Author: Kiki Writes

Rumored to be a writer. Never hip. Land of Lincoln Cleavage Queen three years running.

Fat Girl Belly Dancing

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Several years ago, let’s guess 2004, I decided that I needed to get healthy. Not just lose weight, although that was part of the goal, but to change my eating habits, excercise more, and strengthen my body. I chose to do this slowly, hoping that the new changes would stick. More than once I had tried to start exercising and never had the follow through because, well, I hated it.

So this time, instead of once again hiking my fat ass up on the treadmill and walking mile after boring mile (I really don’t like walking unless I’m getting somewhere), I looked for an alternative. I decided to try yoga. It was easy enough that I could stick with it, but difficult enough that it challenged my muscles. At the time it fit into my schedule well as I was going to college (that was my third stint). I popped in the DVD and did twenty minutes before school. As time went on, I started learning new poses and incorporating them into my own, made-up routines.

I was actually impressed with the difference. Maybe I didn’t lose a ton of weight in the first few months that I did it, but I noticed that I was getting stronger and that I was feeling better. It was enough to encourage me to stick to it. It became the core of my exercise program.

After a good solid year of yoga, I added weights to the regime. And then after some time doing that, I looked to add some cardio to my workout routine.

I started with dancing at first. I just put on some music and bust some moves like I did back in the day when I was hitting the under 21 club on a regular basis (the whole motivation for me to get into shape was that I felt I wasn’t keeping up on the dance floor as well as I used to). It was fine for awhile, but I got bored with it pretty quickly, oddly enough.

Then I happened to catch a belly dancing workout program on FitTV, back when it was FitTv, before Oprah took things over and messed it all up. It looked challenging enough to give me a workout, but fun enough that I’d stick to it. And I felt that it would work with the yoga and the weights I was already doing it.

When I started belly dancing, I was terrible. No doubt about it. I was required to use muscles that I didn’t know I had. But slowly, I started to get more of the moves down. It got to a point where I had memorized every routine of every episode (they only aired one season on a loop) and I was keeping up with them pretty well.

My routine paid off and I lost weight because of it. More importantly I felt better.

But belly dancing had an unintended effect on me. It brought out a latent femininity and sexuality that I didn’t realize I’d had.

I grew up as a tomboy. Yeah, I wore dresses up until the third grade, but they did little to deter me from playing hard with the boys. My mother always said that she didn’t raise girls. I’ve never been very good at being girly. And because I do tend to hang out with boys more than girls and because it’s kind of a rule that if you want to be respected by the boys, you have to be like the boys, that’s how I rolled.

So imagine my surprise when I started doing this very feminine dance and actually enjoying the sexy, girly qualities it brought out in me. I gained even more confidence and felt beautiful despite the fact that the world condemned me (and still does) because I’d never be a size 0. I didn’t think that I could ever somehow incorporate my tomboy self that always have been into the strong, sexy self that I always wanted to be and come out a full person. It’s funny that an exercise routine could do that to me.

So here I am now, having gained back all of the weight I worked so hard to lose and I’m trying to find a way to lose it again. So I’m going back to the beginning: yoga, weights, belly dance. It worked before, it can work again.

More importantly, I need to get back to the state of mind I was in when I was doing this routine the first time.

I need to get back to being a fat girl belly dancing.

Tales From the Day Jobs: Father’s Day

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As should be established through my babblings by now, writing full-time is my ultimate goal, but right now a day job pays the bills. I’ve had a few jobs in my time: fast food, retail, credit union, and currently, a transportation company. I’m one of those people who likes to have a good time no matter what I’m doing. Work is no exception. Thankfully, I’ve had the pleasure of working with a several like minded people. Between my co-workers and the customers, I’ve racked up quite a few entertaining stories, all in the name of surviving the grind.

And because I have no shame, I thought a good Friday feature would be to share a few of those stories from time to time. Prepare yourselves accordingly.

During my last stint in retail I worked as a jewelry sales coordinator. At the time my departement featured a “gift wall”, mostly filled with ceramic statues and jewelry boxes. The items changed depending on the holiday, but my department typically didn’t get anything for Father’s Day. However, an assistant manager asked me to clear a two foot section of my wall to fill with good gift items for Dad.

Since this was a weekend project, I ended up acquiring help from a couple of people from different departments that didn’t have as much going on. Our collaboration resulted in some obvious items: wallets, caps, tackle boxes, flashlights, golf balls-very stereotypical stuff. And then, as a joke on the assistant manager (because he was our favorite assistant to torment), we added boxes of condoms, neatly placed along side everything else.

Struggling to maintain straight faces, we called the manager over to inspect our work. He declared it adequate and that was it. He didn’t notice the condoms.

So the jooke changed. We left the condoms on the gift wall to see who would notice them.

Nobody of authority did. We kept waiting for someone to notice but no one said anything, much to our amusement.

The Monday following the holiday, everything left on the gift wall went back to its proper departments, condoms included.

Happy Father’s Day, indeed.

Writing–Taking Out

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Last week I wrote about adding in to make a word count; this week I’m going to talk about taking out.

This is something I don’t have to do very often. Like I said before, I’m very bare bones. I usually fall below word count maximums.

Unless it’s flash fiction.

I typically don’t set out to write flash fiction, but my shorter short stories sometimes put me in that ballpark. And if I can find a place that suits the story, I’ll look to start cutting to make the word count.

Since flash fiction doesn’t offer much in the way of extra words and since my story is pretty short to begin with, I’m not usually cutting huge chunks of story; it’s typically just a couple of hundred words. Which doesn’t sound too difficult, but when what you’ve got is what you NEED to tell a story and you can’t lose much of anything or risk losing the integrity of the story, it’s pretty hard.

That’s when creativity and word choice become critical.

Granted, word choice is always important, but it’s a true test when cutting a story that really can’t afford much cutting. I have to say even more with one word because that’s all I’ve got.

This cutting also forces me to get creative with my sentence structure. No time for detours, I have to get right to the point. I have to state the idea as quickly and succinctly as possible without compromising grammar (too much), flow, style, readability, or enjoyment.

I’ve done this to a few stories, however so far the success is only measure by my actually getting it done to my own satisfaction. I’ve yet to get any flash fiction accepted for publication. Not for lack of trying, though.

And it’s nice to know that I have the cutting tools I need to make my stories better.

Stories By The Numbers

 -Submitted: 2
-Ready: 8
-Rejected: 1 (“Such a Pretty Face” once again finds no love)

The Reading of the Lips

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Papa was hard of hearing. He had a good ear and a bad ear, and over the course of the years, the good ear got worse. We learned at a very young age to make sure we had Papa’s attention before we spoke and to speak loudly and slowly. Papa could hear some, but he also read lips to help fill in the blanks.

I grew up understanding the concept of reading lips, but as someone who could hear, didn’t really think much about it beyond knowing it helped Papa undstand us.

Then my mom turned me on to baseball and the Cubs.

The manager when I was a kid was Don Zimmer and he was a fiery, round man who liked to argue with the umpires. I remember him getting thrown out of several games. There’s nothing like a kid’s curiousity and I was dying to know what Don Zimmer said to get thrown out of the games. Since I couldn’t hear, I decided to do what Papa did and learn to read lips.

I taught myself by watching movies that I had memorized. I knew all the words, so I’d watch them without the sound on and watch how the actors spoke. From there it was just a matter of translating what I saw there to other people. It took some practice, but I got the hang of it.

The new skill served me well. I finally could figure out what Don Zimmer was saying when he argued with the umpires.

Turned out it was a long string of curse words, but the magic word seemed to be “mother fucker”. If you’re worried about my young girl’s mind being warped by being exposed to that word, please don’t. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it…er…read it.

Since then I’ve applied it to more than just baseball. I’ve developed my own troubles hearing in certain situations and lip reading has bailed me out of some awkward situations.

I’ve also developed the odd habit of watching TV with the sound off. I’ve watched a lot of TV shows that way and for the most part I can keep up with the show. Obviously, I’m at a disadvantage if the speaker has their back to me or if there’s a lot of movement. However, I have gotten pretty good at filling in the blanks.

Or in the case of SyFy movies, making the movie even more interesting.

Now that I’ve gone full circle in a sense and am back to watching baseball regularly, I find myself once again being thankful for my skill. Sure it’s great for arguing managers, but my skills have improved since I was a kid. Now I use it to see what guys are talking about in the dugout and on the mound. I get a heads up at what pitch is coming next and I get to see what the guys on the bench and in the bullpen are discussing (hint: it’s not always baseball).

I’m still stumped by Spanish, though.

That’ll be the next level.

Rerun Junkie– Starsky and Hutch

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The 70’s hit me hard when I was a young teenager. Never mind that it was the early 90’s at the time. I was in a love affair with a lot of 70’s reruns at the time.

One show that I rushed home after school to watch on TNT was Starsky and Hutch.

These two gentlemen had ladies swooning for four seasons.

-David Starsky (Paul Michael Glaser) and Ken “Hutch” Hutchinson (David Soul), plain clothes police detectives on the mean streets of LA with direction from their dedicated captain (Bernie Hamilton) and help from their snitch Huggy Bear (Antonio Fargas), not to mention a sweet Ford Torino.

Va-Room, baby.

The cases were gritty, involving drugs and murder, with a stock cast of 70’s bad guys (pimps, pushers, thugs, mobsters, cons, prostitutes). And of course, there were plenty of pretty girls to go around.

This is one of the earliest occurences of bromance on record. It takes buddy cop to the next level. The chemistry between the two is undeniable and they actually showed a pretty wide range of emotions for a couple of macho cops.

Two outstanding episodes that stick in my memory that highlight this are “Shootout” and “The Fix”. Both are early in the series (first season). In “The Fix”, Hutch is kidnapped and injected with heroin. Starksy working Hutch through detox really makes the episode. In “Shootout”, Starsky is shot during dinner at an Italian resteraunt and Hutch is charged with getting him (and everyone else) out alive. Agains it’s the death’s doorstep scenes that make it.

The show is awash in “Hey! I know that guy!” guest stars, but did score several recognizable names including Joan Collins, Suzanne Sommers, Lynda Carter, Mare Winningham, Jeffrey Tambor, Robert Loggia, Rene Auberjonois, GW Bailey, Sally Kirkland, Kim Cattrall, Veronica Hamel, and Pat Morita.

As per most 70’s cop shows, it could be heavy on the action and one or the other of the two main characters (sometimes both) found themselves in peril, injured, possibly dying, several times in a season.  It also stretched some credibility with some of the storylines and the revolving door of women in the guys’ lives were usually just good for an episode (though “Starsky’s Girl” was pretty poigniant). Huggy Bear, though, was good for the run and was often a fun bright spot to the episodes. Captain Doby brought some greatness as well.

This show is so a wash in 70’s goodness that it’s like good comfort food. It makes you wish that style was still alive.

Oh, yeah. That’s stylin’.

Well, almost.

 

Where I Watch It

Writing–Adding In

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I was initially going to include “taking out” as well, since they seem to be two sides of the same coin with the same basic goals (meeting a word count and improving the story). But in the end I feel like they deserve separate posts.

And it guarantees that I have soemthing to write about next week.

I know the general rule is that it’s better to take out than put in. Most writers by nature seem to put a lot more into a story, particularly in a first draft, than what the story really needs and the extraneous material is later cut. I’m the opposite in the sense that my stories are usually pretty bare bones, particularly my short stories.

So when I come across an anthology or magazine that I thin kmight be a good fit for one of my stories and then I see that the minimum word count exceeds the word count of my story, I end up asking myself whether or not it’s worth it to try to expand the story to make the count.

Obviously, it ends up depending on the story.

A few stories I’ve considered expanding are definite no-go’s. Theyr’e done. There’s nothing more to add. Anything I put in is just going to drag the story down, water it down and weaken it. Definitely not what I want.

However, because I cut to the quick so much, I have found a couple of stories that can benefit from embellishment.

I added about 1,800 words of backstory to “Land of the Voting Dead” to meet the minimum word count for an anthology that looked to be a perfect fit. It was a bit of story that I had considered only in passing while creating the character of Miriam Showalter. I was pleased to discover that the addition worked; the added backstory gave the piece more depth.

And I guess I wasn’t the only one who liked it, since it got accepted for the anthology.

I”m currently in teh process of doing the same thing to “Spillway”. I need to add about 1,800 words in order to make the word count minimum for an anthology. There’s room in the story for some embellishment that I think will end up enhancing the piece. I think it will end up being better for it.

And if I’m lucky, the anthology editors will like it, too.

Stories By The Numbers

-Submitted: 3
-Ready: 7
-Accepted/Rejected: 0

The Name Game

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

In theory, parents take great care in selecting names for their children. The consider the meaning, possibly naming them after relatives, look at the initials, sound it out for the rhythm, spell it out for the look. They take into consideration the possible nicknames, good and bad, and seriously consider the consequences of the child living for the rest of their lives with that name.

In reality, they just pick something they like, spell it the way they want (something that’s gotten way out of hand), and then wonder why the kids end up hating their names.

To be clear, I don’t hate my name. I used to hate it when I was younger, as children tend to do when they’re growing up and establishing their identity, but now I can’t imagine being called anything else (nicknames excluded, of course). However, I have to admit that my mother saddled me with a pain in the ass.

It should be noted that this isn’t the worst name I could have gotten. She had several picked out for me, including Carrie, Lauren, Sara Elizabeth, and Christina Maria. Thanks to Dad for putting the kibosh on the last two.

It was late in her pregnancy when she added Christin to the possible name pool. She’d seen a movie called Hardcore starring George C. Scott. A lovely little film about a man finding out that his runaway daughter works in the sex trade. One of the characters was named Christin, though spelled Kristen in the credits, and Mom decided that she liked the name. We’ll just nevermind that the character was a porn star/prostitute and I would have to one day reveal that fact in my high school sophomore speech class.

(In contrast, my sister is named Lindsay after Lindsey Wagner. She got the Bionic Woman, I got a hooker. Years later I got my revenge by middle-naming two of my sisters kids after actors that portrayed a hobbit and a dwarf in The Lord of the Rings. Take that!)

I ended up with name Christin because my mother decided I didn’t look like a Lauren and Mom’s roommate in the hospital named her baby Carrie, which led mom to believe that I’d end up being one of many Carrie’s in my class. I always found that amusing considering Mom’s sister is named Kerri. Different spelling, same name, but that was apparently okay. And for the record, I didn’t have any Carrie’s in my class.

So I ended up with the name Christin.

My mother decided to spell the name the way it sounded, Chris-tin. And thus began my long, never-ending journey of constantly correcting people on the spelling and pronounciation.

The spelling I can forgive somewhat. I went to school with several variations of my name. Christin. Christan. Kristin. Kristen. Kristan. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how creative people can get. Out of boredom, I once came up with twenty-four different ways to spell my name. However, mine is one of the rarer versions. I could never find my own personalized stuff (I had to settle for Chris or Christi) and I could count on one hand the number of people I’ve seen with their name spelled like mine.

What really kills me is the pronounciation problem. I can also count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a teacher, college educated and literate, looked at my name and pronounced it correctly. Remember, my mom spelled it the way she thought it sounded. I’ve never had a kid read my name and mispronounce it. They’re learning to read and they learn that skill by sounding things out.

Adults, on the other hand, know how to read. They just glance at my name, get the gist of it, and I end up being called Christine, Christina, Christian, and in one instance, Kirsten. Going to school in a small town, I had a lot of the same kids in my classes for twelve years. By the time we were all seniors, a teacher mispronouncing my name would be met with a chorus of correction.

And that correction has continued, but I admit, I’m getting lazier and lazier about it. My name is misspelled on one of my bills. The IRS misspells my name on my tax refund checks (they really have no excuse as my name is spelled correctly on my social security card and they have that number). I had one driver at work calling me the wrong name for a month because I didn’t feel like correcting him on it. I waited until someone else did it, which was kind of a rotten thing to do, but when he asked me about it, I told him the truth.

“I’m used to people not getting my name right. I’ll answer to anything now.”

A lot of people don’t understand that. It’s my name. It’s a very important part of my identity.

True.

And thanks to a lifetime of people getting it wrong, that’s become part of my identity, too.

Writing–June Projects

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

May was terrible. I got nowhere fast and I feel like I’m just digging myself into a deeper hole that I won’t be able to get out of one day. My priorities are shot. I need a do over.

But enough writer’s doubt and whining. I’ve got June and if I can escape the computer problems that have plagued me the past two years, here is what I’d like to do:

-Keep revising The World (Saving) Series. I have got to gain some ground on it.

-Write/revise/post another Outskirts story.

That’s it. I’m pushing everything else off. Just those two things. I have got to find some focus and I’m taking this month to do it. I’ve either got to recommit myself or I’ve got to resign myself to the day job.

Choice needs to be made.

I’d better choose wisely.

Stories By The Numbers

-Submitted: 3 (Sent out “Customer Service”)
-Ready: 7
-Accepted/Rejected: 0

Writing–The Devil’s in the Details

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I consider descriptions to be one of my biggest writing weaknesses. It’s not that I don’t like writing descriptions or that I struggle with it. It’s just that I don’t do it.

First drafts are all about getting the story down for me. The main focus is character, action, and dialogue. Sometimes I’ll throw in a detail or two in there if it comes to me or if I think it’s important, but for the most part, aside from setting and seeing, not much gets put in. Which is fine. It’s a first draft. It’s not supposed to be perfect.

The problem is that when I do revise the story, the details don’t always get added in.

That’s the part I struggle with.

Soemties I forget to add in the details because I know what it looks like, I know what’s going on, I know the scene, but I forget that people can’t see my mind. I have to translate it to the page. It’s pretty basic, but I still miss it every once in awhile. It takes someone else pointing out the vague description that makes me realize that my brain has been filling in the details for me, but I haven’t been putting them on the paper.

There is also, of course, my tunnel vision problem. I sometimes forget that I have other senses that can be used. Sight and sound are usually givens. Touch gets used some, too. Smell and taste are often forgotten. Sure, they’re not always appropriate to include in every story, but sometimes they mention of a smell or a taste can really enhance the setting or the scene.

The stories I’m most pleased with are the ones that I’ve used sensory detail well in. To date my favorite line comes from “Such a Pretty Face” about the “scent of stale onions hanging in the wet air”. It’s subtle, a throw away really, but it adds so much to the story and the scene. It’s my go-to line when I need to remind myself of the need to pay attention to detail.

The details make all the difference.

Stories By The Numbers

Submitted: 2
Ready: 8
Accepted/Rejected: 0

Bad Words: Selfish, Unaware, Unthinking

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Selfish, unaware, unthinking.

Now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty.

I am a selfish person. I admit it straight up. My parents railed against any sort of selfishness from the time I was little. They told me to share, told me to think of others, put the needs of others before my own. It was never to be about me and always to be about someone else. Other people should be more important.

Well, I got news for you: those lessons didn’t stick.

That’s not to say that I don’t share or I that I don’t help people in need. I do my bits and pieces here and there and I’ve been told I’ve been a decent help to friends and family when they need it. I share what I have when I can when it’s appropriate.

But I am still the center of my own universe.

I admit it. I am as egocentric as they come. I’m selfish with my feelings and my attention and my interests. If it’s not about me, if it doesn’t pertain to me, if I am not involved in some way, you’d better believe there’s a good chance that I don’t care about it much. More than once I’ve done things or gone places or said words that I didn’t really want to do, go, or say just because I know it’s more socially acceptible to do so.

Many times, though, I don’t because I don’t want to. I put what I want ahead of what other people want.

I am most selfish with power. I will tell you right here and now that I may be a good leader, may handle responsibility well, but you do not want to give me any authority over other people. I turn into a tyrant. I don’t mean to, but it happens. I’m selfish, so it’s all about me. If it’s all about me, then it’s all about my way and my way is the only way. And because I don’t give myself a whole lot of slack when it comes to getting the job done, nobody else gets any either. Their performance reflects on me and I don’t want to look bad. All about me.

Since it’s all about me it leads me to be unaware of the thoughts, feelings, and needs of other people. I’m focused so much on myself that those things have a tendency to slip by me undetected (to be fair, I think  I earlier established that even if I am paying attention, I don’t always pick up on certain things). It’s not necessarily an intentional act of neglect; I’m not purposefully ignoring people. I’m just not paying particularly close attention to them because they are not me and what’s going on with them doesn’t pertain to me.

Because of all of this, I come off as unthinking. I already have the tact problem; the selfishness just compounds it. These two words combine with being unaware to make me appear so inconsiderate that the word doesn’t do it justice. I’m unthinking. I don’t bother to consider how my actions and words will affect other people. I’m that selfish.

Again, I’m not saying this out of pride. I’m saying it out of truth. I know I’m this way. I know I do these things. I’m not proud of them, but they exist. I’m not trying to excuse them, just acknowledge them.

The selfish things has given me a bit of a complex. Because it was drilled into me so hard as a kid not to be selfish, when I recognize my selfish behavior, it causes major guilt.

I don’t want to be selfish. I try not to be selfish. But I am and it still happens. As such, I don’t ever feel like I’ve earned any “me” time because I feel like I haven’t given enough time to other people, which has a tendency to make me more selfish because I haven’t gotten any “me” time. It’s a vicious cycle that I’m working very hard to break and not having a whole lot of success doing it.

And until I get my head out of my own ass, I’m not going to have much success at becoming more aware either.

The one thing I can say that I have improved is being a tyrant. I still have my moments, but I’m the first person to shun leadership and will only take it grudgingly. And then, I’m very, very careful about how I dictate and delegate.

The rest of my selfishness, just like the rest of me, continues to be a work in progress.