Happy Election Day!

Oh, you didn’t know it was election day? Well, surprise! I wish it was the presidential election, but sadly no. Just the little stuff. I’m so tired of watching those TV commercials and the debates. I don’t believe any of it. I just go with what my guts says. What does it say? Don’t vote for Republicans. (I’m laughing a lot on in the inside.. Go Dems!)

In case you didn’t know this, I’m currently unemployed. So, what do the unemployed do with their unfortunate free time? 

1) look for jobs 

2) always tweaking the resume and writing cover letters and 

3) doing random things

 Right now, I am doing number three. I’ve had enough of one and two for awhile and I’m taking a break for a day or two. Of course, in my one/two day hiatus, my dream job will become available and then be filled by someone “more qualified” and with “more experience”.  *sigh* don't get me started.. 

Again, if you’re a loyal reader of my blog, you’ll know that I started to write a story. It wasn’t very long –only a few paragraphs – and it didn’t really have much meaning or anything. I’ve been working on it some more in my “free time”, developing a plot, structure, characters, the works. I even have a working title: Gibson, by Morgan Bergmann. Sounds nice, no?

                

Yeah maybe – it’s a working title.

                

Today is the perfect day to write too. It’s cloudy, rainy, and cold. I am currently sitting on my made bed (which I don’t do very often) in my very clean room (first time in a long time), wearing my favorite sweater, with a dog asleep next to me, a laptop in my lap and a cup of hot chocolate (with the little marshmallows) in my favorite gingerbread man mug next to my typewriter (yes, I have a typewriter).

The only weird thing about this is Sex in the City is on TV and I’m watching it. I don’t watch Sex in the City. So yeah, it’s weird.               

A lot of people don’t understand why I’m writing anything. To quote those people:

                

“It’s not going to come to anything” 

or 

“Shouldn’t you be doing something more productive with your time, like job hunting” 

or my favorite 

“Why? That just sounds like a waste of time”.

               

Wow, that makes me feel so great about myself anonymous people. You’re so nice. My answer to these people is this:

                

“I write late at night, from 11-2 in the morning. What should I be doing at that time other than sleep? Should I be job hunting then?”

                

They’re silent . HA! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it. I do a secret checkmark in my mind, chalk one up for Morgan.

                

But yes, unemployment has allowed me to do some things I otherwise wouldn't. I get to write, I get to see my nieces and nephews a lot more, hang out with friends.. The downside? No money. And that's a pretty big downside. 

Anyway, that was all I had to say. So here is an excerpt from my story/book/thingy: 

       My bedroom door was closed and my parents had removed all the posters I had on the outside. Did they change everything on the inside too? Or is it all the way I left it when I was 17? My hand turned the knob and I was immediately transported to my teen years.

      It still smelled the same, like my lavender and vanilla candles, both of which were still sitting on my desk. The corkboard on the wall was covered with pictures. My sister and me, my old dog Rusty, my best friend Beth, our group of friends at a birthday party, all left untouched. Old books were lined up alphabetically on my bookshelf, mixed with the knickknacks that I loved to collect.

     It looked like the seventeen-year-old me could come strolling through the door any moment and pick up where I left off. I didn’t take anything personal with me to college, except for a few photos of my family. I wanted to start completely over.

     A framed picture of Beth, dusty from my absence, sat my by bed. We were so happy then, our smiles innocent and full of life. God, we were so young. I picked it up and held it close. Beth was the reason I left this town. I couldn’t stand the looks, the whispers behind my back. People were judging me for things I hadn’t done. I put the picture down and closed my eyes and

     I heard the screech of the tires, 

     Beth screaming, 

     People yelling,

     A knock on my door brought me out of my daze before I went fully under. My doctor told me the black outs were a result of the accident. He didn’t know if they’d ever go away, a seemingly permanent reminder of what I had done. This trip was going to be harder than I thought.                 

I dreamed a dream..

This is a picture of my typewriter, I took and edited the picture. I seriously love my typewriter. I love the smell of it, the look of it, the feel of it. I love the way the sunlight bounces off of it in the morning.

No, this is not a love poem about my typewriter. I bought it for $5 at an auction once.

Best money ever spent.

Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be a writer.
I always had quite the imagination and I would just write down all of these stories into my diaries and journals. I had a LOT of those, let me tell you. I've been finding old diaries everywhere. I hoard them, sort of like a squirrel does with nuts.

I remember writing a story for my best friend in high school. I called it her soap opera. It was about her, her boyfriend, me, the guy I had a crush on, our other friend, and her crush. It was fantastic. It was funny, witty, and had a good plot. I just wish I could find it. I didn't have my computer back then, otherwise I know I would still have it. I never delete anything. God, that was amazing.

I used to write poems too. Except I lost most of those. One of my favorites was called "Clouds." I wrote it when I was 12 and I was in our big Astro Van, laying on the seat and looking out the window. I had always been in awe of clouds and that poem just sort of came to me. I remember it started out like this: "big and fluffy, high and small, black and mean, I like them all."
But that's all I can remember and it makes me mad.

Unfortunately, I lost my confidence over the years and now I just don't think I could make it was a writer. I've been out of practice for awhile, ever since I came to college, actually. This is supposed to be the place we pursue our dreams, and instead I gave up on mine. I wanted to major in English and Creative Writing, but that went out the window when I realized I actually wanted to make money.

I read so many books and I think to myself, I could do that. Seriously, I could. I've got talent, right? Then I put the book back down. I'm just some small town Iowa girl who comes from a lower middle class family. I can't do that.

Damn it.

See what I mean? I lose all faith in myself. Well, the other day I was coming home from work. It was a really nice day out, not humid, I'd sad around 80 degrees. The sun was shining, the wind was calm. There were a few puffs of clouds in the bright blue sky. Seriously, perfect.

I had my windows open when I heard the sound of a lawn mower. Then this weird dialogue came into my head, a little narration if you will. I wrote it down as soon as I got home. I didn't know what to make of it.

I never knew how much I missed the smell of fresh cut grass until I came back to town. As I drove by a familiar pink house, the smell wafted in through my open window and brought back memories of hot summer days.

 I didn't think I'd ever come back to this town, and yet here I am, driving down mainstreet like I hadn't been gone for fifteen years.

What the hell is that? I didn't know either. I pulled out my little book (ha, not THAT little black book. No one has those anymore, it's called a cellphone) and started writing more.

The town I grew up in hadn't changed much since I'd been gone. Two old men were sitting on a bench wearing overalls and trucker hats. I'm almost positive they were talking about their corn yield. The 99 cent movie theatre had expanded; it finally had two screens. I heard the library had burnt down and in it's place, the mayor had built a convenience store. How depressing was that?

It was still the same boring town I grew up in. Nothing for teenagers to do but drink underage and vandalize buildings. Been there, done that. What kid in town hadn't? Thinking about that brought up memories I did not want to visit. I sped through downtown and headed for the one place I didn't want to, my parents' house.

I actually rewrote this part about three times. I just don't understand why this came to me..
I wrote out a plot synopsis. I kept changing my mind mid sentence, so a lot of it doesn't really make any sense. I just wanted to get everything and anything down before I forgot. It went about seven thousand different places. But there is one thing I'm sure of.

My main character. Her name is Andie. She's the youngest of four children. Her three older siblings are all successful and have their own families, while Andie is still trying to figure out who she is and what she wants to do with her life. All of her life, she wanted to be a writer (this is not me, trust me on this one) and loved putting her thoughts into words. But in high school, Andie hung out with the wrong crowd. She was tired of never being good enough for her family and living in her siblings' shadows. She did what she could to stand out, even if that meant breaking the law. Her family stopped speaking to her. She went to a college as far away from them and that small town as she could. She never went back home after that. Andie considered herself an only child(something happened that caused this big riff). She put herself through college, getting a journalism degree. After college, she moved to a big city and lived in a crappy apartment. Jobs were hard to come by, so she pays rent by answering phones and tending a bar.. nothing to do with writing at all. She has no idea who she is or what she's going to do with her life. She secretly missed the small town life.. her big city dream is slowly going down the toilet.

I'm not sure where to go, though. Andie's mother, who is the glue that is holding the family together, gets really sick. All of her children go home to take care of her. There is a lot of animosity between the siblings and a lot of fighting goes on and a lot of lose ends get tied. That's all to be developed. I think once I start writing it, it'll all go better. But why would I write it? What's the point? There probably is no point. I'd just spend a lot of my time writing a story that no one will read. Oh well, right? Life goes on.

Maybe I'll just post it on here? No, that's probably not a good idea. Well, whatever. I'll let you know what's going on with that. I've gotten all of my characters figured out, I think. The plot needs work, and I'll probably write an outline shortly. I'm kind of excited. :-) It gives me something to do over the summer anyway.