Non-fiction Friday--Party Personality

First of all, my apologies on the tardiness! Sadly, small electronics seem to be capable of a lot more trouble than you'd expect. I'm going to need some professional help to dredge all the iced tea out of my macbook (resultant of my sweet toddler trying to bring a glass to me, but tripping and spilling all over my lap, and, well, laptop), but in the meantime, here are some stories. 

Heartsleeves

KRISANN GENTRY

Being an incredibly social creature by nature (and growing up with a reputation for clowning, animated story-telling, performing, and bringing the fun energy to gatherings), meant that for most of my developing and adult life, it just didn't occur to me that not everyone had to, or should, have the same level of access to me - that I was allowed to decide, nay, that it was beneficial to decide who could hear what was inside my heart, and when. Before this revelation, personal details of triumphs and failures were dropped into any conversation by whomever asked, regardless and without much consideration. Just about any acquaintance, old friend, or newish friend could find out the details of how my day truly was going. While I can remember feeling like it was a bit uncomfortable at times, I considered myself more 'unabashed' than an over-sharer, and shrugged it off.

There is no real defining moment I can gloriously detail about how I began to change my way of thinking on this. I can say, that at one point, that the first time a trusted adviser told me that not everyone had to know the ongoing struggles of my family's finances, I felt like I had caught my first deep breath after an asthma attack. "Yes, that feels better," I remember thinking. The rest though, has just been a slow changeover to a new way of thinking, and beginning to understand that throwing something you value (or just yourself) before the mercy of just anyone and hoping it all works out is haphazard and foolhardy at best.

It's been nearly a decade of practicing life with boundaries in place. Before, I was the 'my life is an open book' girl, and I thought that was just the way I was built, no two ways about it. The problem was that even though it always felt true, it didn't feel, for lack of a better term, safe.

I'm a big fan of the word 'intent.' Not insomuch as it has come to be known (somehow synonymous with intend), but in the classic sense. With intent, and with purpose, I take this life of mine and point it, with my love, my skills, passions, talents, and whatever I have to offer, toward my targets. I care for myself by letting only proven, trustworthy friends have access to the deep things in my life and heart.

I'm not going to go into a great deal of specifics about what that means, because realistically, it will be completely different for you. A good place to start, though, is to define what's non-negotiable for you, and move from there. Anyone who tramples on one of your non-negotiables is the first to be placed at a distance, while you see if they react well to your asking them to adjust their hurtful behavior.

If they can not, or if you're meeting someone new, remember that your inner circle and your outer circles have different levels of access to you and no one is going to take care of those boundaries for you. It's my own job to carefully guard my fences.

So, if you see me at a party and may be confused, because I seem bubbly and warm while entertaining or making people laugh, but my arms are still crossed, it's just because I'm holding my sleeves in close to my heart.

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Check back for more prompts after our Summer break.

Non-fiction Friday--If I Had a Mary Poppins Bag

   Hoarder Extraordinaire 
KRISANN GENTRY 

Mary, Mary, quite prepare-y, what all does your bag hold? 

Lamps and plants and hatstands and at least two mirrors, we know. 

Shoes and a coat, and measuring tape, with some unusual markings, though.

My own bag keeps some items similar in purpose and practicality, and some nothing at all like our wide-traveling Mary's.

When I find a pair of perfect jeans or favorite shoes, it stores a lifetime's supply of them, so when one pair runs out, there's no need to panic. If I don't find something I like well enough to replace them, I'll just use the next backup. 

It carries cures for the hangries (so hungry you're angry = hangry). A wide variety of snacks to fit any mood, with recommendations, for those times when you're so starving you just can't think well enough to know what you want. "Madam, you seem cranky. May I offer you a taco?"

Whenever I need art supplies, or don't quite have the right shade of colored pencil or decorative masking tape, I can find it in my bag. Furniture, too, for regular abode rearrangings, as the fancy strikes. 

Books. So. Many. Books.

Every single drawing my daughters have ever made can be found sorted, dated, and filed neatly in there. I never have to feel the wrenching debate of which to keep and which to toss. I know they're always there, to enjoy those precious details of their developing talents and love for creation, but not in a stack as high as the Chrysler Building threatening to overtake my living space. The first and subsequent 400 sketches of mermaids or fairies (pronounced 'veries,' at the moment) or princess frogs, all with curly-que eyelashes and tutu skirts, are all in there. Not a single one has had to be tossed, not ever.

Their first outfits and hats and baby blankets and lost teeth, and every time they picked weeds to bring me a bouquet. All there, forever.

Brilliantly, this bag also holds all the subtle, nuanced, precious memories associated with each item it stores. It's got the post-beach trip grains of sand I cleaned out of the carseat from the day my baby first called me Mama, and all the overwhelming love she and I shared in that moment. It keeps the blue maternity tanktop I reached for and clutched tightly to, the moment I realized, "I can't get dressed for the hospital... this baby is coming here and now." It keeps these things so I can feel my history.

The quirky, clever lines and ideas I've thought or dreamt up, and mourned at discovering they were forgotten before I'd had a chance to record them--that sadness doesn't happen anymore. I whisper into my bag constantly, while it safely tucks my musings away. 

Everything I want to have convenient, and all that I treasure and hope never to lose; it's my bag's job to hold safe and ready. It's really quite a clever thing. 

---

Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Linda's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "A Room with a View." 

Non-fiction Friday--Death

   And Taxis  
KRISANN GENTRY 

The smallish silvery-purple letters aren't very distinct against sage tone of the shampoo and conditioner bottles resting side by side in the alcove of my shower. They have very similar labels, this pair, and are nearly indistinguishable, the one from the other, unless you pull them close. Then you'll find that one the one marked shampoo has a slightly more purple font on that word alone.

I went to the store to replenish my supply and accidentally bought two conditioners, once. That's how alike these look. That even from the unimpeded view of the store, where I had not the excuse of the shower's steam, water and lather in my eyes, and general sense of rush I experience, I still mistook them. Since then, I've learned never to trust them when shopping, and also developed a strategy.

After I bring my products home, having ensured that what I bought was correct, I open the tops and peel off the safety seals (because trying to pry that sucker away while you're already slippery and soapy is its own special kind of hell) and when I replace the flip-top lids (not screw-ons), I reverse the lid of the conditioner bottle, so that it opens in the opposite direction of its counterpart. This way, when I'm feeling for my shampoo bottle, my eyes barely opened and peeking through the lathery layers of face wash, I'll be able to discern by feeling the tops which bottle I need. Tricky little demons that they are have been outsmarted by my cunning and no longer defeat me, forcing me to send that $.70 handful down the literal drain.  

I do this with old age in mind.

My children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and in general, any caretakers responsible for my well-being, will never have to help me discern the difference between my shampoo and conditioner. My thoughtfulness in these matters will lend to my continued independence. I train myself to handle these little difficulties with grace.

I am certain they (being the grandchildren and the caretakers) will discuss this amongst themselves. "Batty old lady," they'll muse, "needs a million things a day, but refuses to call for help in the shower, even while muttering about how she prevails when the bottles conspire against her."

Why do I write about this?

So that after my death, my grandchildren and great grandchildren will be able to find this commentary and say, "Well, we were right about one thing. But it looks like she was batty long before she was old." 

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Linda's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "Video Games." 

Non-fiction Friday--50 Word Inspirational Speech

Hey all,
This week I am traveling, so this brilliant prompt suggested by regular participant Josiah Higgins seemed perfect to tackle now. See you all next week with a full-sized fiction offering. 

  NIKE   

 KRISANN GENTRY 

There are a thousand roads to choose from on the journey to becoming the person you want to be, but take care not to overcomplicate things. Sometimes, it really is just as simple as deciding to be more awesome more of the time. 

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Linda's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "Real Estate." 

Non-fiction Friday--Like a Kid

If I acted like my kids, I would:  

• Always say "I love you too!" and never "I love you," because I already know you love me before you say it.
• Fall on the floor and wail in despair any time I got too hungry, which would be at least fourteen times per day.
• Believe in every magical thing I hear about, with fervor.
• Get away with so. much. crap. 
• Make a game for how long I can avoid putting pants on - and try to break my own record every single day. 
• Pet a lot of bugs and snails. 
• Watch you carefully and try to be a lot like you.
• Somehow manage to get my hair into the most matted tangles history has ever seen, usually observed in My Little Pon[ies]™ and other dolls with fake hair, all within a matter of minutes.
• Cry like a banshee while you brush my hair.
• Yell at the top of my lungs how much I love you and will miss you whenever you leave my presence. Even if it's just for a minute. 
• Ask you 10,000 times if we can please just go to the park again. 
• Ask you 10,000 times if I can have a piece of gum.
• Ask you 10,000 times for a popsicle. 
• Ask you for 10,000 popsicles.
• Be heartbroken when you go to the bathroom without me. How could you?!
• Try to push every button of every device I ever encounter, regardless of who is using it at the time. 
• Climb onto your lap and then arms and then face if I need to get your attention because I love you THAT MUCH AND THIS IS URGENT AND NEEDS YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION. HI.
• Take at least 40 minutes to brush my teeth and empty my bladder each night. 
• Refuse to try new foods until someone shoves a piece of it in my mouth, and then scarf the whole thing. It would probably end up my new favorite. 
• Say at least four hilarious things every day.
• Scream because my friends are screaming and it seems really fun.

Come to think of it, I probably already do at least half of this list. Husband has been consulted and his estimation is that the truth is closer to 75%, which is kind of expected when you consider these people are influencing me all day long. 

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Moody's submission
Linda's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "it's not unusual." 

Non-Fiction Friday--Favorite Character Flaw

OH SAY CAN YOU SEE  

 KRISANN GENTRY 

I almost named this blog after my favorite trait. Snark.

My husband bears the brunt of this one conversationally, but I do sometimes wind up spilling out onto unsuspecting bystanders, poor souls. Sometimes I think I should feel terrible, but when something so brilliantly witty occurs to me, it's hard, very very hard, for it to stay in my brain. It used to be quite rare, in fact.

I can't remember what started it now, but I recall a day early in our marriage when Aaron said or did something laughable. Not intentionally, just something that made me chuckle and made him self-conscious. So early in the relationship, a more conservative new wife would have made great efforts to ease the bruising on the ego of her beloved. I chose a different route. As he turned away, frustrated at my increasing enjoyment of humor at his expense, and huffed, "Don't laugh at me!"
I attempted to calm him by explaining, "Babe! I'm not laughing at you! I'm laughing because of you."

It went about as you'd expect.

Sometimes I think this overwhelming reservoir of sarcasm may be what keeps driving me back to writing, in fact. A basic understanding of the social mores which call for feelings left mostly unhurt means that I've developed a filtering base for some of the more harsh or cutting snark, to be directed elsewhere. These comments get to live in a magical land where someone a lot like me gets to have raw and unfiltered conversations with people a lot like the people I know or encounter. I've come up with some fantastic scripts by it. If I'm going to play out imaginary conversations in my head anyway, I may as well be entertained by them.

When I meet a person who can handle, or even keep up with my snark, well... they've likely won my heart forever (you know who you are).

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "Caterpillar." 

Non-Fiction Friday--Being A Writer

 Strolling in the deep  

 KRISANN GENTRY 

I am part of a small community of writers who are also parents, and our topic of discussion has been, and probably always will be, how to be successful at getting anything done. So for me, the question of being a writer comes down to, "Am I writing?" If I am, then I feel at peace with myself, regardless of any outcome (like notoriety or monetary return. At least for now). If I am not, am I being a writer? Would I feel embarrassed to answer a question of, "what are you writing right now?" for utter lack of work to even hint upon? I decided that for me, if I am not actively, regularly writing, I am not a writer. Maybe I will feel differently one day, with volumes of my own published works on my shelves, but for now, this rings true.

Concurrently, I have the great joy and responsibility of molding the tiny minds (okay, giant minds, really) of my children. I have the opportunity to stand by them as their triumphs and successes, as well as bruises and mistakes, shape the way they see themselves and the world around them. The things they experience, and what they perceive my place in their life, helping them through each challenge for these formative years, will literally direct the wiring of their brain's structure of thought, all the way into adulthood. I must, I simply must be present for these moments. I must somehow be able to give my full being to my children, and to my craft. My children, who one day will be adults, and communicators, and may in some way be writers themselves (and good lord, if I am not careful to give them my best, what defense will I have to offer them, to my own fragile heart, when I find what might they write about me?!).  

Lots and lots of links and ideas for time management have been made available, with many great tips and tricks for attempting to find your own personal groove for doing this well; feel free to inquire in the comments, or google as you like, and try and try and try until you find the magical balance that lasts forever and then do call me, because what you've found is more valuable than the tears of a thousand unicorns. For now, are some of my thoughts on the matter:


1. Be your own advocate. When people hear you speaking passionately about why you must do this (parent, write, create, all of it), suddenly they will be on board as well. Sometimes they will even join the team and help in practical ways (childcare, accountability, etc.). It really can happen. 

2. Carefully guard against and assassinate all guilt. It is your enemy to productivity in your work and in your relationships with your children/spouse. It does not grow anything. It only debilitates. 

3. Know this to be true: when you are a writer and a parent, both are necessary. Your kids need you, not an unfulfilled, cranky you that can't be creative and productive and feels sucked dry by the ins and outs of daily child care and nurturing. Likewise, your writing needs your life experience as a parent to flesh out some things that otherwise would come across as hollow. Show up for both, as best as you can, every day. 

4. And yes, of course, write regularly. Do not let go of the momentum. Do whatever it takes. Carry a conversation (that simply must go into your book) burning in your head for 12 hours until you have a moment to steal away and jot it down. Take notes in your smart phone (I do. Copiously.) or on your hand or on coffee shop napkins or the backs of bills if they still come to you that way. Make a play and force your children to act it out for you, locking the sequence of events in your memory in a visual way. (I have done this. It works wonders. My children will correct me, because they remember my scene, that I gave them, better than I do.) Just do what you can to keep rolling! Losing something from your thoughts forever is painful.

5. Practically speaking, when you take a shower, plan for five minutes afterward of quickly typing up the stuff you thought of in there. Same for driving in the car. Just start planning that every time you do something somewhat autonomously (showering and driving are mine), the parts of your brain that usually need to focus are quiet, and imagination springs to life. Capture some of the magic from those moments, because it works the muscle and because you never know where you might find it works perfectly in something you need to write tomorrow.

And now I have to take the kiddo back to bed... again, squeeze in a shower, take notes (see? I follow my own advice), and finish the last of the dinner dishes. C'est la vie.

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission

Linda's submission
Moody's submission
Aaron's submission
Jeffery's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "What'll you have?" 

Non-Fiction Friday--Family Traits

  Concentration  

 KRISANN GENTRY 

I do it. My dad does it. His brothers, my brothers... for all we know it could go back 100 generations, and we're just the latest in a long line of ancestry carrying on the family trait.

Our tongues stick out when we concentrate.

It's almost as though our anatomy has somehow been programmed to say, "Attention systems: this is a high-focus issue. We can't have that willy-nilly, attached-at-only-one-end, loose cannon of a muscle over there causing problems. We've got to pin that thing down!"

It happens a lot playing video games. You might think that's the connection right there--that a stimulated brain trying to accomplish something assumes the body must be working too, and creates an action to compensate for the fact that you're sitting on your rear and exerting nothing more than your thumbs. Not so. Working through problems - even physical ones - it happens. I ran down a muddy hill once, and there is was again, sticking out like a ransomed captive, willing my feet to step carefully, to avoid slipping and falling to my demise or embarrassment. "Well, if I actually did fall, it would be a stupid time to be holding my tongue between my teeth," I mused as I arrived safely on the drier sidewalk, momentarily thankful that 'tongue stitches' was a phrase I'd never yet had to utter in an emergency room.

I spent a lot of time, once I got past the age of, oh I guess twelveish, intentionally training myself out of the involuntary habit. Let's be honest, it's not the most attractive of attributes to display. It's not terribly embarrassing, since it was fairly easy to stop once I'd decided to. It still surprises me sometimes, though, like in the hill-running incident, or when trying to cut something very precisely, and as I quietly tuck my tongue back into its rightful place, I marvel at the persistence of the quirk, wonder how long it went unnoticed by my own perceptions, and admit, by the slight flush of my cheeks, that I kinda hope no one else saw.

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Read more essays from this prompt:
Josiah's submission
Linda's submission
Jeffery's submission
Moody's submission

Want to make one of your own? Next week's prompt is FLASH FICTION.

Write a short story from the starting point, "Salmonella."