A Familiar, But Older Face

When I tell people I work as a writer, I usually receive a "oh, you're a journalist?" I then have to surprise them by revealing that I never went to journalism school, never studied communications, and never had to read War and Peace (that's right, I wasn't an English major either). Though I've flirted with the idea of becoming a print journalist, I haven't done anything yet to bring anything to fruition.

While at a conference this past week, during a discussion of the responsibilities of a particular job, I heard one of the attendees start a comment with, "Twenty years from now when we're all gone—"
She was referring to herself and colleagues who would be retired by then. Naturally, my brain took that phrase, conferred with my imagination, and together they came up with an image of me encountering a me who was twenty years older... 51 years old.

I pictured the surprise on both faces as their eyes registered the future and the past. As part of being a self-proclaimed weirdo, I'll admit to sometimes wishing for the three ghosts from A Christmas Carol to visit me, particularly the Ghost of Christmas Future. I want to know something, anything about what's to come.

So as I took my conference notes, I imagined what would happen at such a meeting. What insight I'd gain about my future life. I combined what I've learned about interviewing a source, with all I know of creative expression to conduct an "interview" with 51-year-old Jennifer. While my representative carefully studied the presenters' slides, who would have thought that I had secretly escaped further into my imagination for a little playtime.

[after excited yelps and hugs and kisses between the two]

31: Thank you for speaking with me today, Jennifer.
51: Don't I always find time to talk to myself?
31: You haven't lost your sense of humor I see.
51: Life tried to take it from me, but I held on.
31: You look great.
51: Why thank you. If you stop eating sweets right now, and manage to keep it that way, you can pull this off too.

31: Um, how many books have you written?
51: Twelve.
31: Big publishing house or self-published?
51: Both actually. I publish my and my mother's books, as well as a few other authors. Under my own company ____ Publishing (editor's note: company name cannot be revealed), a big publishing house.

31: Did you finish the story about Ronald and Lauren?
51: I'm glad you asked about that. I did. Won a few awards for it, and a filmmaker buddy made it into a movie. Can't tell you who plays Ronald though. Can't spoil the surprise.
31: Oh my goodness, this is unbelievable. I actually accomplish something.
51: And so much more.
31: This is amazing to hear.

31: As you may recall, I'm worried about turning 40, getting older scares me. What's it like to be 51?
51: Wow, did I really sound this sickening back then? No offense, youngin', but complaining about 40? Must be nice. But to answer your question, it feels just like 31. Except I'm 51. My mind hasn't changed but my body is playing by its own rules. Menopause finally came, to answer your other question you asked when you were 12.

31: Do you have children?
51: Eleven. You do become a foster parent, Jennifer. Eleven special men and women refer you as 'Ma.' And eight little boys and girls call you 'Big Ma.'
31: Oh my goodness, really?

31: Are you still different? You know what I mean don't you?
51: Yes. And yes, I'm still different. But check this out, I fit in a little bit more now. Mean people went out of style some years ago. 'Please' and 'thank you' are normal things to hear from everyone these days. Chivalry even came back. All the good decent women who want to be married are, I tell you the world is pretty nice.
31: Really? Am I to believe what I am hearing?
51: And get this. A study found that C average students are better people and have longer life spans than overachievers. Scholarship committees all over the world now treat people of average intelligence and academic ability with respect and give them a chance too.
31: I'm stunned, I'm just stunned. You mean, in your time, people like us are eligible for free rides too?
51: Yes, Virginia, there is indeed a Santa Claus.

51: Anything else you want to know, I really must get back to my life and you must return to yours. Being that this whole thing totally goes against the rules of the universe, time travel, and parallel dimensions.
31: Is there anything I should avoid? You know, any people to stay away from?
51: Do you like who I am Jennifer?
31: Of course. We're amazing.
51: Well if I told you what to avoid then you'd never learn what you need to get here. Just keep trusting your instinct. And regardless of how unfair things appear, don't let it change you. Now I must take my leave of you, Sweety. Take care of yourself okay?

31: Wait, one more thing. Do you ever meet that person who finally sees you. Really sees who and what you are?
51: Yes. We finally do.

I’m So Special: The Narcissist’s Anthem

I’m so special
I’m so special, so special, so special

This is the addictive chant of a popular dancehall song, which, not surprisingly, is titled “I’m So Special.” The artist’s name is Movado, in case you want to hear it for yourself.

While many people aren’t as bold to make such a proclamation, the evidence of a majority of the population’s sense of “specialness” can be found on blogs, social networking profiles, and just about any other medium accessed by other humans.

Look how special I am everyone, they flaunt.
Read my opinion of politics, the deterioration of the family structure, rude people, interracial relationships, sex, they beg.
Look at how adventurous I am, I’m in a raft; I’m climbing a mountain, look at me, they show off.
Listen to my cover of this Otis Redding song, don’t I sound just like him? Give me a record deal, they bay.

I’m so special, they appeal to the masses.

And yes readers, so am I. My confession for today is that the older I get, the more fascinated with myself I become. I enjoy the way I talk and laugh, the way I think, my bizarre and dark sense of humor, my personality, how quickly my nails grow, how goofy I dance, just about everything about me is special.

I’ve often wished that I could clone myself so that I could hang out with someone just like me. I’ve also wished I could have neighbors just like me (to ensure decency), coworkers as considerate as me, customer service people who were as professional and kind as me. I’ve even expressed to my mother what a wonderful child I was, and that I would consider myself extremely lucky to be blessed with children who behave in the same manner.

So, much like those people, I regularly venture online to tell the world how I’m feeling, what I want out of life, what I think about life, what I’ve analyzed about my behavior. Perhaps I’m under the delusion that the world cares. Or perhaps I’m sitting here giggling in delight at the cleverness of my own thoughts and how happy I am to write all of this just for me.

Whatever it is, I’m here to report that it has spread to my offline life. I’ve started a “Facebook” page at the entrance of my cubicle, to notify coworkers of my daily thoughts. I call it Penny For My Thoughts. It’s a sheet of paper with a real penny taped on it and filled with my “postings.” I don’t get much foot traffic, so I doubt more than two people even realize what’s written on those papers stuck to the outside of Jennifer’s cube. But it’s there, folks. From my dreams of homeownership, to how I can be found at home on Friday nights while other D.C. singles are out on dates.

What would possess me to do such a thing? I’m so special. I’m so special, so special, so special.

Tonight I Write

I'm attempting a new writing exercise tonight. I will listen to a song and write whatever comes to mind. It's my "literary freestyle" I should say. Even if I can get no more than a paragraph down, a few lines, I would have accomplished more than I have all month. I'm ashamed to say that I've kept the voices at bay for longer than I should have. Work, community service, and just regular living should never take precedence over your only means of escape, remember that.
Tonight's song is "I Who Have Nothing." It's been covered by many greats, but my absolute favorite is the one by my beloved Donny Hathaway and Roberta Flack. For those of you unfamiliar with with this classic, the lyrics are below. Feel free to join in.

Share with the world one or two sentences that visit you as you read the words. Here goes:

I, I who have nothing
And I, I who have no one
Adore you, and want you so
I'm just a no one,
With nothing to give you, but ohhhhh
I love you

He, he buys you diamonds
Bright, sparkling diamonds
But believe me, dear
Believe me when I say
He can give you the world,
But he'll never love you the way
I love you

You can go any place you want
To fancy clubs and restaurants
But I can only watch you with
My nose pressed up against the window pane

Ohhhh I, I who have nothing
I, I who have no one
Must watch you, go passing by
Wrapped in the arms of someone else
When darling, it is I
Who loves you

I love you
I love you
I love you

(Yes, this drawing is another Jennifer Singleton original. Copyright 2009)

"I sit alone in my four cornered room staring at candles"

I'm back after an extending break from my blog. I've been busy in my offline life, which is very surprising for me. But that's not the only reason I've been MIA. I started a new post over a week ago, and it's still in a draft state. As I've written before, when I attempt to write in an "uninspired" state of mind, the process only proves to be a frustrating exercise in futility. I'm planning to publish that post one day. It's about a confusing sign I encountered recently in a creepy parking garage. It's pretty funny actually, and reminiscent of the posts that landed me a "Best Humor Blog" nomination.

So now you may be wondering If you published this one, something has inspired you, right?

You know me so well. I was listening to my favorites on YouTube this evening when I noticed a video under Related Videos that I hadn't seen in a long time. "My Mind Is Playin Tricks On Me" by the Geto Boyz came out when I was in the 8th grade. My post title "I sit alone in my four cornered room staring at candles" is the song's introductory line. Like many songs, movies, and books that I ran across back then, I really didn't get what Scarface, Willie D, and Bushwick Bill were rapping about. It was just a cool sounding sound, with a cheesy video that I liked. But now that I'm older, songs like this that speak on the human condition draw me in and beg me to analyze their lyrics.

There is more than one interpretation of the song's meaning. As a writer, the lines that stands out to me deal with the ability to sit alone while thoughts take over your entire body, rendering it motionless, sometimes for hours; and the ones describing the effects of having visions. What I take from this song is a confirmation of my belief that people who are able to experience this and dare to entertain it, open their minds to receive raw emotions and feelings that can then be transferred to a form for others to receive.

I've often wondered about the inspiration behind the literary, musical, and theatrical works that are hailed as the greatest ever produced. If you'll notice, these works touch us deeply and affect our spirit; some are very haunting in their replication of what we have felt or have heard of others experiencing. And interestingly, the creators have led remarkably different lives from what they've produced. Never set foot in the environments of which they speak.

So how are they able to share things they've never experienced?

This may sound incredibly weird, but I believe these creations are possible through special portals that exist in the minds of creative people.The portals attract special signals in the universe. Again, this is my belief, I have no findings to back up anything. But it simply must exist. The wonder of Stevie Wonder comes to mind. I feel that his blindness has allowed him to see a beauty in the world that those of us with sight are not privy. He has those portals. Concentrated and powerful input enters his spirit, where his special ability allows him to put it into a form that communicates to the rest of us. And boy has it affected us.

I sit alone in my four cornered room staring at candles.

"That Bird Has My Wings"

"I wonder what products we’re using that were stolen from people who died penniless because they couldn’t fight the powers that be."
--J. Singleton

I expressed this sentiment the other day after learning of two men who, after two decades of litigation, finally won their lawsuit against a mega corporation accused of stealing their bottled water idea. I began to imagine how it would feel if one of my literary ideas were stolen; what if someone else received the praise; what if someone else paid off their debt; what if someone else used my wings to fly high in the clouds.

The artwork of this book's cover, and more importantly, the title, simply astounded me. I skimmed through the book and learned that it tells the story of Jarvis Jay Masters, a man on death row struggling to win his freedom. The words he needs the powers that be to understand: I'm an innocent man.

If you’re a Seinfeld episode connoisseur, you probably know the story behind the words "the beach." You see, Kramer met with a Calvin Klein exec to discuss his idea to create a cologne that would make the wearer smell like he or she just returned from the beach. Kramer suggested it be called The Ocean. The exec laughed at the ridiculous idea and sent him on his way. Fast forward a few years and Jerry is dating a Calvin Klein model. Jerry tells her one day that he likes the smell of her perfume. She replies that it’s a new CK perfume called The Beach. Jerry puts two and two together and realizes that his buddy’s idea was stolen. Of course, you know that this only begins the hilarity.

Though funny, in real life, beginning a battle of this magnitude is so daunting that many are able to only send threatening letters or spend all they have rallying a few troops to help them go up against Goliath. Others simply give up.

The mere thought of this happening to my intellectual property is devastating. While technically a work is under copyright protection the moment it is placed in a fixed, tangible form, the essence of it knows no owner and can be "borrowed" against the creator’s will. My mother tells me that ideas belong to the universe, not to an individual. What belongs to an individual is his or her expression of that idea. Let's say you originate an idea, a bike that says "hello." If I take this idea and express it in my own way by designing a bike that speaks three languages and sings Sinatra's greatest hits, the burden of proof lies with you that my great new bike, with all of its fancy trimmings, actually started with your idea of a simple "hello."

I have my work (mostly ramblings) scattered about on this blog, all my own creation. I knew when I put it out there that I was taking a chance, but convinced myself that I’d be okay if got away, because I was saving the good stuff for later. I lied. Every word I write is my precious offspring. I only want to share it under my name, though there are exceptions of course. My character Sweety, who lives in several postings, is someone whose story "The Gift" summoned me to tell. The Gift visits all of us creative expressionists, and serves as the switch our imaginations need to turn on. What results is our special creation, a miracle. When someone comes behind and steals that miracle, either completely or partially, without so much as an acknowledgement to its origin, I would imagine that it feels as though a piece of your spirit has left as well.

With recent and old stories of copyright infringement allegations on my mind, along with the uncertainty of submitting work to contests and start up magazines, and the hazards of posting work on blogs and messageboards, I often feel confused about how to balance being an ambitious and spontaneous writer who wants the world to know my name, and a paranoid word processor with delusions of grandeur of the world waiting in anticipation to nab my non-Library of Congress recognized offerings.

This past weekend when I spotted the words that bird has my wings, I unintentionally fed my weakening fear a very nourishing meal.

What do the words of this book title mean to you?

I Think I Was Supposed to Be a Counselor Too

"the latter part of your comment blessed my soul. I was praying about something and you said exactly what I needed 2 hear. You never know where encouraging words will come from! be blessed!"


This is what someone PM'd me on a messageboard in response to one of my posts. My "fonts" (a slang term for the types of things I write about) are based on my observations of myself and others. That's what my mind spends its time doing, analyzing the world around me. This hasn't always been a good thing, I used to get in trouble at school for it. My mother still has a note that my 2nd or 3rd grade teacher gave her that read something like "I'm concerned because Jennifer often daydreams in class." Not much has changed. I miss out on important things in meetings, classes, and even face to face conversations, because try as I might, my mind, much like an excited toddler aware of that her legs can go go go, escapes and runs away to conjure up things to entertain me. Other times it escapes to find deeper meanings for people and situations that arouse my curiosity.

I get a lot of positive feedback from my replies on this messageboard. They are lengthy in nature and are, hopefully, therapeutic to the thread starters. The e-counseling has resulted in nearly 2000 "thanks" of my posts. I'm on there everyday, offering my opinions and viewpoints on relationships, politics, news events, and celebrity gossip. So what could this mean? I love science...and volunteer in an insect zoo. I love to write and edit...and do that professionally and as a hobby. I love to travel...and do that whenever I can. I have an ability to understand what people are going through and configure my words to where they manage to make people happy. Wait a minute, is it possible that I've discovered the focus of my freelance writing career?

Should I go ahead and get certified in something that sounds impressive and makes me look "worthy," and use that to start an advice column? Well I'll be a blue dot on white cotton ball, how obvious. Perhaps I should ponder this further. I will keep you posted of course.

"Jennifer, you need your own column."

Last night a friend of mind told me that I needed a column because I always have so much knowledge to share. This wasn’t the first time she’s told me this. I’ve also heard similar suggestions from others. I’m flattered that my rants and “woman talks” have garnered the respect of those close to me, so much so that they’d suggest I share it with the masses. If you’ve read my other posts, you may have figured out that I’m not shy about exposing my innermost feelings, even those that would cause utter embarrassment to others. I’m able to write things about myself that I’m not as comfortable verbalizing, and under my real name too.

I’ve also noticed that I’m a far better fiction writer when said fiction has an extremely close connection to my own experiences, observations, and fantasies. In my writing classes I’ve been told that this is the way it should be. After my friend told me I should start a column, I asked myself what my area of expertise would be. The topics I usually talk about with friends, though they’d counter I actually “preach,” are my hopes and dreams for the future; the people I blame for society’s ills and how I’d change things if I ruled the world; my search for knowledge of self and spiritual enlightenment; the reality of my life in DC vs. my fantasy of life in NYC and beyond; my interesting volunteer work (hint: it involves hissing cockroaches from Madagascar); the finicky-ness of my coarse, nappy strands (and when would be a good time to show my coworkers what I really look like without this pound of human braiding hair resting on top of my head); the many jobs I’ve had; celebrity gossip; and how I’ve come to realize that I’m at the bottom of the dating totem pole…at least for now.

Of all these topics, existing on the outskirts of the dating/mating world and my observations of relationships and the people in them, would probably garner the most interest. There’s so many “relationship experts” on the market who claim to know everything, maybe people wouldn’t mind reading the wisdom of a relationship reject. Those other experts spout “this worked for me, listen closely, and it’ll work for you too” jargon. It seems designed to make people feel bad if they can’t Snag a Guy in 3 Days Using These Ancient Mayan Eye Twitches. People like me make others feel better about themselves and serve as a reminder that dating, much like life, is trial and error error error trial error success trial trial … I Haven’t Gotten To a Second Date in Four Years, It’s Either a Curse or Something I Said: How Not to Be Like Me.

Now that’s a must-read.

Well, I guess I’ll go and figure out where to pitch this column. If you want to pass some time, the column title I’m thinking of using can be found in at least two of my older posts. Next on my list…copyright that title (wouldn’t want to tempt anyone, people are so uninspired these days).


Until next time, folks,

Jennifer (the so-called Writer-Editor)

Ain't I A Writer?

Yes, I'm channeling Sojourner Truth with this one.

I awoke just a few minutes ago, and for some reason, the question of whether I was a "real" writer made its way to the front of the line of thoughts patiently waiting to be pondered. It must have been on my mind from last night when I was perusing several "pay per view" sites for writers. I was particularly interested in Associated Content. I did a little research and found that quite a few of the site's writers were pleased with it. I also checked out The Examiner and started to consider if I should sign-up.

I then thought about the lifestyle I lead and how closely it aligns with the "writer" stereotype:

1. I live a mostly isolated existence when not at work, spending a lot of time reading and in front of my computer. Check.
2. I am a virtual bottomless pit when it comes to my coffee intake. Check.
3. My brain is in overdrive and I'm continuously coming up with story ideas. Check.
4. I'm a little arrogant when it comes to the genius that my mind produces. Check.

So far so good. But wait a minute:

5. I'm always writing, in fact, a laptop is an extra appendage. Uh-oh.
6. I've sent out query letters and have received many rejection letters to show off. Uh-oh.
7. I have amassed quite an diverse online portfolio of articles. Uh-oh.


It's like the old question of does a falling tree make a sound if there's no one around to hear it. If I have a small number of published clips, about 12 or so, and virtually no online writing presence other than this blog, am I a "real writer"? If real writing is simply the act of using a writing utensil or a keyboard to record thoughts, then yes, I am a real writer. But if it means #5-#7 above, then perhaps I'm just a dreamer. I suppose "writer" is a personal definition that varies from supposed writer to supposed writer.

I'm a writer. I'm just one that hasn't done all I can to share myself with the world. This needs to change. I'm not all that concerned with how many pennies these sites pay me per visitor click, I want what I write to be read. On my website http://www.jennifersingleton.net/, I want to refer visitors and potential clients to my page with "so and so" where they can find more of my work. It's time to step up to the plate and join the millions of others who want a voice as well. Maybe my ramblings will make me rich, maybe they won't. But if they make one person, just one, want to hit 'print' or 'email to a friend,' then my mission will be accomplished.

That's what it's always been about for me. To one day say "mission accomplished."

I guess I can bring back the falling tree example. If someone hits 'print' and no one is around to see, has that person really printed my article. LOL. (okay, so I'm not a comedian)

Wish me luck,

Jennifer Singleton
Writer-Editor

Doing the “Double Talk” Dance

I was watching an episode of The Golden Girls the other night when Dorothy, my favorite character, said she had reached her limit at the automated teller machine. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard this full pronunciation of "ATM" in a very long time. And that if I walked outside and asked someone where the closest automated teller machine was, it would probably take him or her a moment to process what I was asking. Someone younger than twenty would probably shrug their shoulders in total confusion.

However, if I were to ask anyone where the nearest "ATM machine" was located, we'd all be on the same page. But let's look at what I'd be asking: "Excuse me, where is the nearest automated teller machine machine?" This question is an example of a redundonym, and those who use them (pretty much all of us), are doing the "double talk" dance. A redundonym is an acronym ("ATM") that is followed by a word already included in the acronym ("machine").

When you go the ATM, would you say you enter your personal identification number (PIN), or your personal identification number number (PIN number)?

Would you go to your bank to inquire about an individual retirement account (IRA), or an individual retirement account account (IRA account)?

Would you search for a book using its International Standard Book Number (ISBN), or its International Standard Book Number Number (ISBN number)? [note: I only recently realized that I've never not used this redundonym.]

Much of this is colloquial, meaning we say it all the time in our informal communications, and unfortunately, in formal speech and writing where these casual “everybody does its” can make the writer look amateurish and sloppy. I’m trying to be more careful with my use of these, but it’s not easy. Want to know a secret? I prefer saying “PIN number” because to me, it’s a PIN number! I’ve never entered a PIN a day in my life. (Never said I was perfect…just telling you how to be).

Here are some other examples of redundonyms, courtesy of The Copyeditor’s Handbook by Amy Einsohn (great book by the way):

Incorrect= GRE exam (correct= GRE)
Incorrect= HIV virus (correct= HIV)
Incorrect= UPS service (correct= UPS)

The Programs of the Brain's Hard Drive

In the ten days since my last post I have been a diligent and productive writer and editor at my 9 to 5, read the Curious Case of Benjamin Button and thoroughly enjoyed every word, contemplated how much longer I should keep my aging but still-running vehicle, and spent some time exploring Chicago just for the heck of it (note: yes, I'm an editor who enjoys reading, so I should clarify that I explored the city of Chicago, not the style manual). I have done a lot of musing during this time, with thoughts ranging from the possible consequences of ignoring an obvious conflict of interest to calculating how much I should be saving to fulfill my goal of home ownership.
My brain is responsible for managing an exponential amount of data, mostly the products of my imagination, and I often wish I knew how to manually go into the "hard drive" and delete bothersome programs and add beneficial ones.

I'd add a program called Automatic Bridger that would bridge the gaps in the stories I'm having trouble completing. My inability to organize the middle (or meat of the story sandwich) has always plagued me. I know the beginning, the ending, and some of the conflicts that comprise the middle...but that's it...for just about all of them. Automatic Bridger could show me the links between my scenes, and sort through the piles of disconnected pieces to pull together a believable and engaging sequence of events. I wouldn't abuse this program, I'd only call on it during draining bouts of writer's block.

I'd also add a program called Eraser, similar to antivirus protection, that searches the hard drive for people and scenarios I've spent too much time imagining, and after quarantining them, asks these questions:
"Is it possible that this person or people are imagining you in a similar way?"
Me: No, I'm sure they are not. Positive in fact.
"Have these thoughts contributed to your well-being or helped you advance any of your goals?"
Me: My answer is a resounding no.
"Can this space be used for other, more productive purposes?"
Me: Why yes, I'm quite sure it could.
"Thank you. Erase of subjects completed. Space now free for something more important and reciprocal."

I'd delete the program that generates self-doubt of my abilities; the program that instructs the system to procrastinate; the program that supplies the excitement I need to sign-up for projects and activities, only to cut it off a short time later; and finally, I'd delete the program that craves Jelly Belly® jelly beans and other sweets.

But of all of these, I wish I had Automatic Bridger right now. I suppose I could call upon my brain, but it's so busy I hate to task it with more. Oh why not, that's what it's there for. Perhaps I should knock first to see if it has any time today to help me out. Wish me luck.

The Words of Dorian Corey

Who is she? A transgendered entertainer and designer who I first saw in the documentary Paris is Burning. I was twelve years old at the time and was more impressed with the film's extravagant costumes and dance competitions, and the fact that it was filmed in New York City, my fantasy residence even then. Though it still is, and I enjoy going up there, I, like many others who didn't grow up there (but really really wanted to), feel as though I came of age too late to experience the “old” New York. But I'm drawn to her still.

Anyway, tonight as I sat down to draft a new story idea, one of my favorite scenes from the documentary came to mind. A scene where a lovely woman named Brooke Xtravaganza expresses her exuberance at just having had her sex change operation to become a "real" woman. She giggles with glee as if she’s really been freed from confinement and she and a friend sing I am what I am...I am my own special creation. I needed to be touched by that. And then, Dorian Corey appeared in perhaps the most introspective moment of the film, only uttering a few poignant lines while applying makeup before a show.

As an adult, the words he shared when I was twelve finally have meaning. I finally understand.

I always had hopes of being a big star
Then as you get older you aim a little lower
Then you say, I still might make an impression on the world
Everybody wants to leave something behind them
Some impression, some mark on the world
Then you think that you left a mark on the world if you just get through it, and a few people remember your name
Then you left a mark
You don’t have to bend the whole world
I think it’s better to just enjoy it
Pay your dues, and enjoy it
[pause]
If you shoot an arrow and it goes real high
Hooray for you

RIP Dorian Corey

To "the" or not to "the": the curious case of the definite article

Do you know the difference between an initialism, and an acronym? If you do, then you might have no trouble deciding if you should place the word "the" before UK or KFC or NASDAQ. But if you're like me (and not saying this is right), your first instinct is to go with what sounds better. But it's important to understand the rules. I learned this the other day at work.

I wanted to send an email to a coworker to ask her opinion on whether we should place "the" in front of our unit's abbreviation, let's call it "OI." Having seen it with and without, I wanted to make a definitive choice. She's a senior member, so I figured she should weigh in. But as I began to draft the email, it occurred to me that I should first search around (Google) to see what other thoughts were out there. [Note: Even though I have access to style manuals galore, I enjoy online resources because they're quicker and oftentimes have an interface that allows visitors to leave "wow, thank yous" and "I beg to differs."] Five minutes later, I had my answer, and was reminded that the learning process never ends, especially if you call yourself an editor. And that my sounds better technique had been leading me astray.

Here's what I learned, and what I want to share with you:

1. Had I drafted the email to my coworker, I would have been correct to refer to "OI" as an initialism, because it cannot be pronounced as a word like "NAFTA," an acronym, can.

2. You should use "the" if the spelled-out name begins with "the" but is not used in the initialism. Example: the People's Republic of China (PRC). The PRC honored the visiting dignitaries.

3. When "the" is not a part of the spelled-out name, then you should not place it before the name's initialism.
Example: Chicago Public Schools. All CPS students are excused from classes this week.

4. Do not place "the" before an acronym. Remember, acryonyms are abbreviations that can be pronounced as words, like "NASCAR" and "NATO."
Example: My brother is a huge fan of NASCAR races.


So, in the end, I answered my own question. I work in the OI.

My latest writing credit: My legacy

Happy October 1st! I received some good news today. Three months ago I submitted an article on cyberbullying to my (now former) employer's magazine. And they liked it, they really liked it. It will definitely appear in the magazine's Dec/Jan online issue, but if there's room (I hope) it will also appear in the print version mailed to subscribers worldwide. Because this was my final contribution to the organization, I see this as my little legacy. I wrote it because I've grown quite saddened through the years at what young people are facing at the hands of their peers.

Not so long ago, I was a public school student. My hair and clothes were different so I dealt with my share of ostracism, but compared to others, I had an easy time. Back then, bullying had a face. Today it doesn't. And as I've tried to keep up with all of the technologies that allow us to exist as avators and usernames, I'm often dumbfounded at the cruelties that torture students during their classroom life, and too often, in their online life. So writing this review was very rewarding to me, and I hope that when its made available someone who was unaware of the depth of the problem will look for ways to pass along the awareness.

Receiving news of my article's acceptance was the B12 injection my fatigued writer's soul needed. I've been struggling to wrangle the right words from the tornado occurring in my mind. Alphabets are flying all over the place, grabbing them is the easy part...configuring them to form words is the problem. Metaphors aside, I'm suffering from writer's block. I'm a technical writer by day---creative writer too tired to dream by night.

My characters miss me, and I miss them too. Yesterday I purchased a collection of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I enjoy his writing style. I think a consultation with him will help quell the winds a little. It's so hard to court my creativity after shunning its advances for 8 hours, my priority given to the search and conquer of technical jargon.


Wish me luck,

Jennifer Singleton

Sunday's Writing Tip: Less Can Be Best

We all do it, though few people can say for sure where they learned it. I'm talking about using three, four, and even five words to say something that can be said with only one or two. This way of speaking and writing sounds more "proper" and correct to a lot of us; so ingrained that simplifying feels like "dumbing down" or not showing how smart and literate we are. However, in writing (especially technical), you should always consider your audience's needs and the importance of providing content that is clear, concise, and to the point.

To illustrate, I've gathered some examples of wordiness ("circumlocutions") and redundancies, and provided suggested alternatives. I still have to catch myself sometimes. I bet I even did it in this post. Let me know what you spot, this could be fun.

Too wordy (alternative)

At this particular point in time (now)
Made mention of the fact (mentioned)
In spite of the fact that (although)
Call your attention to (remind you)
In this day and age (today)
With regards to (regarding)
In order to (to)
For the simple fact (because)
Take into consideration (consider)


Redundant (alternative)

Eliminate altogether (eliminate)
Past history (past)
Plan in advance (plan)
Warn in advance (warn)
Important essentials (important or essential)
Follow after (follow)

In my last post I asked readers to find the definition of this word and come up with one good reason why it should be used in a sentence when other choices were available.

I'm not saying "behest" is wrong (if Merriam's likes it, so should I), it's just that I think it looks better in a more academic context, or better yet, used sparingly with other words of the same class: It is at the behest of His Majesty that today's assemblage not meander through the forbidden forest.

But not here: At the behest of the mayor, all residents wore white to the "Jubilee All" festival.

I would probably edit this to read: The residents complied with the mayor's order to wear white to the "Jubilee All" festival.

Ms. Melissa, a commenter, responded "I behest you to continue writing fun and creative stories that you will post on your blog."
My answer: Yes ma'am. I'm in meetings with my imagination now to see what we can do about that.

My Blog's Purpose: I Lost Sight of It. Now I Can See.

Hello out there,

You may have noticed my revised blog title and description. I made this change just a few minutes ago after my mind and body finally came to an agreement (finally, right?):
My blog has become far too personal and random to accurately reflect my abilities to offer readers a wide variety of relevant and interesting content geared towards writers in the creative and technical genres, editors who feel as though they are the only ones having trouble with "who" and "whom," and lovers of the written word who look to me to provide amusing commentary of my efforts to cope with a demanding and overactive imagination.

I truly enjoyed writing and sharing the story of Sweety, but as an unpublished author (in the traditional sense) I must keep myself aware that not everyone respects intellectual property rights. My fiction efforts at this time, I feel, should be best spent in my private lab. Not to say that I won't "literary freestyle" occasionally; heavens no, I love it too much. But I now want to broaden my focus, and hopefully, my readership with content that has to do with all stakeholders in this struggle to capture and perfect the written word (i.e., enough about me).

Assignment for now or later: Ever heard of the word "behest"? I hadn't...until today. For giggles, look it up in the dictionary and try to come up with one good reason why someone would purposely choose to write this; when doing so means to consciously ignore the plain and modern English choices that first come to one's mind.

Yep, it's time I start to let my editor show.

I Have to Do What the Voices Say, Or Else!!

So I was sitting at work, reformatting bulleted lists and other fun editor stuff, when my characters Knowledge and Sweety decided to pay me a little mental visit. They expressed their concern...let me stop lying, they were angry with me and felt that I played them in "Sweety's Finale" (Sept. 12 post) and that I was too sleepy to even try to tackle the complexity of their relationship. I thought about it, revisited what I wrote, and ultimately concluded that they were correct. I didn't give that scene justice, not the way Knowledge and Sweety presented it to me. I rushed home to try to make things right. Knowledge, Sweety, my apologies. Is this more to your liking? Geez, do you see how hard it is when you care about these people you create? You don't do right by them, they will come back, and you have to do what the voices say, or else. -Jennifer Singleton ("the great")

Sweety's Finale

Raymond "Papi" Carter disconnected the call with Sweety and lie in bed for a few minutes, contemplating what he should do now that she had taken him up on his offer. It was true that he and a group of wishmasters acted out peculiar requests, but this was done only in his online interactive world Terror and Pleasure Garden. His clients had avatars and paid pricey membership fees for this elaborate role play. In the beginning he assumed Sweety knew it wasn't "real," but by her questions realized she really believed he and a masked gang set to the streets to fulfill thrill seekers' fantasies. Papi wanted to clear things up, but she was so fascinated about it all that his ego wouldn't allow him to reveal the truth. Besides, the thought of actually bringing these "setups" to life had begun to excite him in ways that fantasy had ceased to do long ago. And now, after patient nudging, sweet little Sweety had finally given in.

He didn't have much time to put things into action, so many thoughts were running through his mind along with possible coconspirators. Manor Park had a small pond that would be perfect for the drowning simulation. Grand Punisher, his next door neighbor and first wishmaster would be the perfect choice. He had a preference for "thick" ladies and also enjoyed rough encounters, so he would know exactly how to handle Sweety who would assuredly be fighting with all she had. Papi rarely involved himself in the "games" between his players, he was more a moderator than anything. But as he searched his mind for the perfect choice to induce her pleasure, he could think of no other than himself. Papi wanted to be the one to experience this. Over the course of their getting to know each other, he had started to develop some type of feeling for her, he couldn't help it.

Sweety was was the most naive grown woman he'd ever encountered and seemed so much in need of love, any kind of love really. She had only one picture on her blog Loserville, Population: Me, a "shoulder up" shot, the sign of someone with fat to hide. Sweety wasn't a sexy woman...not yet anyway; it was her potential that aroused him, that appealed to that innate investigator in him to figure out the right combination to unlock the uninhibited freak beneath. Still, she seemed like the nicest woman left on earth, and though she'd undoubtedly been outcast from the dating world, carried herself like she was worth something anyway. If the circumstances were different, he wouldn't mind being that long-term shoulder that she needed.

Gus, "Grand Punisher," listened intently as Raymond described how he thought the scenario should go, choosing to wait before expressing his disbelief at the idea of bringing the game to real life. Gus, a high school buddy of Raymond, used to get off on the whole terror and pleasure thing when he became the Terror and Pleasure Garden's first wishmaster three years before. But since becoming more involved with a group of gods and earths and coming into a knowledge of self, was losing interest in playing online sex and punishment games.

When his friend was finished, Gus stood and said "I knew this would happen one day. I knew that one day you would get bored and want to raise the bar. Really think about the things you want us to do to that lady. How do you know she won't go to the police and have us arrested and charged with multiple felonies."
"I can say for a fact that she will never tell a soul; on my net worth she won't. Come on, G, just help me out this one time, I won't ask you to do it again. I just want to know what it's like. And she's down with it. It's not like she's scared about it. It'll be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her and isn't that what we're all about?"
"If I help you out with this, Ray, I want out after it's done. Grand Punisher will be retired. Agreed?"
"Alright man, if that's what you want. But don't half ass this tonight, take it as far as you can."

After it was all over, Gus watched Papi walk the cold, shaking, and crying woman back to her car. Papi looked back at him and gave him a thumbs up followed by the peace sign. Gus understood it as "good job man" and "a deal is a deal."

******

Three days after the phone call brought the memory Raymond "Papi" Carter back in her life...

Sweety grabbed her $10 bill and keys off the counter and rushed to open the door for who she assumed was the Chinese takeout delivery guy ringing the bell. This was his fastest time yet. But her eyes meet a visitor she wasn't expecting to see. Knowledge the God, the beautiful man who had brought joy into her world then took it back when he disappeared mysteriously, stood there with eyes reddened and tired from crying or lack of sleep, or both.
"Knowlege? Hey." Even though she still cared for this man, there was something very eerie in the atmosphere, so much so that she was thankful that her burglar door was locked.
"Sweety, I...I...I'm sorry about leaving you hanging like that. Oh man, wow, I know I gotta do this but it's hard."
"What's going on?"
"I stopped calling you because I was starting to fall for you and my guilt couldn’t let me reciprocate."
"Guilt over what?"
Knowledge put his head down as he struggled with the right words. "We didn’t meet at the bookstore, we met in Manor Park. I'm the man who drug you to the pond." Knowledge’s voice cracked and he dropped his head in shame.

As strong as Sweety was trying to be on the inside, her entire body began to tremble. She began to feel dizzy and grasped the burglar door for support. Knowledge reached out to gently touch her fingers but she jerked them away.
"Are you serious?"
"It was me."
"How can this be happening? Why are you doing this to me? Are you after more kicks? Come on, after a year? How sick are you?"
"I haven’t talked to Ray since that night. I don't do that anymore, I swear."
"So when we met at the bookstore, what was that about? Were you Knowledge, or a wishmaster?"
"Knowledge. When you and I started talking, I realized who you were. I wanted to walk away, but knew that I had to repent in some kind of way by showing you the best person I could be. Then after a while I got scared. I'm not here for kicks, Sweety, I’m here because I care a lot about you."
"And you don't associate with him anymore?"
"No."
"Why, because of me?"
"Not entirely. You just change."
"Just like that? How do I know this isn't part two, or that you aren't trying to hurt me?"
"I came here to make amends for taking things too far, and then not telling you who I was before now. Forgive me for that. But if you want to treat me like I'm some monster who kidnapped an unsuspecting woman, let me remind you that you cam eon your own. I know Raymond and I'm sure he didn't ask you to meet him for a candlelit picnic. You were holding the teddy bear, which meant that you must have read the note that was attached to it. Remember the note? "If you untie me from this fence you consent to play" I wrote that, that's how I know what it says. I was trying to give you an out, which you didn't take, because I wasn't convinced you knew what the Terror and Pleasure Garden was really about."

Sweety unlocked the burglard door as the delivery guy sprinted toward them with her takeout order. He offered a pleasant greeting, but the transaction remained silent as he observed the couple's stoic expressions.

Sweety wanted to close the door and leave Knowledge standing there, she really did. But his stare was so intense and communicative that it was captivating. Here stood a man who in such a short period of time had helped her expand her knowledge of different cultures, music, and schools of thought. Brutish wishmaster turned profound poet, fellow bookworm, seeker of enlightenment, and rare soul who took direction from his heart instead of his eyes.

"Well I should go and let you enjoy your food. I just wanted to look you in the face and tell you the truth about what I did, and to tell you that I enjoyed getting to know you, but if I can’t be honest with someone, I have a hard time being in their presence. That's why I left. I came back to see if...nevermind. I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me." With that, Knowledge turned to leave.

Sweety had to make a decision, but feared whatever she chose would only have her doubting her judgment. If she banished him, she'd wonder if he was her meant to be; an odd and less than magical first meeting, yes, but her soul mate nonetheless. And she did agree to be a player in Papi's game, request it even, right? If she forgave and agreed to continue where they left off without first putting him through hell and back, he might lose respect for her for making it too easy for him. She was very experienced with the consequences of not acting the part of the angry, neck-rolling, car-keying, out for revenge bitch, who interestingly, men claimed to despise yet found utterly irresistible. Was she insane? Who in their right mind would even be standing there pondering an option other than slamming the door?

"I went to see Rakim El perform at Dojo last week, I remember you telling me about him." Knowledge looked back with a surprised smirk.
"Wow, really. He’s phenomenal, did you enjoy it?"
"Yeh. And I even understood a little of what he was saying because of the lessons we used to talk about." Knowledge smiled like he was proud of her. There was the guy she remembered.

The adrenaline that was dispatched in apprehension earlier had now received another assignment from the control center. One that left Sweety feeling helpless as the corners of her mouth began to tilt upwards, and her system began to receive frantic messages from her senses, which had started processing the warm, earthy aroma of the homemade body oil Knowledge's skin had absorbed, the firm but gentle tone of his voice, the fact that this man was the first one to ever show up at her door of his own accord. The first who just had to see her.

"Are you hungry?"
"A little."
“So let’s eat.”
Knowledge appeared hesitant to enter her apartment.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sweety. It’s so very nice to meet you.”
"Hi, Sweety. My given name is Gus Josephson, but I ask that you refer to me as Knowledge the God, or Knowledge."
“Would you care to come in, Knowledge? I need some help devouring my steamed vegetables and fried rice?”
"Why thank you. But, I need to know something, for real, Sweety...do you forgive me?"
"I forgive you. Come on let's eat." Sweety Fisher bit her bottom lip in appreciation as her eyes followed the former wishmaster's impressive frame.

The bizarre god who controlled her world was at it again, never satisfied with the cruelties he directed her way. Surely, the reveal of the man she had fallen for as the masked one who had held her under water should have been frightening, driving her further into depression. But strangely, Sweety welcomed this surprise. She stopped trying to make sense of her life long ago. She'd come to realize that her life would consist of bizarre opportunities to step out of her boring character, to make her fantasies reality; and that she could either choose to ride the wave and enjoy it, or run away and hide. She wanted to start riding. To indulge that insatiable appetite that Papi had correctly surmised existed inside of her.

Though she'd blocked out Papi's face and the events of that night, her body kept a back up file and remembered what it felt out there, gentle hands on her breasts, a firm grip around her neck. When Sweety attempted to relive the pleasure at her own hands, she couldn't even come close. And now, the person who could make it happen had returned, and whether he would want to or not, would have no choice but to play a new kind of game, one that would ease her nagging suffering...over and over and over again.

The End

My 3 R's: "R"ejoicing in the "R"write "R"hythm

This Sunday evening I'm rejoicing the rwrite rhythm. What does this mean? That my ears are rejoicing (i.e., eargasming) to the rhythms that are evoking my desire to write. I thank the universe for melodic sounds and for voices that carry notes with such passion that the listener feels a sincere feeling of oneness. Interestingly, this ability was supposedly something I was born with. I'm a Cancer, member of a special group of people categorized as "often emotionally intelligent and sensitive to the feelings and moods of others."

Writers, specifically those specializing in fiction, receive inspiration from just about any source you can imagine. Aside from the people that I've encountered or the people I've fantasized about encountering, music is my major energy source for writing endeavors. Which brings me to where I am right now. Right now, I'm being held captive by a cover of the Beatles' song "Yesterday," performed by someone whose name is no stranger to this blog. My lyrical soulmate Donny Hathaway. His voice has complete access to all of me. It takes over and makes me feel what he's saying. He was a gift to this earth. I was six months old when he passed away. We never crossed paths, not in this life anyway. Our lives haven't mirrored. But 30 years later, I can sit here and listen to his words and relate to their sense of urgency; longing; unrequited desire.

How is that possible? For the human condition to be so timeless. That no matter the technological advances or societal changes, emotions remain the same. And much like the scent signal that bees leave to direct those coming behind them, Donny's left music I can listen to and nearly get teary eyed to because >>we are here<<. I feel what's he's saying. Magic I suppose.

I'm feeling this, can't you tell? You should see me, sitting here swaying from side to side like I'm receiving the spirit, and all I want to do is write. After my post yesterday, I hadn't planned on posting for a minute, but I messed around and started playing Mr. Hathaway. Then started rejoicing in my rwrite rhythm. Then I got that itch that only creating words could relieve. This is what he does to me and I'm so very thankful for it. Donny's songs, not all, but the ones I particulary love, provide the water I need for the seeds of my sensual and dramatic scenes to grow. Take these two sentences:

Chris walked up to her and kissed her hand. She looked at him with love in her eyes and led him upstairs.

This isn't bad for a rough draft. Not bad at all.

But, check out how I can work this with a little help from my rwrite rhythm:

She was beautiful, everything about her. Even when she wasn't trying to be. Like now, just standing there at the kitchen sink peeling sweet potatoes. Chris rose from the couch, heart starting to race in anticipation of what he was about to do. He turned off the tv, loosened his tie, and slowly made his way into the kitchen. His wife had only a moment's warning before she was spun around and her moist hand brought to the eager lips of her insatiable husband. Her eyes beckoned him with filthy taunts as she snatched off her apron and led this incredible man upstairs.

*fanning self* Whew chile, see what I mean. Let me stop before I write something I'll regret later.

Think about what or who provides the nourishment for your characters and scenes to flourish. Give thanks that they exist. Now get to work.

Note: You know I wouldn't publish this without leaving the link to hear Donny's version of "Yesterday" for yourself.
Listen here for my private little rwrite rhythm.

Saturday Evenings's Writing Exercise (Sweety's Finale)

*I've never done a literary freestyle like this before. Each time I would start a new post, I had no idea what I was going to come up with. Somehow it became a continuing story that I refer to as Sweety's Saga. Because I started it back in July I decided to reaquaint you with the beginning, the midde, and the much toiled over 'Sweety's Finale.' I hope that it doesn't disappoint. Enjoy. If you're like me and prefer to start at the original post and pace yourself, then click here.*

Pt. 1

"There's not one man in this world who finds me attractive," Sweety mumbled as she trained with her 5lb weights in the wellness center at her job. This declaration came moments after she realized that the engorged fat cells in her belly had formed a united front of resistance against her attempts to destroy them. Annabelle, a coworker who had lost a significant portion of herself in less than 4 months, finished her ab exercises, yanked out her earphones and told Sweety she was calling it an evening. "Girl, I wish I could work out with weights, my arm strength is crap."

Sweety, always the jokester, made a pained expression and pretended to struggle to lift one of the weights to her shoulder. Annabelle shook her head in amusement and left to retrieve her things from a locker. Sweety held onto the weights long enough for her workout buddy to say a final goodbye, then dropped them to the floor in defeat.

As her sweat-drenched frame approached the staff parking garage, her stomach sent a signal that it was in need of food--but this was impossible, as two hours earlier she'd eaten a thick turkey sandwich and two bananas. That's the thing about cravings, in the absence of your mind having anything else to look forward to, those cravings are always there to offer their company. Her slow pace to the car was due in part for cooling down, but mostly in dread of having to join the aggressive rude drivers on 395 N.

To make matters worse for Sweety, it was Valentine's Day. Stubborn belly fat; no emails or calls from a former, current, or aspiring lover (the latter two didn't exist); and a bed that hadn't served a romantic purpose in two years, all conspired to make the sweaty, chubby, and now hungry publications editor feel like ending this night as soon as possible. A glass of wine and a sugary doughnut had proved to be a potent sleep aid, guaranteed to have her nearly comatose within a hour of consumption. Yes, that's what she'd do. No need in torturing herself with her nightmares of dates' past. No need to go over for the hundredth time that week alone, why she'd never heard back from Knowledge the God, a beautiful man with "knowledge of self" who had approached her in a bookstore a month earlier. Because men never made the first move, his appearance in her life was a good sign, she thought. He exposed her to an underground culture she didn't know existed in her city.

And then, he just stopped calling. Sweety left a few messages, sent some emails, even stopped by a few of the hangouts she knew he frequented. Tonight she was supposed to be with him. Tonight was the night he'd reveal some type of feeling for her, something to reignite her fantasies that she'd put away. But, as had been decided by some cruel mystical force, he had joined the many others who had just vanished. No explanation provided, no closure granted. She'd asked one disappearing act if he could please tell her what she'd done--that there would be no hard feelings and that she wouldn't even bother him after that. Given this "hassle-free" opportunity to fill a clueless Sweety in on what, if anything, she was doing to turn off every single man that crossed her path, Disappearing Act replied "um, not sure how to answer that. you're so sensitive, it doesn't matter what i say, your feelings will be still be hurt. move on, i have."

Sweety paid for her bottle of 2006 chardonnay and small box of chocolate doughnuts (they weren't sold separately) and wished the cashier a goodnight even though the teenage girl had not spoken or made any eye contact with her during the transaction. As she passed by the security guard on her way out, he said very softly "Happy Valentine's Day." Sweety smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, young though, probably not even thirty. For a moment, she contemplated inquiring if after his quitting time would he be interested in walking up the street to her home, showering, then slipping into bed beside her to hold her. His kind face told her that he'd possibly agree.

But her mind warned her that it was all an illusion. That the "yes" that would form in his mind, would change to a "no" by the time it made its way to his mouth. It was just something about her that turned men off. What else could she think? It's not like anyone had told her otherwise.
"Thank you, you too," she said quickly, hot tears preparing to erupt. "Have a good evening."

Pt. 2

The sugar and carb overload had proven ineffective as a sleep aid, much to Sweety's disappointment. She sat on her kitchen floor spinning the empty bottle of white wine, the visually soothing rotations trapping her under a light hypnosis. The basement apartment was curiously quiet this evening. There were always strange creaks occuring at night, the agitated rumblings of the previous tenant's ghost she suspected. When she moved in, the landlord, who lived upstairs, figured she had the right to know that the "other guy" had been shot to death in the apartment. He didn't realize his tenant was dead until the smell started coming up through the vents.

The ringing phone beckoned Sweety to rejoin her depression already in progress. She had a feeling of who it was, the only person who ever called this late, her cousin Jocelyn. But why would she be calling on Valentine's night? Jocelyn was a part of Atlanta's hip, in-crowd, a beautiful woman who was sought after by many well-established and connected men. She regularly called her cuz in DC to "check in," but Sweety was sure it was to brag on the fabulous life of Jocelyn Jones. Since all her ATL buddies were on the same level or higher, they wouldn't be impressed about her vacationing in Barbados with a Falcons player--but Sweety would.

Unknown caller. "Hello?" Sweety listened for her cuz's usual "Hey sweets, what's happening?" But there was only silence. She repeated the greeting and was met with a hangup. A few minutes later, the same thing. On the third time, Sweety waited a while before answering.
"Yes, hello?"
"Sweety? I'm calling because your name is in my man's phone, and you're the only contact of his I haven't heard about. How do you know Raymond?"
"Excuse me, who? I think you have the wrong number?"
"Then how did I know to ask for you by name? I didn't call for games, just to find out your affiliation with my man."

Sweety was timid by nature, considered shy by most who met her. But everybody has another side to balance out the one that the world sees. When backed into a corner, the chubby editor knew how to come out swinging, in her own little way. But this event was so peculiar, Sweety remained calm as she pondered if this was indeed her aunt playing on the phone.
"Jocelyn?"
"I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just stay the hell away from Raymond and we'll be okay."

Sweety sighed. "Ma'am, if you knew me at all, then you'd realize that you have the wrong person. I'm overweight and lonely, sexually neglected, and keep to myself most of the time. Had Raymond ever dialed this number, I would surely tell you, if only from the lingering disbelief that a man actually called me. I can't do this with you right now, I'm quite depressed and was contemplating suicide before you called. Your man is not interested in me, I assure you."

"Are you serious? I'm so sorry, ma'am, damn. I don't how Papi got your number, I don't even care at this point, 'cause I'm not trying to be the last person you spoke to. Please get some help." The caller hung up.

Sweety didn't feel any kind of way about the unusual discourse, her life seemed to be dictated by bizarre happenings like this. She threw away the wine bottle and empty box and took a few steps toward the bathroom before emitting a loud "Oh my god! I do know Raymond!" Sweety practically flew to turn on the computer, cursing at the excruciatingly long few moments it took to connect to the Internet.

A series of frantic keystrokes later she was reunited with the face of the man she'd successfully blocked out of her memory for the past year--Raymond "Papi" Carter, owner of the online community The Terror and Pleasure Garden.

Pt. 3

"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."

Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book. She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts. This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.

Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there."
And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.

The incoming laughter that pierced the silence of the ladies room prompted Sweety to flush the toilet she'd been sitting on for the past half hour. She hadn't come in there to relieve herself, only to think; but the intruder didn't know that and would expect to hear a flush after hearing someone lift themselves off of the squeaky toilet lid. Sweety took her time until the person was securely locked into a stall, then emerged, washed her hands and returned to her cubicle.

The work day was nearing its end and though her physical presence had interacted with coworkers, sat through two production meetings, responded to and initiated over twenty-five e-mails, edited a 7500 word newsletter, ate lunch, and refilled her coffee mug several times—her mind had entertained nothing but thoughts of Papi, and the phone call from his "woman." That liar. Perhaps she was a naive fool who he had charmed into believing was his one and only. If the woman knew anything about his Terror and Pleasure network, she'd know better than to fool herself. Her number was still in his phone after all this time, it made no sense. Papi surely knew hundreds of adventurous women, probably thousands. Why would he keep the contact information of an overweight bookworm who as he put it "didn't know how to let herself go"?

As coworkers passed her desk and said their goodnights and see you tomorrows, it occurred to Sweety for the first time that the "Anonymous" commenter who would leave a creepy haiku on her blog at least once a week could actually be Mr. Carter himself. She had blocked out so much that she never connected the two. She realized now that the reason she hadn't gotten over what happened wasn't because of it slipping her mind because of it insignificance. Her memory had been disrupted. The night a ski-masked Papi and one of his wishmasters made her fear and desire collide was far too frightening...and pleasurable to not have affected something. And now, the gates had been unlocked. But why?

Pt. 4

One year ago...

The night Papi decided to formally introduce himself started out the same as most of the others.

Sweety came home a little earlier than usual thanks to her supervisor being out on vacation. She ate the leftovers from her lo mein noodle lunch, took a long shower, watched a few Seinfeld episodes, pondered man's purpose on earth over two cups of Sumatra coffee, finished reading an erotic novel that due was back to the library the next day, talked on the phone with her cousin Darrylyn who was due to give birth before week's end, and finally settled into bed before realizing two things: she wasn't sleepy at all and it was only 11:45. An habitual night owl, this time of night was no different than 7 or 8pm. Her loyal companion, a high speed Internet connection, beckoned to be accessed, and so she obliged.

After an hour of the same old sites, she remembered that it had been weeks since she'd perused the Craigslist 'Missed Connections' ads. Sweety was a true romantic, and though she knew that no one would ever make a post about her, she loved to read the M4W and W4M to see if two people were looking for each other. Months before during one of these cross references, she stumbled on a guy who wrote
"Me: the white guy with orange hair wearing dorky glasses and black t-shirt that read Will Hump For Food. You: the gorgeous redhead wearing a pink top and khaki skirt who of all things you could've chosen from asked about my watch. I was an idiot for not getting your number. Will hump for food and a chance to see you again. LOL."

Sweety smiled and moved over to the women's side, where two ads down she saw
"You're probably too cool to read these things, but why not. I saw you today around 2:30 (I think) near Mama's Kitchen and loved your style. I had on a pink top and you liked my tattoo. Have you humped for food yet? (I'll know you're real if you know what this means). Anyway, I think you're hot but was too shy to ask for your number. Lame, I know."

Acting on pure excitement, she emailed the woman the link to the guy's ad, and did the same for the guy. About an hour later, she got two emails, one from each of them, thanking her profusely for butting in. She hadn't been able to create that magic again, but it wasn't from a lack of trying.

Tonight however, she had a selfish motive for reading the M4W. She had been running a lot of errands that week and was wondering if someone out there had noticed her. She had lost a few pounds and was just wondering if the change had beckoned anyone's eyes enough to pull out their laptop or Blackberry and draft something.

No one was looking for her.

But someone was obviously thinking of her, for no sooner had she shut off the computer, determined to fall asleep, she received a call from a blocked number. She knew it was Papi.
"Well hello there."
"Greetings. What has Sweety desired today?"
"Um, let's see...money, an island vacation, a shot of tequila, and maybe to see you in person."
As unpretty as she usually felt, when in the presence of a man, she knew how to flirt.
"I can do something about one of them; that is, if you've thought about what we talked about earlier."
"About my fear and desire colliding? Uh, no, I haven't thought about it. Why do you care anyway?"
"I'm in tuned to what people need. Though some might consider my ideas a bit extreme, when executed correctly, inhibitions are permanently freed. Imagine feeling free, Sweety. Imagine abandoning your frigid ways to embrace the insatiable appetite we both know lives inside you."
Sweety smiled as she fiddled with the phone cord. Raymond "Papi" Carter was a man who spoke a bit of truth.
"Think about hot and cold water--two extremes both intolerable in their own right," he continued. "But when they come together, the result is soothing. That's what I feel about your fear of water and your need to be touched. Sweety, I can see to it that you practically have an out of body experience."

Maybe it was the weeks and weeks of his coaxing, maybe it was her vulnerable state after seeing that no one had posted an ad about her, but there was definitely something that made her utter, "Suppose I was curious. What would I need to do?"
Though some of the stuff Papi talked about seemed out there and even a little creepy, she hadn't experienced this type of curiosity in a long time. The lure of it all was too much to resist. She wanted so very much to see his face.
The long period of silence prompted her to ask if he were still there.
"Yes, I'm here. I'm just waiting on you to giggle and backtrack."
"I'm serious, really. I want to know what you and these so-called wishmasters are all about. And why you're so interested in doing this for free when you said that people actually pay you a lot of money."
"Then here's what I want you to do. In one hour I want you to get dressed, get in your car, drive to Manor Park, park at the entrance gate, leave your keys in the ignition, and walk toward the white teddy bear you'll see tied to the gate."
"Then what?"
"Shhh..."

With that, he hung up. And Sweety walked to her closet to retrieve a pair of jeans.

Sweety's Finale

Raymond "Papi" Carter disconnected the call with Sweety and lie in bed for a few minutes, contemplating what he should do now that she had taken him up on his offer. It was true that he and a group of wishmasters acted out peculiar requests, but this was done only in his online interactive world Terror and Pleasure Garden. His clients had avatars and paid pricey membership fees for this elaborate role play. In the beginning he assumed Sweety knew it wasn't "real," but by her questions realized she really believed he and a masked gang set to the streets to fulfill thrill seekers' fantasies. Papi wanted to clear things up, but she was so fascinated about it all that his ego wouldn't allow him to reveal the truth. Besides, the thought of actually bringing these "setups" to life had begun to excite him in ways that fantasy had ceased to do long ago. And now, after patient nudging, sweet little Sweety had finally given in.

He didn't have much time to put things into action, so many thoughts were running through his mind along with possible coconspirators. Manor Park had a small pond that would be perfect for the drowning simulation. Grand Punisher, his next door neighbor and first wishmaster would be the perfect choice. He had a preference for "thick" ladies and also enjoyed rough encounters, so he would know exactly how to handle Sweety who would assuredly be fighting with all she had. Papi rarely involved himself in the "games" between his players, he was more a moderator than anything. But as he searched his mind for the perfect choice to induce her pleasure, he could think of no other than himself. Papi wanted to be the one to experience this. Over the course of their getting to know each other, he had started to develop some type of feeling for her, he couldn't help it.

Sweety was was the most naive grown woman he'd ever encountered and seemed so much in need of love, any kind of love really. She had only one picture on her blog Loserville, Population: Me, a "shoulder up" shot, the sign of someone with fat to hide. Sweety wasn't a sexy woman...not yet anyway; it was her potential that aroused him, that appealed to that innate investigator in him to figure out the right combination to unlock the uninhibited freak beneath. Still, she seemed like the nicest woman left on earth, and though she'd undoubtedly been outcast from the dating world, carried herself like she was worth something anyway. If the circumstances were different, he wouldn't mind being that long-term shoulder that she needed.

Gus, "Grand Punisher," listened intently as Raymond described how he thought the scenario should go, choosing to wait before expressing his disbelief at the idea of bringing the game to real life. Gus, a high school buddy of Raymond, used to get off on the whole terror and pleasure thing when he became the Terror and Pleasure Garden's first wishmaster three years before. But since becoming more involved with a group of gods and earths and coming into a knowledge of self, was losing interest in playing online sex and punishment games.

When his friend was finished, Gus stood and said "I knew this would happen one day. I knew that one day you would get bored and want to raise the bar. Really think about the things you want us to do to that lady. How do you know she won't go to the police and have us arrested and charged with multiple felonies."
"I can say for a fact that she will never tell a soul; on my net worth she won't. Come on, G, just help me out this one time, I won't ask you to do it again. I just want to know what it's like. And she's down with it. It's not like she's scared about it. It'll be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her and isn't that what we're all about?"
"If I help you out with this, Ray, I want out after it's done. Grand Punisher will be retired. Agreed?"
"Alright man, if that's what you want. But don't half ass this tonight, take it as far as you can."

After it was all over, Gus watched Papi walk the cold, shaking, and crying woman back to her car. Papi looked back at him and gave him a thumbs up followed by the peace sign. Gus understood it as "good job man" and "a deal is a deal."

******

Three days after the phone call brought the memory Raymond "Papi" Carter back in her life...

Sweety grabbed her $10 bill and keys off the counter and rushed to open the door for who she assumed was the Chinese takeout delivery guy ringing the bell. This was his fastest time yet. But her eyes meet a visitor she wasn't expecting to see. Knowledge the God, the beautiful man who had brought joy into her world then took it back when he disappeared mysteriously, stood there with eyes reddened and tired from crying or lack of sleep, or both.
"Knowlege? Hey." Even though she still cared for this man, there was something very eerie in the atmosphere, so much so that she was thankful that her burglar door was locked.
"Sweety, I...I...I'm sorry about leaving you hanging like that. Oh man, wow, I know I gotta do this but it's hard."
"What's going on?"
"I stopped calling you because I was starting to fall for you and my guilt couldn’t let me reciprocate."
"Guilt over what?"
Knowledge put his head down as he struggled with the right words. "We didn’t meet at the bookstore, we met in Manor Park. I'm the man who drug you to the pond." Knowledge’s voice cracked and he dropped his head in shame.

As strong as Sweety was trying to be on the inside, her entire body began to tremble. She began to feel dizzy and grasped the burglar door for support. Knowledge reached out to gently touch her fingers but she jerked them away.
"Are you serious?"
"It was me."
"How can this be happening? Why are you doing this to me? Are you after more kicks? Come on, after a year? How sick are you?"
"I haven’t talked to Ray since that night. I don't do that anymore, I swear."
"So when we met at the bookstore, what was that about? Were you Knowledge, or a wishmaster?"
"Knowledge. When you and I started talking, I realized who you were. I wanted to walk away, but knew that I had to repent in some kind of way by showing you the best person I could be. Then after a while I got scared. I'm not here for kicks, Sweety, I’m here because I care a lot about you."
"And you don't associate with him anymore?"
"No."
"Why, because of me?"
"Not entirely. You just change."
"Just like that? How do I know this isn't part two, or that you aren't trying to hurt me?"
"I came here to make amends for taking things too far, and then not telling you who I was before now. Forgive me for that. But if you want to treat me like I'm some monster who kidnapped an unsuspecting woman, let me remind you that you cam eon your own. I know Raymond and I'm sure he didn't ask you to meet him for a candlelit picnic. You were holding the teddy bear, which meant that you must have read the note that was attached to it. Remember the note? "If you untie me from this fence you consent to play" I wrote that, that's how I know what it says. I was trying to give you an out, which you didn't take, because I wasn't convinced you knew what the Terror and Pleasure Garden was really about."

Sweety unlocked the burglard door as the delivery guy sprinted toward them with her takeout order. He offered a pleasant greeting, but the transaction remained silent as he observed the couple's stoic expressions.

Sweety wanted to close the door and leave Knowledge standing there, she really did. But his stare was so intense and communicative that it was captivating. Here stood a man who in such a short period of time had helped her expand her knowledge of different cultures, music, and schools of thought. Brutish wishmaster turned profound poet, fellow bookworm, seeker of enlightenment, and rare soul who took direction from his heart instead of his eyes.

"Well I should go and let you enjoy your food. I just wanted to look you in the face and tell you the truth about what I did, and to tell you that I enjoyed getting to know you, but if I can’t be honest with someone, I have a hard time being in their presence. That's why I left. I came back to see if...nevermind. I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me." With that, Knowledge turned to leave.

Sweety had to make a decision, but feared whatever she chose would only have her doubting her judgment. If she banished him, she'd wonder if he was her meant to be; an odd and less than magical first meeting, yes, but her soul mate nonetheless. And she did agree to be a player in Papi's game, request it even, right? If she forgave and agreed to continue where they left off without first putting him through hell and back, he might lose respect for her for making it too easy for him. She was very experienced with the consequences of not acting the part of the angry, neck-rolling, car-keying, out for revenge bitch, who interestingly, men claimed to despise yet found utterly irresistible. Was she insane? Who in their right mind would even be standing there pondering an option other than slamming the door?

"I went to see Rakim El perform at Dojo last week, I remember you telling me about him." Knowledge looked back with a surprised smirk.
"Wow, really. He’s phenomenal, did you enjoy it?"
"Yeh. And I even understood a little of what he was saying because of the lessons we used to talk about." Knowledge smiled like he was proud of her. There was the guy she remembered.

The adrenaline that was dispatched in apprehension earlier had now received another assignment from the control center. One that left Sweety feeling helpless as the corners of her mouth began to tilt upwards, and her system began to receive frantic messages from her senses, which had started processing the warm, earthy aroma of the homemade body oil Knowledge's skin had absorbed, the firm but gentle tone of his voice, the fact that this man was the first one to ever show up at her door of his own accord. The first who just had to see her.

"Are you hungry?"
"A little."
“So let’s eat.”
Knowledge appeared hesitant to enter her apartment.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sweety. It’s so very nice to meet you.”
"Hi, Sweety. My given name is Gus Josephson, but I ask that you refer to me as Knowledge the God, or Knowledge."
“Would you care to come in, Knowledge? I need some help devouring my steamed vegetables and fried rice?”
"Why thank you. But, I need to know something, for real, Sweety...do you forgive me?"
"I forgive you. Come on let's eat." Sweety Fisher bit her bottom lip in appreciation as her eyes followed the former wishmaster's impressive frame.

The bizarre god who controlled her world was at it again, never satisfied with the cruelties he directed her way. Surely, the reveal of the man she had fallen for as the masked one who had held her under water should have been frightening, driving her further into depression. But strangely, Sweety welcomed this surprise. She stopped trying to make sense of her life long ago. She'd come to realize that her life would consist of bizarre opportunities to step out of her boring character, to make her fantasies reality; and that she could either choose to ride the wave and enjoy it, or run away and hide. She wanted to start riding. To indulge that insatiable appetite that Papi had correctly surmised existed inside of her.

Though she'd blocked out Papi's face and the events of that night, her body kept a back up file and remembered what it felt out there, gentle hands on her breasts, a firm grip around her neck. When Sweety attempted to relive the pleasure at her own hands, she couldn't even come close. And now, the person who could make it happen had returned, and whether he would want to or not, would have no choice but to play a new kind of game, one that would ease her nagging suffering...over and over and over again.

The End

*And there it is folks. I started this blog to help me overcome frequent bouts of writer's block. I didn't know what I'd be posting about, but I knew that I had to keep posting, to keep writing in hopes that it would transfer over to my private efforts. Writing about Sweety has helped. And now I'll see about what I can do to advance the other people who live in word documents on my hard drive, crying out for completion just like Sweety and Papi and Grand Punisher turned Knowledge the God. Thank you for reading my little creation. Another one might come soon, but don't quote me on that. Anyway, please enjoy my other musings as they come. --Love, Jennifer*