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.