My Optimal Atmosphere


Here’s a little known fact about me.  I’m a mover.

A spider at heart, I typically move once a year, tearing down my web and rebuilding somewhere else.  And if I don’t?  I get restless.  It’s horrible.  If you’ve ever felt the itch to travel or to leave your job and join the circus, you’ll know how I feel when the moving fever sweeps over me.  I yearn for everything I haven’t got.  All the things that seemed quaint and quirky when I first moved in become unbearable.  The leaks drip louder, the floors creak more and the chipping paint on the walls becomes my existential crisis.

I long for a clean slate.  I crave change and newness of environment.

In the past six years I have lived in six different places.  It’s great, but I do have one major regret.

Like any good spider, I like my bed to be aloft, in some small corner, preferably only accessible by ladder.  I love ladders and high ceilings and bright colours and lots of light.  I also love a lack of neighbours.  I love the idea that I am alone in my space, far away from anyone else.  I mean, if I wanted people I would just go outside right?

So I love a loft.  Even more so, I love a loft that is not in a typical loft building and that’s what I had for one sweet, beautiful year.  See that picture up there?  That’s my old place, that thing up the ladder?  My bed.  We called it the cloud and I loved that place best of all the places I have ever lived (there was another storage loft opposite to the bed).  Working there was a pleasure, living there was a wonder.  It was bright (skylit), interesting, spacious and best of all it was in a building that was an office, so I only had one neighbouring apartment and it happened to be vacant for most of the time I lived there.  It was perfection.  My optimal atmosphere.  It was in the heart of downtown and I long for it to this day.

If I didn’t love the beaches so much I would move back there in a heart beat.  The only downfall?  A tiny window provided low air flow and the water pressure sucked.  But for the joy of living in such a perfect place, it was worth it.  I didn’t know it then, but I do now.

So my optimum atmosphere is something new.  I hate staying in one place for too long (which makes buying a house seem like a claustrophobic nightmare), but if I had my way, my next succession of apartments would be non-stop lofts, with wide open spaces, colourful walls and beds that hang in the corner like a spider’s web.

What’s your dream place?

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This is a post for www.writesofluid.com’s blog writing challenge.  One blog post a day for all of June!  Check it out at the website or on twitter: @sofluid or #wpad!


How I got into writing


This is the first post for www.writesofluid.com’s blog writing challenge.  One blog post a day for all of June!  Check it out at the website or on twitter: @sofluid or #wpad!

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When I was younger I used to write a lot.  Journals mostly, whining about boys (and later girls too), unrequited love, rituals (during my witchy phase) and other teenage stuff that I was sure was insanely important.  I’ve looked back over old journals before, but I find the process of ploughing through years of bad poetry kind of painful.

Next I got into writing plays.  I still have one sitting around about a girl who discovered she was gay and made out with her best friend.  Ah the ponderings of a seventh grade bi-girl.  Then there were stories.  I even wrote a story about a girl on a journey to enlightenment for philosophy class in high school and scored myself an A+ (I went to an alternative school of course).

Then it was world travels.  Long nights were spent scribbling in notebooks on buses, traveling through the desert in Egypt or up and down crazy mountains in Peru, in dirty old hotel rooms or tucked away in sleeping bags on the beach watching the stunning Italian sunset and hoping I wouldn’t wake up after high tide.

I wrote a lot.  But still, through all of that, I didn’t call myself a writer.

I wrote little articles about my adventures with my friends, replacing us with anthropomorphized animals and calling it: The Starry Web Press.  I wrote stories and poems as gifts.  I sent out poems as solstice greetings to friends and family.  Still, I refused to call myself a writer.

No no, I was a traveler, a server, a bartender, a go-go dancer, a shaman, a tarot card reader, an event planner, a video producer, but never…NEVER a writer.

The real turning point came maybe a year ago, after I finished my first novel.  A honking, slow moving, boring laborious thing (150,000 words).  I finished it, looked at Ben and said:

“I think I’m a writer.”

Since then I’ve been on fire, I’ve written multiple short stories, another novel, made a giant list of agents, magazines and contests to submit my work to, started this blog, gathered almost 250 followers on twitter, joined two writing groups (and quit one), and I’ve even been hired to write professionally from video scripts to event proposals to websites.

So although it took me 29 years to admit it, I’m a writer dammit, and just like everything else I’ve been before, I’ve thrown myself into it, heart and soul.

Now it’s your turn…how did you get into writing?