Just cluckin' around

There's nothing noble about struggle. Struggle sucks. That's the whole fucking definition of struggle, is something that sucks so you have to get over it one way or the other. It's just a matter of survival.

I'm on a WUSC CD raid, surfing the wireless. I love it up here. The studio's a cocoon of sunlight and music that makes me want to stay wrapped up listening forever. And the library is a claustrophobia of weirdass, non-top 40 possibilities.
If you haven't heard Alice Russell's cover of "Crazy," you should. It turns Gnarls Barkley into a gospel ballad. During my show, Bill called from work to ask who the hell was that, which made me smile inside. It's a small triumph, as I'm much more impressionable than I am able to impress when it comes to music (see also: Mr. E, Katie, Dad). When I am able to play someone something I think they'll love and they actually do, it's amazing. (See also, the Black Keys, Everybody Else.) Such a power trip. I know what you want too, see?

I didn't go with Bill to 1618's meeting this morning because I felt terrible after a bout of insomnia last night. Most of the time I spent hating Bill and bracing myself for the job of breaking up with him.
The thoughts (I'm so fucking sick of spending time with him; just get the fuck out of my bed already; this is never going to work out long term so why are we even trying?; I hate his puns so very, very badly...on and on like they were riding a merry-go-round that picked up speed) mostly come during the night time when I can't sleep. I'm trying to figure out which voice is the real truth, the night one or the day one.
My throat was on fire (so, natural genius I am at decoding my body's signals, I had a Beezer's chicken sub covered in buffalo sauce) but after an ice cream cone it feels better. I'm suppose to call him at 2pm so I can tell him whether or not I feel better.

We both like oral sex for him. His penis (I've named it Sunshine) feels cool and smooth against the roof of my mouth.
The smell is overpower for him and embarrassing for me when he ventures south of my equator but oh, the wonders an exploring tongue can find down there.

Current project:
I haven't started writing another story yet but I have an idea. I've had it for months but am just now seriously thinking about writing it down. It's about magical shampoo.

Certified barbeque judge

I should tell Dad that there is such a thing as certified barbecue judges. That's his dream job, or at least in his all-time top five.

Current project:
Finished "The Vacation Bed" between history and computer lab this morning, filling the last page and a half while crammed up next to the vending machine in Gambrell's canteen. (Occasionally I'd get distracted by people who put money in the wonky drink one and watch them watch the defective belt whirl to itself for a good ten minutes.) Ended up not putting the abortion stuff in there, because it just didn't fit.
Typed it between lunch and finishing my InDesign project. (My computer lab instructor scared the shit out of me by saying that the project wasn't showing up on my flashdrive because I didn't copy it right, which meant I'd have to do it all over, starting with a journey to the bottom of the j-school to download the template again. Turns out that on a Mac, that, you know, actually has InDesign software, my project was there the whole time. Thanks, dude.) It's now on writing.com, which is my designated dumping ground for backup draft storage and the occasional comment or two.
If you want to go check out the full stories I am and will be talking about, click here.
Won't be putting any work directly on here. But God knows I'll yap at you enough about it.

This is how my own personal writing procedure usually goes down:
First draft's typically handwritten. Skipped this part for my novel because the pace was too slow to get everything done in time and out of habit went straight to the keyboard for the next couple stories, but generally I start with a pen (always a pen; I have a special bias against pencils that, like any good bigot, I can't really explain) and paper (always loose leaf college ruled so I can crumple, mix and match like I want).
Then I type the story into my laptop, Mildred. This has the effect of a second-draft minor re-write, as I fix little grammar mistakes and re-arrange and add or subtract and etc etc. After it feels right, I post it on writing.com and then send it to Jenna as an email attachment and wait for verdicts.
If it's good enough, I'll print it and go through another edit to send off to a magazine. Maybe. If it's a lucky story and drinks all its milk.

Do I, or do I not, want to go to robotics this evening? I know I'm going to feel incredibly redundant if I do.

If you bite into an eyeball, it's chewy.

I read from an author I respect (Jennifer Weiner, if you're interested, and okay FINE, technically it's chick lit) that all writers should have a blog, to practice writing for an audience. Add in the fact that I love the pure physical act of writing and will talk off anybody's ear who will listen--well, this was sort of inevitable.

So! Introduction time, yes?

My name's Melanie. I'm a print journalism student, which is an English student with a practical, "Oh, so, I'm going to actually need, like, money after they graduate me..." streak. Of course, I'll still be living in a cardboard box, but I'm preparing for that, too. Newspapers make excellent insulation, ha.
Here's the writer facts of me:

• I've been writing fiction since sixth grade (thank you, Mrs. D, for making English class so glassy-eyed stultifying that you forced me to find something much better to do with my blank notebook paper and full pen)
• Something like 90% of my output is short stories, the first batch of which were illustrated by my best middle school friend. Neither one of us were any good.
• My high school newspaper teacher teased me into showing him one of my stories. He liked it, had good editing suggestions (scariest words in the English language: "About your short story..."), and sent a later bunch of them to a friend of his in NY publishing. She and I have formed a tangent-prone email friendship.
• The story I showed my newspaper teacher ended up placing 30th in Writer's Digest's 77th Annual Writing Contest.
  
• I wrote my first novel last year (age 18, freshman year of college) during NaNoWriMo. How the hell did I pull 50,000 words out of my ass about anything? I still don't know. But apparently November truly is made of magic because it was during one of my numerous 2am stakeouts of my current roommate's dorm lobby that I met my (not-so-distant) future boyfriend.
• In same said dorm, I've started reading my poetry on Variations Of Mostly Interesting Talents nights.
• This year, I've collected three rejection slips from three different literary magazines, two with actual handwriting on them and one with really encouraging handwriting bits from two distinct, separate editors. Apparently I was in the top ten of Alligator Juniper's annual short fiction contest. Woo!

Current Project:
Working on "The Vacation Bed." Almost done--I think one more scene, a nice awkward messy sex scene, which will lead into pillow talk about abortion. Keep it nice 'n light, ha. Should be able to finish the writing between lunch and robotics meeting tomorrow afternoon. Typing, too, actually. Fuck, I'll have like four or five hours. And sheets to wash, and a shower to take (with our newly resurrected water pressure, huzzah), and legs to shave, and clothes to unpack from last weekend at home, and history notes to study.

I might have to tell Sean that his beige ankle-length trench coat and almost-but-not-quite-the-same-shade-of-tan quasi-fedora make him look like a little kid playing dress up as a private eye.