order to do something for somebody else, and that gets thrown back in my face? Nuh-uh, not gonna fly.

He wanted somebody else there with him, aside from his girlfriend, because said girlfriend was open and honest about being a social butterfly and said, yes, I'm going to dance with my friends, most of which are guys, please don't get jealous sweetie. He wanted somebody else there he could hang out with - as a friend, somebody to lean on, somebody for support.

I offered to do that for him, setting aside the three exams I need to study for and all the boxes I still have to pack so I'm ready to move into my new house, and he forgot me.

He kept saying he was sorry over texts, but I, quite frankly, didn't care. I was - and still am - so angry, I couldn't see straight. I've ended friendships over far less. I've worked my butt off to help him, to give him advice, to be there for him whenever he needs me . . . and then he just forgets me.

I don't know if I'll be able to forgive him. I'm angry and I'm hurt and I know for a fact that he doesn't understand exactly what I'm angry and hurt about, because he's dense like that.

I've put down my ninja coffee cup for the night. Rye and Cokes, double shots, no ice. All alone in my dorm room, while I'm packing to move into my new house, and in between reading chapters of Intro to Socio-Cultural Anthropology.



Peace,
Emily Grace

Sitting in Starbucks

I'm writing this post from my Friendly Neighborhood Starbucks store (the ONLY Friendly Neighborhood Starbucks store in this town, actually) and I'm wondering things.

If you've seen it on Facebook and Twitter (its probably calmed down by now, but about two and a half weeks ago, it was viral all over the net) then you know about the Jacqueline Howett debacle. The Self-Published authoress threw a shit fit over a review posted about her book, The Greek Seaman. Big Al of Big Al's Books and Pals was wonderfully polite in dealing with her ranting and he was even polite when she - a woman who is in her 50's at the very least, according to her own blog - descended into expletives at anybody who commented on the blog supporting Big Al and his review of her book.

Compared to about 80% of the reviews I've looked at of self-published works, it was gloriously polite. I read the preview of The Greek Seaman on Amazon, and I was quite frankly shocked by the quality. But the plotline was solid, the characters were interesting, and if you ignored the mass of spelling and grammar mistakes, it was an engaging read. Big Al was honest, to-the-point, and very, very flattering towards Ms Howett, and she threw that back in his face within TWO DAYS of his posting of the review.

Talk about immature, huh? One thing an author should never do in regards to a review is flame the reviewer for writing it. ESPECIALLY when, for the most part, the review is flattering.

So, it got me thinking. She's damaged the reputation of Indie and self-published authors. I'm going to do something I never thought I'd want to do:

I'm starting my own book review blog, dedicated solely to reviewing the works of self-published and indie authors.

Why?

Well . . . why not? I'm an avid reader, and this will give me a good chance to not only express my opinions, but to maybe read the next Edgar Allen Poe or Charles Dickens of the 21st Century before they get famous. To assist with this, I'm working seriously on my own self-published project to get into the mindset of what's what and where's where, and at the moment, I'm working on my submission guidelines.

If you have looked at my own story-posting blog which, I'm ashamed to say, I haven't updated in awhile because Life's kicked me in the teeth (see my previous post) then you'll see I write things all across the board. I want to read all across the board as well.

I'm currently working on submission guidelines, I made a Gmail account specifically for this so I'm not getting my submissions lost in the abyss that is my yahoo account, and I'm advertising in my Gaia signature that I'm looking for self-published works to review.

We'll see where this goes.

Wish me luck!


Peace,

Emily Grace

Ninja Coffee Cup Strikes Again!

I've decided that my ninja coffee cup is becoming a much better ninja.

Ninja Cup was forgotten approximately 800 kilometers north of where I'm currently living. I took it home for Christmas so I could have my traditional cup of Christmas Ogn (yes, that's spelled right. I'll post the recipe for my Christmas Ogn when the season rolls around again) right before opening the first present on Christmas Morning. Because I had to go to work on New Year's Eve, I was in a rush to pack my things and I left my oh-so-amazing ninja coffee cup in the dishwasher at my parents' place.

Well, about two weeks after it happened, I called my mother in a panic, who reassured me that my mug was safe and sound, tucked away up high and hidden behind some old cups in the cupboard where my dumbass brother couldn't find it, and that it would be waiting for me when I moved back home for the summer.

That was a laugh in and of itself. Never, not once in any of the time since I started my first year of university, did I ever indicate that I would ever be moving back to the ass-end of nowhere on the corner of Nothing Way to live with my parents, a brother I despise, and be stuck in a very isolated Northern community. And when my mother was telling me this over the phone, I had been sitting at my computer responding to "Roommate Wanted" ads.

That was the end of that, and I got myself a new mug. It was . . . nice, but it wasn't my ninja mug.

Fast forward to about three days ago. I had a massive kick-to-the teeth from Life. I lost the apartment that I was all set to move into for (of all reasons) my would-be Roommate's parents were giving him shit for letting a girl move in with him. My age had nothing to do with it, my sexuality had nothing to do with it, it was just the sheer fact that I was a girl that made him tell me I wasn't allowed to move in anymore. The day before that, my ex-girlfriend attempted suicide and I was a nervous wreck. And to top it all off, living in residence at university was very quickly becoming intolerable.

(Read: My neighbors enjoyed noisy, raucous, bed-hitting-the-wall, flesh-hitting-flesh, unnecessarily-loud-and-unconvincing moaner sex every night for two weeks straight, for long, long, long hours that stretched from midnight to just past 5 AM every single fucking night.)

So I was having a rough time of it. I ended up taking my Replacement Kung-Fu mug (it wasn't cool enough to be a ninja, it just knew kung-fu) coffee cup and throwing it against the side of the building while I was outside having a cigarette. It shattered, leaving me without a carry-along mug once again.

Anger, sadness, and a whole rainbow of emotions just punched me in the chest and I doubled over sobbing and screaming and ranting at God for letting things get this bad.

And that's when I sobered up. I was drunk on emotions, not a substance, although I went back to my room and drank half a 24 of Vodka straight from the bottle about ten minutes after that. Anyways . . . I knew it wasn't God's fault that this shit was happening. God created us, he doesn't need to sit around and babysit us like we're perpetually two. He gave us free will for a reason.

After I finished chugging the vodka, I started digging through my boxes in order to find my regular old coffee cups. I needed something caffeinated to wash down the booze.

Guess what I found?

Tucked at the very bottom of the box my coffee cups were in, was my ninja coffee cup. It was a bit beaten up and dirty, but it was there. I called up my mom and she went and checked the cupboard and, sure enough, where she'd tucked my ninja coffee cup was empty of said ninja coffee cup. She hadn't touched it, my brother swore on his bong that he hadn't touched it, and Dad was at work so we couldn't ask him and . . .

Well, ninja coffee cups are ninja and sometimes there just aren't explanations for what's happened with them. I made myself a cup of tea after giving my ninja cup about fourteen different baths of dish soap and scrubbing it really well, then puked my guts up because I drank twelve ounces of vodka in the span of twenty minutes. Drinking to excess in a short amount of time has never been a strong suit with me, but give me a glass of water and peanuts on the table and I can drink heavyweights under the table . . .

I've seen my ninja coffee cup show up at work twice since it got home, neither times when it was anywhere near where my work stuff is usually kept.

Its a NINJA. And its getting BETTER because I no longer have ANY explanation for what the fuck's going on.

And once I get a camera, I will post PICTURES of the NINJA.


Peace,

Emily Grace

New Stuff, and "New Writer's Shroud"

If you'll check out my profile, you'll see that I've got a new blog. I'm sure that any of you who read The Happy Notes know that it's no longer a daily blog (and I'm very sad that I've had to do that, but y'know, my girlfriend and my life are more of a priority than the internet is) and now . . . you all get to see why I post up the most random-ass nonsense I can cobble together and call it "inspiration".

Because I write the most random-ass nonsense from all those little pieces of bits and bobbles from here, there, and over and yon. And you can now view it all on there.

I'm still trying for publication, but I think I need to work on my separation a bit first. See, I'm still in the "New Writer's Shroud" as I call it. I've posted up my work for human consumption, advertised that I've done so in a few public forums, and pimped myself out to my friends, under the assumption that this is the best shit the world has ever seen or ever will see again.

This is a common flaw of all new writers. Well . . . not necessarily a flaw, but definitely a common trait. When we all first start out, we think that what we've written down is the best thing in the world and we hold it so near and dear to our hearts that it causes us physical and mental distress when somebody comes along and points out the flaws and mistakes in our word babies. We haven't yet learned to treat our works of fiction as separate entities from ourselves. I know that my writing isn't a piece of my soul, and I still have a wee bit of trouble accepting a lot of criticism about my writing.

I've come a long way, though, from when I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen. Back then, if somebody had pointed out something as small as a misplaced comma (let alone all of the bullshit characterization errors, continuity errors, and generally crappiness of the plotline) I would've burst into tears, cursed them with vitrol, and demanded that they take back their hateful, hurtful words all because they were jealous that I was so young and had already written more than they had in their entire lives.

Yeah . . . I wasn't a very smart fourteen year old.

Anyways, I've gotten better. I accept that most of the time, the people who are offering me criticism know what they're talking about. Sometimes they don't, but sometimes they do. And I've accepted that because I'm not some speshul leetle ritter grl, people won't offer me candy to go along with their critiques. Not everybody is sunshine and rainbows, especially not in the world of the Critic.

In that "New Writer's Shroud" though, there's more than just our assumption that our work is perfect and pure and untouchable by all because it's perfect and pure. There are the people who are critical just to be mean. The Critic is a person who will go out of their way to state what is wrong, why it is wrong, and why you're a moron for fucking up in so many epic ways. These people, while they may have valid points, are dicks. Mature writers know to look into the spooge of insults and find the points that they actually need to look at, those under the "New Writer's Shroud" will more often than not become discouraged and delete the piece / abandon the piece / break down and behave like a temper tantrum toddler for a good long while.

The Critic is a dick, but that doesn't mean The Critic should be ignored entirely. The way to beat The Critic is to give a polite "Thank you for your critiques and for the time you took to give them." Following that, The Critic's comment should be looked over carefully for any nuggets of wisdom that might be hidden behind the snark, dickiness, and/or bitchiness.

EG:

Are you fucking kidding me? Why the fuck would you have that many commas in a sentence? Are you some sort of moron? Is English even your first language? That first paragraph isn't even a paragraph! Are you fucking NEW?

That is an example that comes straight from my File O' Failures. I've got a rule to never throw anything pertaining to my writing away, and that includes the critiques I get from others. This gem was given to me one cold, blustery December evening after I'd gotten a short story assignment back from the classmate it had been handed to for critiques. (We'd all traded assignments so we could be impartial about what we were commenting on.) Needless to say the teacher was less than impressed with the comments, and there were dozens more along the same vein as the one above, but can YOU spot the helpful comments hidden amongst the mocking vulgarity?

He pointed out that I had a lot of commas. I took it back to my editing board after the guidance counselor calmed me down and got me to stop ripping up the printed copy of my story and, sure enough, I had used WAY too many commas. I've still got a problem with commas, oddly enough . . . you can probably see that.

He also pointed out that my first paragraph wasn't actually a paragraph. And sure enough, I looked at it, and it was just one massive run-on sentence.

Not all criticism is this harsh, but you always need to be able to answer politely and take into account what is said. The separation part of "New Writer's Shroud" is something I still have yet to master, so I'll only say this:

The first draft will always suck. That's what the editing board is for. Chop it up, hack it into little pieces, and only do it in front of people who care about you enough not to point and laugh as you're sobbing over words on a page, or an overly apathetic cat. The "New Writer's Shroud" doesn't last forever, so constantly try to remember that your work is not your physical body and that you won't die if somebody doesn't like it.

Man, this is gonna suck when I actually get a decent chunk of people READING those things . . . Oh well.


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Um, hey, did you notice the name change? No? Well, good. DNBDT was a better title for my story-posting blog, so I put it there and returned this one to my original title for it, Table In The Corner, because I'm kind of perpetually sitting at the table in the corner, no matter where I go or what I do.

Soyah . . . my pitiful attempt at a philosphical-like titles and . . . and stuff.


Peace.