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Sep. 2nd, 2003 06:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaI actually got sleep. It was so nice, but then I was too antsy to stay longer than eight hours. Damn.
I wrote an actual non-genre actual short story.
He didn't say he didn't want me playing solitaire while using the
Internet. I had to hear him say it to my mom. I mean, scream it to my mom. At least he doesn't hit her, just criticizes her cooking, her cleaning, and how she handles us older kids. The one good thing is that he does clean up after himself. I think.
So I get off the computer thanks to the pleas of Mom and abort the
latest download of Peter, my brother. He is getting another password
cracker. I like it better when he was trying to download Wu Tang bootlegs. If my bored solitaire playing while pages load annoys him, the cracker software drives him mad. He swears the computer runs slower because of it.
Perhaps Mom's boyfriend should talk, trying to get free DirecTV
channels. Does anyone in this house focus on stuff like turning off the TV when no one is watching it or figuring out how to get a better paying job rather than beating the system? Like I should be talking; half of my writing tablets and pens come from work.
I almost want to erase every stupid executable and blame it on the
little one, Jane. Jane, however, doesn't know what Add/Remove Programs are, so that won't work. Then again, at age ten, maybe she does.
Jane is her own brand of pain. Running back and forth, trying to trip me by grabbing a leg. Don't yell, don't model violence, but it is all rhetoric when I scream "Stop it, now!" When she wouldn't release her grip, I pry her fingers from my ankle.
She glowers and yells, "Mom, Louisa hurt my thumb!" With that, she runs to the bedroom, argument still in full swing. I am sure she will get yelled at. I know she will. Oh well.
At least the new apartment in Braintree has one thing: more space to
get away from people, and my own room. Between Jane and the computer, I am angry enough to straighten up my room.
I am twenty-five, and this is the first time I have my own room. Even when I made my abortive attempt to live on my own, Sam and I shared the same bedroom. Often I had to live with other people's things: things owned by Peter, my other sister Margaret, or Sam. Now whatever mess I make is my own.
Papers all over the dresser, on the two tables and on my bed. Some
bills that need to be paid, some old magazines, and some research for a book I mean to write or announcement for an event I mean to attend. Sometimes the paper saving works, but most of the time they do not.
I could organize it all. Put it into bright manila folders, get a
filing cabinet, and maybe get a Day Planner. I will still be living at home, stuck in a dead-end job with few friends, but I will be really fucking organized. "6:00--Crying jag before going to work. 5:00--Attempt to go to movies with Kate; find out she has other plans. 5:30--Walk to store to get stuff that's bad for me."
I clean up anyway, throwing away papers no longer relevant, organizing the rest into piles. I burn incense to get rid of the smell of Margaret hung over and sleeping in my bed for quiet, and then sweep. Magpie the fluffy cat walks in, curious at the flurry of activity. I pat her, and then open the windows. It looks and smells better.
I sit on my bed and do a few sentences toward that novel I've been
working on since my third year of college. I graduated, making mediocre marks because of my own malfunctioning brain and not enough notes and too few manila folders, and I am still working on that novel.
I have a little fantasy. Somehow, when I get published, the advance
will be part of the first month's rent. Maybe I will get that apartment faster if I didn't eat out. Then again, what is my choice: peace and quiet and decent food in some other place, or little room and shouting and only okay food at home?
Actually, some days, I don't even have a choice.
I get a surprise invite to lunch with someone I haven't seen in a
while. He is one of Sam's friends. Most of my friends are Sam's friends. At least the break-up was amicable. What more can be said? I can't handle money and I can't handle noise.
It had little to do with Sam. I sometimes wish I still had him. When
we were together, I felt I could do anything. That I could finish school, work at job where I could write, read and use my brain, get published. Maybe I should have done the housewife thing with him. God knows I can't support myself.
I like him too much to stick all my debts on him, however.
I like this person too much to have him pay for my meal. I ate more,
he's working two jobs, and it just wouldn't be fair. After lunch, I wander down stores, listening to free music and browsing books. I ask myself again why. Why do I want so many CDs? Because being exposed to a lot of things is important to me. Why didn't I get grades good enough for grad school? Perhaps it was the organization, perhaps I really did need to sleep and not let emotions and jobs get in the way. Why am I so angry about my job? Some people would kill
for a quiet, boring data entry job in this 'recovering' economy.
Somehow, I thought I would be doing something else at twenty-five.
Supporting myself on my writing. Never mind I forget to make deadlines for anthologies. Never mind I look at the works I finished and see more editing, more need for characterization, and more need for development. Plus, amazingly for someone who lived for research papers, I cannot think of one freelance article idea to work on.
Maybe that's why Mom and I rarely talk. I remind her of all she could have done that would have made me different, made me better. I just look at myself and wonder how much further I can screw up my life, wondering how I can hurt her after all she's done for me.
I go home in a cab, wanting to get to bed on time, and sees Jane and
Carol's kids. Looks like Mom forgave Carol. A while back, Carol said
everything bad about us older kids was Mom's fault. She doesn't realize that I smart from that remark. I cannot change my life if that is true. I am going to die someone who could have been a writer, but was just some schmuck working in a dead-end job living with her mom. Or worst, an unemployed schmuck died.
Then what will I leave behind? Reams of unfinished stories, textbooks I couldn't sell, disks of academic papers, science fiction books I have yet to read, self-help that I get in attempts to do better, CDs and articles I thought would be important someday.
I turn to Jane, giggling and hoping from pullout bed to cot.
"Jane, could you keep it down, I am going to bed."
"It's Labor Day weekend, we don't have to keep it down."
"I have work tomorrow, so could you? Please?" They laugh loud at something at the television. My request is forgotten.
I decide to be the better person and just wear earplugs tonight. I
remind myself of things to do. Get the check for rent. Finish that scene in the novel set in the bank. Bring lunch, which I've been forgetting the last few days. Get a library card to save money and book space.
At least make tomorrow different from today.
I wrote an actual non-genre actual short story.
He didn't say he didn't want me playing solitaire while using the
Internet. I had to hear him say it to my mom. I mean, scream it to my mom. At least he doesn't hit her, just criticizes her cooking, her cleaning, and how she handles us older kids. The one good thing is that he does clean up after himself. I think.
So I get off the computer thanks to the pleas of Mom and abort the
latest download of Peter, my brother. He is getting another password
cracker. I like it better when he was trying to download Wu Tang bootlegs. If my bored solitaire playing while pages load annoys him, the cracker software drives him mad. He swears the computer runs slower because of it.
Perhaps Mom's boyfriend should talk, trying to get free DirecTV
channels. Does anyone in this house focus on stuff like turning off the TV when no one is watching it or figuring out how to get a better paying job rather than beating the system? Like I should be talking; half of my writing tablets and pens come from work.
I almost want to erase every stupid executable and blame it on the
little one, Jane. Jane, however, doesn't know what Add/Remove Programs are, so that won't work. Then again, at age ten, maybe she does.
Jane is her own brand of pain. Running back and forth, trying to trip me by grabbing a leg. Don't yell, don't model violence, but it is all rhetoric when I scream "Stop it, now!" When she wouldn't release her grip, I pry her fingers from my ankle.
She glowers and yells, "Mom, Louisa hurt my thumb!" With that, she runs to the bedroom, argument still in full swing. I am sure she will get yelled at. I know she will. Oh well.
At least the new apartment in Braintree has one thing: more space to
get away from people, and my own room. Between Jane and the computer, I am angry enough to straighten up my room.
I am twenty-five, and this is the first time I have my own room. Even when I made my abortive attempt to live on my own, Sam and I shared the same bedroom. Often I had to live with other people's things: things owned by Peter, my other sister Margaret, or Sam. Now whatever mess I make is my own.
Papers all over the dresser, on the two tables and on my bed. Some
bills that need to be paid, some old magazines, and some research for a book I mean to write or announcement for an event I mean to attend. Sometimes the paper saving works, but most of the time they do not.
I could organize it all. Put it into bright manila folders, get a
filing cabinet, and maybe get a Day Planner. I will still be living at home, stuck in a dead-end job with few friends, but I will be really fucking organized. "6:00--Crying jag before going to work. 5:00--Attempt to go to movies with Kate; find out she has other plans. 5:30--Walk to store to get stuff that's bad for me."
I clean up anyway, throwing away papers no longer relevant, organizing the rest into piles. I burn incense to get rid of the smell of Margaret hung over and sleeping in my bed for quiet, and then sweep. Magpie the fluffy cat walks in, curious at the flurry of activity. I pat her, and then open the windows. It looks and smells better.
I sit on my bed and do a few sentences toward that novel I've been
working on since my third year of college. I graduated, making mediocre marks because of my own malfunctioning brain and not enough notes and too few manila folders, and I am still working on that novel.
I have a little fantasy. Somehow, when I get published, the advance
will be part of the first month's rent. Maybe I will get that apartment faster if I didn't eat out. Then again, what is my choice: peace and quiet and decent food in some other place, or little room and shouting and only okay food at home?
Actually, some days, I don't even have a choice.
I get a surprise invite to lunch with someone I haven't seen in a
while. He is one of Sam's friends. Most of my friends are Sam's friends. At least the break-up was amicable. What more can be said? I can't handle money and I can't handle noise.
It had little to do with Sam. I sometimes wish I still had him. When
we were together, I felt I could do anything. That I could finish school, work at job where I could write, read and use my brain, get published. Maybe I should have done the housewife thing with him. God knows I can't support myself.
I like him too much to stick all my debts on him, however.
I like this person too much to have him pay for my meal. I ate more,
he's working two jobs, and it just wouldn't be fair. After lunch, I wander down stores, listening to free music and browsing books. I ask myself again why. Why do I want so many CDs? Because being exposed to a lot of things is important to me. Why didn't I get grades good enough for grad school? Perhaps it was the organization, perhaps I really did need to sleep and not let emotions and jobs get in the way. Why am I so angry about my job? Some people would kill
for a quiet, boring data entry job in this 'recovering' economy.
Somehow, I thought I would be doing something else at twenty-five.
Supporting myself on my writing. Never mind I forget to make deadlines for anthologies. Never mind I look at the works I finished and see more editing, more need for characterization, and more need for development. Plus, amazingly for someone who lived for research papers, I cannot think of one freelance article idea to work on.
Maybe that's why Mom and I rarely talk. I remind her of all she could have done that would have made me different, made me better. I just look at myself and wonder how much further I can screw up my life, wondering how I can hurt her after all she's done for me.
I go home in a cab, wanting to get to bed on time, and sees Jane and
Carol's kids. Looks like Mom forgave Carol. A while back, Carol said
everything bad about us older kids was Mom's fault. She doesn't realize that I smart from that remark. I cannot change my life if that is true. I am going to die someone who could have been a writer, but was just some schmuck working in a dead-end job living with her mom. Or worst, an unemployed schmuck died.
Then what will I leave behind? Reams of unfinished stories, textbooks I couldn't sell, disks of academic papers, science fiction books I have yet to read, self-help that I get in attempts to do better, CDs and articles I thought would be important someday.
I turn to Jane, giggling and hoping from pullout bed to cot.
"Jane, could you keep it down, I am going to bed."
"It's Labor Day weekend, we don't have to keep it down."
"I have work tomorrow, so could you? Please?" They laugh loud at something at the television. My request is forgotten.
I decide to be the better person and just wear earplugs tonight. I
remind myself of things to do. Get the check for rent. Finish that scene in the novel set in the bank. Bring lunch, which I've been forgetting the last few days. Get a library card to save money and book space.
At least make tomorrow different from today.
