How To Come Up With Story Ideas

You’re sitting there, staring at your computer, willing your fingers to type. There’s a story in your head somewhere, you just need to squeeze it out. Minute by minute, hour by hour, nothing comes. What some people call writer’s block, I call ‘inspirationally barren’, and when you’re a writer, nothing feels worse. So here are four ways I call upon inspiration when my imagination seems to have given up.

1. My Childhood

Though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I now realize that I was fortunate enough to have an interesting childhood. My parents were dreamers, always moving from one town or city to the next, hoping for their big break. They traveled the carnival circuit, mined for gold, and for a short time lived in the suburbs holding down ‘respectable’ jobs. Subsequently, I was exposed to a variety of people and places that have crept, and often leapt, into my stories.
For those writers who complain that their childhood was boring and normal and nothing worth writing about, I say you haven’t looked hard enough. A run through the sprinkler on a hot summer’s day can be a nostalgic point of remembrance for the protagonist who knows she is dying. The PTA meetings your mother religiously attended may have been a front for a witch’s coven. The boy who ate the same peanut butter sandwich every day throughout Jr. High, may have really been an old man who discovered that the combination of peanuts and Wonder bread reversed the aging process. Reality? Probably not. But that’s not the point. Childhood is full of wonder and possibilities and when we think back on those experiences and examine them under the microscope of imagination, we have more stories to tell than we have years to live.

2. Public Transportation

Many of my writer friends say that they find inspiration in restaurants and coffee shops. They claim that people, when nestled within the secure confines of their tables and booths, will speak as freely and inanely as they do in their own homes. I agree. I’ve gotten lots of inspiration from food court eavesdropping. I once heard a woman saying that she wanted to dye her toddler daughter’s blonde hair a dark brown so that she could compete in The Little Miss Kardashian Pageant (horrifyingly, no joke). But while restaurants are good for people listening, I find public transportation the way to go for people watching.
If you’re lucky enough to find an unclaimed spot in the corner of a bus, subway, or train, you can witness human interaction at its most real. There you will find people of all walks of life, the young and the old, the suits and the slackers, the sexy and the sexless, sharing a few minutes together before moving on to their ‘real lives’. While you can hear snippets of conversation, it’s the body language that’s really fun. The look of uncertainty on a prim woman’s face as a leather-clad man plops down beside her. The way an old woman’s eyes mist up as she watches a young mother bouncing a toddler on her knee. The way a businessman looks out the window and then at his watch repeatedly as he taps his fingers against his briefcase. Fear. Love. Lust. Loss. It’s all there for you to interpret and restructure. A traveling human zoo. Next stop, inspiration town.

3. Friends and Family.

These are the people you know well: The ones you grew up with, the ones you hang out with, the ones you call at night for reassurance that you’re still pretty when your husband ogles the Dunkin Donuts girl. You know their mannerisms, their slang, their manner of dress, and their annoying habit of revealing the end of the movie while you are watching it. So why not write about them?
Friends and family are a great source of inspiration. You can learn more about the human condition by listening to those closest to you than you could by watching one-hundred hours of the evening news. What drives them? Compels them? Makes them yearn? You may know them but do you really know them? Find out why your best friend is always late to parties or why your brother compulsively collects souvenir spoons. The people of your inner circle represent the masses. Tell their story, or at least part of it.
A word of caution: Writing about people you know requires a degree of understanding and sensitivity. The goal isn’t to write a tell-all book of dirty secrets, but rather to reveal the depths that exist within the familiar.

4. The Unknown.

It’s easy to get stuck in a rut. As a writer I know that I can spend days, even weeks, locked in a room with just a cup of coffee and a laptop to keep me company. And nowadays, if I’m ever really in need of socialization, I can just pop onto Facebook or Twitter, gab with the gang for a few hours, and get back to work. It’s only when I’ve eaten the last of me Lucky Charms and head out to the grocery store, blinking back the sunlight like a mole-person, that I realize I haven’t done anything new or noteworthy in days. The point: If you are really stuck for ideas, you may be stuck in your life. When was the last time you took a new route to work? Met someone new? Where did you spend your last vacation? If your mind is as a blank as your sheet of paper, perhaps it’s time to shake things up.
An example: A few years ago I found out that my brother belonged to a group of individuals that protested “work”. Who would protest work, I wondered, and I immediately wanted to meet them. My brother took me by bus (see #2) to a section of town I had never seen before. Most of the houses were boarded up and looked like they had been condemned. We found our building, a dilapidated structure with an Anarchist flag flying from the window, and gave the ‘secret knock’ to gain entrance. A thin man ushered us into a large room where everyone was gathered around a table. The leader preached about the evils of work, rules, and government, while secretary took notes and kept minutes. We were then asked who could donate books for the annual book sale. Next, we were escorted into a room for ‘chorus practice’, where we chortled along to anti-employment tunes such as the classic: “Aint gonna work no more, no more, while we sipped from a flask of whiskey. The meeting was finally closed as a tin collection plate was passed around the room, and we all emptied our pockets of the change we had gotten by somehow not working. Needless to say, that one experience provided me with enough material to tell many stories. Since then I’ve been a staunch proponent of new experiences. Embrace new experiences. If we aren’t living life, then what makes us worthy of writing about it?

(Originally written for The Indie Exchange Oct 2012 by April Aasheim http://theindieexchange.com/how-to-get-ideas-for-stories/)

Regrets and Renewal

From: The Universe is a Very Big Place

 

1986

Ernest sat on the queen-sized bed, its mattress old and tired, sagging beneath his slight weight. Lanie hadn’t been particularly pleased about this motel, but it was better than sleeping in the trailer again. Times were hard. People weren’t coming to carnivals like they used to. Theme parks were all the rage and the news declared them ‘safer.’ This made Lanie indignant. In all her days on the road she had only seen two accidents. Granted, one of them had taken a man’s legs, but that was still a pretty good track record.

"We can’t keep doing this, Lanie." Ernest sighed.

Lanie tried to ignore him as she manually flipped through the channels. Almost all static. Nothing was ever fucking on!

"You’re insane," she hissed, trying not to wake the girls. Chloe and Spring lay motionless on the twin bed, spooned up together for warmth. She could hear them breathing, the deep restful inhalations of the sleeping. "You don’t just walk into a bank and take money. It’s stupid. And illegal."

Ernest smirked. "It’s a small-town bank. I’ve been there a dozen times over the last few years. The security guard is basically Don Knotts. I get the money and we run away to Mexico and live like royalty."

She looked at him, her mouth agape. One thing that TV had taught her was that criminals always get caught. "Ernest, I’ve followed you all these years, but I can’t do this. We have kids to think about. We can’t be on the lam!"

Ernest punched his hand into the bed, trying to put a hole in the soggy mattress. It hesitated but bounced back reluctantly. "We are already on the fucking lam, in case you haven’t noticed! Half the f’ing carnies are 'on the lam!.' I didn’t join because it was 'fun,' goddamnit. I’m tired of running. I just wanna get enough money and settle down. This is my only fucking shot. Can’t you understand that, woman?"

They had been arguing about this for a week now, and Lanie thought he would forget about it, the way he forgot about most things. But he seemed insistent. She slumped down on the bed and placed her fingers between her eyes, trying to ease the pressure that was building in her head. He was serious. He really wanted to rob a bank.

"Ernest," she said. "I love you and I want you to be happy. If you aren’t happy here you need to go and find what gives your life meaning. I had always hoped it was me and the girls, but I see now it’s not. I love you and wish you well, but I can’t be any part of this." Lanie looked at her husband, absorbing him, knowing this might be the last time she ever saw him. He said nothing in response as he grabbed his duffle bag, already packed. He walked to the girls' bed and blew them each a kiss and then made his way to the door. He was really going. He smiled at her, opened the door, and left.

That was the last she heard from him, until a few weeks later when he made headlines in a local newspaper for attempted robbery. He was now serving many years in state prison.

When the girls awoke that next morning she told them their father had gone to see a sick relative, but when Spring saw her father on the newspaper as well, she turned to Lanie with a look that said she hated her. And it was three months before Spring said another word to Lanie, or anyone, for that matter.

 

#

 

Lanie lay naked on the top of her bed, three fans blasting air over her body. She had always looked forward to this time of life, the transition from motherhood to crone-dom. But her ascent into sage-hood wasn’t going as smoothly as she had hoped. Besides the hot flashes and the strange cravings and the weird fluctuations in libido (she would never admit this to a single soul but one day she had even found Sam appealing as he was stirring something in a bowl), there lay a nagging feeling deep down inside of her.

She didn’t feel like a woman anymore. Her eggs were hatched. She was on the other side now, beyond the line that separated the fertile from the unfertile, those who could produce and those whose time had passed. She would never have another baby again. Ever.

She willed up memories of Chloe and Spring when they were infants, tiny bundles of pink flesh, wrapped up like flower bouquets in knitted blankets. They smelled so good. Well, most of the time. And they looked up at her with something akin to godliness as they suckled her, wrapping small fingers around her own. Even her grandchildren did not show her that much love. No one had ever shown her that much love––the love of a child in its first years of life.

She squinted, trying to wring out the few memories of her own mother, but like a dried up lemon, nothing was there to juice. She had left Lanie in foster care when she was six and Lanie must have purposely destroyed any images she had of the woman. Either that, or she was getting senile.

"It all changes when they grow up," she said, returning her attention to Spring and Chloe. "All that admiration, gone in the wink of an eye the first time you forget a holiday." Lanie rolled onto her side, letting the fans beat against her back. The air hit a mole (that must be new) and created a peculiar pulsing sensation. "...We’re all judge and jury of our parents."

An image of Spring’s face in the dark beside her, asking if she had really been a bad kid.

There was a knot in her stomach, a memory knocking, wanting to be let in. Lanie tried to clear her mind and practice her meditation, but this one was insistent.

"Your father couldn’t handle you, and neither can I." She had said this once, when Spring was in the throes of adolescent rebellion. She hadn’t meant it, of course. Hadn’t even remembered it until Spring had asked about their father earlier. The problem with words was once you said them you couldn’t take them back. They hung in the Universe forever like wet sheets that never quite dried.

The real truth was that she wasn’t able to cope with raising two daughters on her own. And the fact that their father was never, ever coming back, and she might be alone for the rest of her life. For all her hellraising about women’s lib in the 60s, she hated to admit that being without a man was the scariest thing she could ever imagine.

"What I’d give for a do-over, learn a real trade, set a good example for the girls." Lanie gritted her teeth. The mole on her back danced in the wind. Maybe she should get it looked at. "I’m too old to cry over spilt milk now," she said, reaching out to stroke her pig. His plastic, hairless body gave her some odd comfort. It wasn’t a baby, or even real, but it was...something.

It was going to be a long night. She wished she had more of Jason’s insomnia medicine, but it was gone the first day he had dropped it by. She needed sleep.

 

     She was about to shut her eyes and give it a try when a flicker of pale light in the window caught her gaze. At first she almost ignored it, thinking it was just a ghost. But this ghost had an awfully big head. She squinted in the dark to make it out, and then her eyes grew large as saucers.

Diary of an Indie Writer - Step 1

Me, an Indie Writer?  It wasn’t something I had even considered before last year. In fact, if anyone had told me just twelve months ago that I would independently publish my novel The Universe is a Very Big Place, I would have shook my head, laughed, and dismissed them as one pepperoni shy of a full pizza. Self-publishing, at least in my head, was still stigmatized, regulated to those who weren’t good enough to be paid for their work; an army of untalented keyboard peckers who produced pages of nothing but typos and gibberish. Even the term ‘self-publishing’ sounded dirty, like those who participated in this particular activity would go blind or come down with some disease they’d have to treat with online pharmaceuticals.  A real writer, like me, would rather starve to death in some shack waiting for her ‘big break’ than to risk the public humiliation of ‘self-publishing’. I had an ego to maintain. I couldn’t be caught doing something like that. Not in public anyway. Not under my real name. At least that’s what I thought anyways. Back then.

I can’t recall the exact moment when my view on self-publishing changed. I do know that it wasn’t a quick lightning strike to the psyche that awakened me, but a gradual slide in my decade-long publishing consciousness. It began when a good friend of mine – who had been trying to land a publishing deal for years – finally got fed up with the whole system. She was a great writer but her books were too different from what was currently being published. They weren’t quite sci-fi enough, romancey enough,  vampirey enough. They were too…unique, and therefore, too risky.

She didn’t let this get her down and I watched, sometimes with one hand over my eyes, as she took the self-publishing leap. She placed her books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords.  I marveled that somehow, the wheels that move the literary world kept turning. She wasn’t mocked, teased, or forced to testify on Judge Judy. In fact, in the vast internet universe she found her audience and they not only accepted her uniqueness, they appreciated it. She’s a cult hero now, at least in some segments of the world. And I hear they have erected some three-headed idol of her somewhere in the South Pacific.

My second paradigm shift occurred at a writer’s conference last summer. It is an annual event and just two years ago I had pitched my manuscript to several agents who were in attendance. I had some success and several of the agents agreed to represent me, contingent upon a few, small, necessary changes in the novel. Deepen the characters. Remove twenty thousand words. Add thirty thousand words. Take all the pages, throw them up in the air, see how they land, and leave them in that order. Every suggestion differed from the last, and though I tried to incorporate many of them (and admittedly some did improve my book) I started to feel like the main theme– finding love twice in one lifetime – had been lost.

It took a good deal of time and distance to find my way back to my original story, and when I felt like I had, I presented it to the agent who had been my biggest supporter. “I don’t take on clients anymore,” she said, as I shoved my sparkling new manuscript in her direction, “I only advise people on how to independently publish now.” She let me know that ‘everybody is doing it’ and left me staring open-mouthed as she sauntered down the corridor to present to a standing room only audience on the joys of formatting mobi files.

What finally sold me on self-publishing, however, was that as I continued to search for agents and publishers  I began to notice that they expected the authors they represented, especially new authors, to do a majority of the work themselves. While they may take my manuscript, turn it into a beautiful book, and get it into book stores, they expected me to do most of the PR alone. Many even have a form you fill out on their website prior to submitting:  Do you tweet? Facebook? Have a website? Can you pimp yourself out to the media? No? Well, move along, nothing to publish here.

Heck, I thought.  Finding someone to represent my work was a lot like looking for someone to have a one night stand with: too much work for something I could just as easily do myself (at home). I had a revelation. I didn’t need anyone. I could publish the type of book I wanted to publish, the way I wanted to publish it, find it an audience, and a home. If everybody really was doing it, why not me?

And so I made the decision to do it alone. But as I discovered, I wasn’t alone. There were whole communities out there, talented people who were making a go of it themselves, and I met some amazing people who helped me every step of the way.

I forgot to mention one other reason I did it, and it may be the biggest reason of all. Why? Because it appeals to my big, writer’s ego. It’s not called self-publishing anymore. It’s called Indie publishing. How cool is that? It makes me want to put on a leather jacket, some dark glasses, and go find a coffee house somewhere I can churn out more novels. Yeah. I’m cool. I’m an Indie Writer. You got a problem with that?

originally published at Theindieexchange.com

http://theindieexchange.com/my-journey-as-an-indie-writer-step-1-the-decision/

The Next Big Thing (What I'm Working On)

I've been tagged to write about my current work in progress in week 10 of The Next Big Thing. Here are the questions and my answers.


What is the working title of your book?

Right now I'm torn between Maggie Magick and The Witches of Dark Root. My husband says that Maggie Magick sounds like a book for an eight-year-old so...that may be the deciding factor.


Where did the idea come from for the book?

The two things I love to write about are magic and family dynamics. So one day, while daydreaming, I thought about what it would be like to really combine the two into one book. I was pretty excited!

What genre does your book fall under?

Hmm...I'm guessing fantasy. But it's also really grounded in realism. It was important to me to let the magical parts of the book be secondary to the real world setting. I never wanted to go over the top with this project.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I like the girl from The Hunger Games. Think I can get her? :)

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Maggie is a young woman with magical powers who left home to get away from her 'witchy' upbringing, but now she has to return to her hometown of Dark Root, Oregon to set things right with her family and learn the true nature of her gift.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Unsure at this point. I think every story needs a home. I will find it a home one way or another.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I am still about 15,000 words from finishing the first draft, but the end is in sight. It took me almost a year, but that wasn't straight writing. A lot of the time was spent thinking about the characters and the plot line. Its more intricate than the other books I've written. I should be done with the first draft in two weeks.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

The only other book that I know of is Practical Magic. The blending of realism with witchcraft, along with the sibling relationships, is pretty comparable.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

My childhood. I've always been fascinated by family dynamics. I was the second oldest of six children and we had our own mini-political system in the family. Any time I get to explore that I am happy. We also had somewhat of a magical upbringing. My mother possessed some unusual, if not downright spooky powers at times. It intrigued me.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Well, there are no shades of grey in the book, but there are some blurry lines between light and dark. Maggie has to learn how to use magic effectively, tapping into the good stuff, without straying into the bad.

If you like books about witches, sisters, small towns, and mysterious backgrounds, you might really enjoy this one.


Thanks JC Andrijeski for tagging me! http://jcandrijeski.blogspot.in/2012/08/the-next-big-thing-war-allies-war-book.html#links

Rules

***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress) ***
Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them. It’s that simple.

Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing

1. What is the working title of your book?
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
3. What genre does your book fall under?
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
9. Who or What inspired you to write this book?
10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Swinging for Success

I participated in FlashFiveFriday. You have five minutes to write about a topic. Here are my thoughts on Success:

http://theindieexchange.com/flashfivefriday-1-success/

I’ve been watching the Olympics Gymnastics competition this week, and it got me thinking about success.

Success can come suddenly. Gabby Douglas, the new Women’s All Around Gold Medalist, wasn’t favored to win. In fact, it was a surprise that she was even in the games at all. But as Gabby lept onto the uneven bars and swung like a monkey on Ritalin - she suddenly caught the attention of the world and became America’s new sweetheart.

Success can end just as suddenly. While Gabby Douglas was in, with a few bad moves, the favored woman, Jordyn Wieber, was out. Meanwhile, the hunky American Men’s Team was touted at being the next wave of gymnastics golden boys, but somehow tumbled out of our hearts as one after another succumbed to the mighty pummel horse. It was almost painful to watch.

Sometimes, a near success isn’t good enough. American McKayla Maroney looked like she had bitten off her tongue when she earned silver instead of gold. And those Russian gals, they literally wept when they learned that they had come in second instead of first. They cried so much I was actually worried about what would happen to them when they returned home? Did Russia ship off silver medalists to work camps? Or worse, make them work the Starbucks Drive through window in Moscow? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to smuggle a few of them back to the states because the looks in their eyes said their next few days with coach were going to be really, really bad.

Success is something we all want, strive for, sacrifice for, and once attained, do everything in our power to keep. It’s in our DNA. From the moment we enter grade school and start chanting “We’re number one, cuz number two won’t do,” we strive for nothing less than perfection. When the Great Britain team, a team who had never won a medal, suddenly secured the Silver, the crowd went wild. Only minutes later, however, the Japanese team, who had won second in 2008 and weren’t happy about being pushed out of medal contention, actually paid the judges to revisit the scores. The newly tallied scores put them back into Silver status, knocking the Brits to bronze. The London crowd, who would have been happy to win any medal only moments before, sat scratching their heads, dazed and morose. The same look my twenty-something friends had when they realized the Twilight movies were coming to an end.

When someone succeeds, someone else loses. Above all I ponder this. Why do we want to win so badly? Does being Number One mean we are better, more loved, and more important than the person next to us? And as viewers, why are we so heavily invested in our teams? Not only in gymnastics but in any sport. I know adults who let a loss by their favorite team ruin their weekends. If Aly Raisman hadn’t medaled, I’m not sure how her parents would have gotten through the week. My guess is with a lot of alcohol and some Sylvia Path poetry.

Is being the best really showing what human beings are capable of or just another way to say nanny nanny boo boo?  We can’t really live through athletes, nor should we try. We should enjoy the games, celebrate the successes, appreciate and learn from the losses, and move on with our lives. In the Olympics, the NFL, or the Fourth Grade Spelling Bee. There’s no dishonor in being second, or even tenth. There’s only dishonor in not trying.

We are each given gifts, but too often we are afraid to let that gift shine because Billy down the street can do it a teensy bit better. So we sit on the sidelines because society has taught us that being number one is the only number that counts.  That’s sad. Life isn’t about being the best. The Best is a fleeting place to be, a chapter in our story. But it isn’t our whole story.  Our real story is about coming together, learning from each other, and honoring one another. And that’s what the Olympians, or any contestant of any event, should truly celebrate.

Downward Dogging for Dummies

“Namaste.” Our yoga instructor said, bowing before us from her seated position on the floor. Namaste, she explained, meant that we recognized the light within ourselves and the light within others. I bowed in response, repeating the phrase as someone flipped on the lights. Blinking like a post-apocalyptic-mole-person, I yawned and begrudgingly rolled up my mat. I didn’t want to leave class yet, but Senior’s Strength training was about to begin and the room was soon flooded by sixty-year-olds who were as devoted to ‘their spots’ as they were to Regis Philbin and Moons Over My Hammy.

“Great class," said a guy who had been seated next to me. I looked him over in the light. He was classically beautiful, bronze and sculpted, like one of those guys on the cover of romance novels. I imagined his name was Duke, or Jake, or Pierce. Or Steel.

"Sure was," I agreed as we filed out of the room. Though I had only been taking classes for a few weeks, I was really beginning to enjoy my sessions. In fact, I was enjoying them so much that I was in danger of becoming one of ‘those people’, that annoying group of gym-goers who continuously reminded others of how out of shape they are and how exercise could save their lives. Only yesterday I had caught myself explaining to an unsuspecting woman at the grocery store how Downward Dog could help with both unwanted back fat, sciatica, and possibly herpes (though the jury was still out on that one). I would have to check myself.

I wasn't always the Yoga Goddess I now claim to be. I’m not an exercise enthusiast by nature. In fact, I hate working out. But as my short frame is always one Snickers Bar away from hobbit town, I’m forced to move it. Thus, if there’s a shortcut to getting in shape, I’ll take it. The Thigh Master and The Shaker Weight will always hold a special place in my heart.

It seemed natural that a slacker like me would eventually stumble onto Yoga, and then one day while picking up my husband from the gym, it happened. As I was scanning the room I happened to see a group of fit, relaxed looking people emerging from a classroom. They had muscular arms, braided hair, and casually discussing chimichangas. They all carried mats like the kind you see Kindergartners nap on.  Best of all, at least half the group was wearing Flip-Flops.

“Who are they?” I asked my husband when I had finally located him. I had never seen people like this in the gym before. If it wasn’t for their toned legs and tight abs, I would have thought it was a special class, kind of like a ‘take your couch potato to workout day’.

“Oh, the Granola Group,” he said, dabbing his forehead. He had just run an hour on the treadmill and was in danger of melting.

"The who?"

"The yogis."

“What do they do?” I watched as a woman unloosened her braided hair and it floated out around her. It was so long I could almost climb it.

“I think they bend and stuff.” My husband answered. “Supposed to be good for you.”

"Do you ever do it?"

"Me?" My husband's chest puffed out with manly pride and I regretted my question.

The next day, sure that I had found my mother ship, I headed in, new purple mat tucked under my arm. My first lesson in Yoga was that mats weren’t cheap, especially the cute ones. I spread my mat near the back of the room,with the other yoga newbies that somehow wandered in. We all looked dazed and amused, like we had just wandered into a high school class that was famous for giving out passing grades even if you didn't do your homework. In front of us, I later learned, were The Middlers, they were the drama geeks of the group, trying to pass themselves off as yogis, but not quite cutting it. And at the top of the ranks were The Front Row Yoga Divas, the popular group whose bodies seemed to be made from limp spaghetti. If you got in with them, you were golden.

The class started out well enough, lights out, relaxing music. We spent the first minutes sitting cross-legged, palms up, breathing in and out to the sound of Gregorian Monks, and I tried to play "Name That Chant".  Our instructor informed us that this relaxation technique this was helping our bodies to do good stuff: repair cells, lengthen muscles, and align chakras (I wasn’t sure what a Chakra was but it sounded delicious). For fifteen minutes we slowly stretched our shoulders, our neck, our sides and our legs. Our instructor gave us permission to block out the worries of the day. This direction left me a bit anxious. Without my worries, I wasn’t sure I was me.

When I had finally found my rhythm of breathing and stretching, things changed. Our instructor had  suddenly transformed from Gandhi  to G.I. Jane. “Okay, people,” She bellowed, walking the floor with her hands laced behind her back, “now its time to work. And I mean work.” She forced us from our comfy position on the floor into a position known as plank. In plank position you sit at the top of a push up, but you don't go down. You just hover there. Indefinitely. I’m pretty sure it originated during the inquisition to get witches to confess. I wasn't sure how holding one position without moving could hurt so much, but it did. Sweat beaded across my forehead, and my arms began to tremble. I was going down.

The instructor must have spotted my weakness. She moved towards me like a lion on a zebra. She placed her bare foot under my hovering body and warned me not to let my body lower onto hers. Somehow I held strong, wondering if I could crush the bones in my arms with the weight of my own body.

“Hold for five more breaths,” she said. I could feel myself whimpering. Then, mercifully, she had us change position.

“Downward Dog.” The whole class shifted into a new formation. We were still on our hands and feet, but instead of being parallel to the ground, our butts rose high into the air. Downward Dog was plank on crack. “This,” she said, “is our resting pose. Come back here whenever you get tired.”

For thirty minutes our instructor pushed us into positions that not only seemed bendi-logically impossible, but that also worked muscles I forgot I owned. At every new pose: Warrior 1, Warrior 2, Side Plank, Triangle, I thought my body was going to dissolve. I could already see my tombstone: April Aasheim. Survived giving birth, her husband’s driving, and late night Denny's runs. Was eventually done in by Downward Facing Dog.

Yoga, I learned, wasn’t a workout for slackers,. Yoga hurt. And that ‘chimichanga’ thing I  heard people talking about wasn’t a yummy deep-fried burrito. It was actually called a Chaturanga, a sinister pose where you lowered your entire body near the ground and just sat there, an inch or two above the ground. Just another method of torture in my instructor’s ever growing arsenal. I had made a horrible mistake.

During Standing Splits I decided I couldn't take anymore. I knew when I was licked. The moment my instructor looked away I would sneak out of class, mat tucked between my legs, and tell my husband that I couldn't take yoga because it would interfere with the existential meditation courses I had pretended to sign up for. But before I could make the break, something wonderful happened. Our instructor called for the final pose: Shavasana. I heard a collective sigh from around the room and watched as everyone flopped onto their backs, legs stretched, arms splayed, and eyes closed. They all looked dead. Finally, something I could do.

Our instructor turned on Johny Mayer's Gravity and I decided to join them. She had us breathe deeply, focusing on each muscle in our body, tightening it, and releasing it. When I was fully immersed in the nothingness she spoke, her voice soft and gentle again, as she read from The Book of Wisdom. She said to imagine what it would be like to live in a world where everyone loved everyone and there was no judgment, only peace and cooperation. It sounded lovely and I began to imagine such a place, much like the little Sims town I had built a few weeks before. She then prompted us to sit up and bow, and she thanked us for sharing our hour with her. I stretched and rubbed my eyes, realizing that I was doing something I had never done in a gym before. I was smiling.

I started attending class regularly and before long I was doing things I never thought I was capable of doing: back bends, lunges, and one-legged balance poses. I was also holding Plank for more than thirty seconds without puking.  My shoulders began to get rounder, my abs began to firm, and the waddle under my arms that I’ve had since I was a fetus, began to vanish.

I’m as surprised as anyone about how much I now love Yoga. It’s a harder workout then I had realized,  but I leave each class relaxed, and smiling, and ready to take on the world. While I have not quite joined the ranks of the Front Row Yoga Divas, I have inched my mat up towards the Middlers. From this position, I can look ahead to what I will be capable of one day, and behind to those foolish newbies who, like me, wandered in hoping for an easy A.

Sam's Rules for Sex

Sam walked over to the sofa and flopped down. Picking up the remote control he scanned the channels, settling on the Shark Week Marathon on the Discovery Channel. He smiled and folded his arms behind his head.

"I could make it up to you," Spring said. She walked towards Sam, obscuring his view of the TV She rolled her hips and touched her lips with her fingertip the way the lady did in that movie Lanie had her watch last evening.

"Pookie, you are in the way," Sam whined, straining his neck to look around her. Spring took a sudden step forward and snatched the remote control from his lap. With one quick click, the shark and scuba man disappeared. "They were about to eat the guy in the wetsuit," Sam moaned.

"You know Sam, call me crazy. But isn’t it strange to you that we never have sex?"

"We have sex. Remember Easter?"

How could she forget? He had come to bed dressed in bunny ears and a cottontail, fastened to his bottom with safety pins.

"Sam, I can count on my two hands how many times we’ve had sex over the past year. Nine times. That’s less than once a month. Doesn’t it bother you at all?"

Sam looked around, his eyes widening. "Shhh. Lanie and the boys will hear. Do you want that?"

"Lanie is the one who brought it up to me, if you want to know the truth. She wonders why she never hears anything coming from our bedroom. I tried to ignore her, but she is right."

Sam stood his ground. "Damn it, Spring. There are a million other more pressing matters in the world than food and sex...the only two things you seem to care about." Sam surveyed her waist as if to point out that her vices were beginning to show.

Spring gaped. Sam’s face softened and he patted the couch beside him, beckoning for her to join him. When she crawled up beside him he tenderly pushed the damp hair from her face.

"Sweetie, listen. We need to talk," he said reassuringly, as she sipped on the diet soda Lanie had left on the coffee table. "Lately, I’m getting the feeling that the only reason you are with me is for my body."

Spring, choked, spitting soda all over herself and Sam. "I’m sorry you feel that way," Spring said, holding back the laugh. Sex, even at its best, was lukewarm with Sam. He was so fussy about the way it was executed and he had so many rules.

Rule 1: One must always wear a condom, maybe even two. They did not even have to be the good condoms, such as those that were lubricated or ribbed for her pleasure. In fact, the less money spent on the quality of condoms, the more money that could be spent on important things like mochas and books.

Rule 2: Foreplay is a myth created by a matriarchal society to enslave men. Those days have passed. Get used to it.

Rule 3: One must never kiss one’s partner anywhere below the neck. Ever. You could touch someone below the neck, if you must, but your hands must not linger on any one body part for more than say, 30 seconds. You were being timed.

Rule 4:  The missionary position is your friend. Learn to love it. Experimentation is bad. Woman on top is heretical. God might come and smite us right in the midst of lovemaking for even thinking of this maneuver.

Rule 5: The bed only. Enough said. Refer to rule 4.

Rule 6: Forget any semblance of after-play either. Or snuggling. Immediately after sex the male must rise, steal the blanket, and shower profusely until all evidence of physical intercourse has been washed away. Then the male deposits blanket back down on the bed for the female, and sneaks quietly into the study to read before going to sleep.

"Spring, honey, are you understanding what I’m trying to say?" Sam was waving his hand before her eyes, trying to bring her back. Her eyes had glazed over. She had gone to that place she went whenever he was trying to explain anything important to her.

Spring nodded.

"What did I say, then?" He quizzed her.

Spring knew the answer by heart, even if she hadn’t heard the speech today. "That lately you think I just want you for sex. And that makes you feel dirty and disgusting and demeaned. That I should be focusing my energies on more important matters. That sex is trivial and only for people with no will power and no ambition. And should only be used for procreation." Spring tilted her head and looked at him for confirmation.

Sam tightened his lips and smiled. It was strained. "Well, most of what you are saying is true Spring, although I may have said it differently. The Lord wants us to have sex but only when we are married, and we are not married yet. If you do not have sex within the sanctity of marriage then you are saying to God that He did not know what is best for us when He laid down the laws of marriage."

Spring thought for a moment. "Do you think there’s any chance that God might be a She, Sam?"

Sam seemed taken aback as if she had said the most blasphemous words that had ever been uttered. Then, slowly he smiled. "You are so funny, Pooks! You almost had me. Give me a hug!" He took her in his arms and patted her head reassuringly. "There, there, it will be okay. We will get married soon. I have a date picked out now: July 21. Then you can use my body whenever you want!"

(Excerpt from: The Universe is a Very Big Place. http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-universe-is-a-very-big-place-april-aasheim/1112331870?ean=2940014945189)

Sexual Liberation for Married Ladies

It was lunchtime when I logged onto my computer. My husband was at work and I was thinking of sneaking in a quick round of Internet Scrabble. But my plans quickly changed as an angry orange box bleeped across my screen.

WARNING: We have detected spyware on your computer! Your boss, your family, and even God will see all the degrading sites that you have been visiting. Install Spy-Be-Gone now and we can keep this between ourselves. Operators are standing by.

Alarmed, I quickly scanned my browsing history. I found no porn sites, no sex manuals, not even a Craigslist’s Casual Encounters ad. Just to be on the safe side though I told Spy-Be-Gone to install its software and let me know what it discovered. After a quick scan of my computer it shrugged apologetically and offered me my money back.

 God, I was boring.

And I wasn’t even from the Midwest.

When my husband returned he found me cuddled up in a Snuggie watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. “Uh-Oh,” he said, cautiously hanging up his jacket. “What’s happened now?”

“The computer thinks I’m boring.”

“But computers can’t think,” he said, pouring himself a diet coke. “And even if it could think, what would make the computer believe that you, of all people, are boring?”

“It said it was going to reveal my most disturbing secrets to the world, but all it came up with was my obsession for everything Toddlers and Tiaras. Oh, God!” I cried. “Not only am I boring! I’m a freak!”

I nestled my head into the sleeves of my Snuggie, trying to get a handle on this newest revelation. My children, my siblings, and even my mother had called me prudish but I had always disregarded them. They were family. But to be called out by my own software...well, it was just too much.

“I blame our generation.” I continued. “We were born repressed. I mean, even our music was repressed.” I took a sip of his soda and blew my nose. “The Baby Boomers had a song about loving the one you're with and the Gen Y’ers have a song about girls kissing girls and liking it. All we Gen Xers had to proclaim our sexual freedom was a song about learning how to relax if you wanted to enjoy yourself. It made us not only repressed but neurotic!”

My husband patted my knee and grinned. “There, there honey. I will help you unleash your inner deviant.”

I shot him a look. I didn’t want to become unrepressed with him. We were married, and that meant it didn’t count.  No, I had to think of other ways to accomplish my task. Preferably sanitary ways with dim lighting.

My first step towards sexual liberation was to visit an adult toy store. I had seen the neon glow of its lights on a dark night before but I had never been inside. Clandestinely clothed in a long trench coat and a beanie stolen from my mother, I followed my husband inside. The shop was so bright I had to squint and even though it was still early, there were several customers milling about.

“What do you think?” My husband asked, gesturing towards a wall with an assortment of items in various animal-like shapes.  

“I think I’m going to go look at the lotions instead,” I said, as my husband perused the contents of a glass case. Maybe sexual repression wasn’t a symptom of Generation X after all. He seemed to have no trouble being a pervert.

 

The lotion section turned out to be pathetic so I wandered towards an area marked Arcade. After scavenging three quarters from my purse I headed in. Then quickly headed out. Thirty seconds in that room and I knew that I would never be able to play Donkey Kong or Pinball again.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, grabbing my husband’s arm before he could purchase the gladiator club he had been inspecting. “I don’t think this place is the answer.”

“We could go to a bar,” my husband suggested. “One of my old stomping grounds.”

If ever there was a place to find sexual liberation, it had to be at one of the bars my husband frequented back in his single days. I could probably find other things there too; things that required an insurance card to cure.

“Sure,” I said. If he had done it, so could I. “Let’s do it.”

The bar was dark. Almost pitch. And I couldn’t make out the faces of any of the patrons. “You used to pick up girls here?” I asked. “How could you even tell what they looked like?”

 

“It didn’t matter,” he shrugged, ordering a beer. “That’s the beauty of liberation.”

 

 “But what if they had warts on their face. Or back hair? Or a peg leg? You wouldn’t be able to tell until the next day.”

My husband took a long swill of his drink. “Nope.”

“God, I hate men.”

“See, now that’s an idea. You’ve been with men before and you still don’t feel like you've experienced everything right? Maybe you should try a woman?” Even though it was dark I could see the gleam in his eye. He was baiting me.

“Maybe I will,” I said crossing my arms. “Just to serve you right.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay then. And maybe I will like women so much I won’t come back to you.”

I looked around the room, trying to determine which of the dark shapes were men and which were women. It was a losing battle. In this lighting, they all looked the same. I cocked an ear, hoping for some voice differentiation, but voices were drowned out by the static music of an old juke box.

“Look,” my husband lifted his bottle towards a figure at the far end of the bar. “That’s a woman. And she’s been looking at you all night.”

I peered into the darkness and could almost make out some curves on the frame. “Fine,” I said, slamming my drink down. “I’m going to hit on her.”

“You do that.”

As I marched towards the shape I began to lose my nerve. I had never hit on a man in a bar before, let alone a woman. I swallowed hard, embarrassed that I didn’t know any good pick up lines. I would have to opt for directness.

“Excuse me.” I said to the shape. “I have never kissed a woman before and I wondered if I could kiss you. Just to see what it’s like.”

I think the face smiled and nodded and I hoped she was cute. I didn’t want my first female kiss to be from a golem. She stepped down from her bar stool and stood before me, dwarfing me by a good five inches. I could feel my husband’s eyes bore into the back of my head and I turned, giving him one final haughty look before reaching up to find my companion's lips. But the moment my lips were about to touch hers, I freaked. “Sorry,” I said bolting back back towards my spot at the bar. The figure slumped back onto her stool and mumbled something about experimentalists.

“I guess I am repressed,” I sighed, grabbing my jacket.

“No my dear, you are just straight. And this is a lesbian bar. But I had to try.”

It was late when we got home and I settled into a deep funk. Why was it that everyone else could be liberated and confident in their sexuality, while I blushed when someone saw me picking out a pair of underwear in Target. I was a prude and I the sooner I faced it the better.

“You know,” my husband said, bringing me a bowl of ice cream and flipping off the TV. “I don’t think you are repressed at all.”

“You don’t?” I took a spoonful and remembered the time he brought home the fake handcuffs. I quickly hid them in the sock drawer and when he asked about them later I said that they had probably been burgled.  

“You’re just you.” He said. “And that’s marvelous. And amazing. And sexy.”

“And boring?”

“If there is one thing you are not, it’s boring.” He stood, took one of my hands, and pulled me up from the couch. “Let me go prove to you how un-boring you are.”

“Okay,” I said, following him. “But is it okay if we turn off the lights? This ice cream is already settling on my thighs.”

10 Creative Ways to Lose Weight

Well, it's summer again and that means I am forced to don a swimsuit in a few weeks for my husband's family reunion at the lake. An entire week of sucking in my gut, smoothing out my cellulite, and squeezing into a piece of material so small I can use it as a dish towel. I don't have much time left to 'get in shape' so this year I got creative. That said, here are my top 10 tips to lose weight (or at least look skinnier), without the drudgery of real diet and exercise.

You're welcome.

1. Go shopping. Walking burns tons of calories. So does running from your husband when he finds the receipts. Especially effective if your husband is also a runner.

2. Double up on the Spanx. Wear them whenever you aren't in your swimsuit. You wont be able to walk, sit, laugh, or pee, but you'll look super fantastic as long as you can hold that mannequin pose.

3. Eat at Taco Bell three times a day. Taco Bell is nature's cleansing system. Ever seen a fat roach? I didn't think so.

4. Eat quickly. Chew and swallow your food so fast that your stomach wont have time to count the incoming calories. This is the way the Ninjas ate and they were all skinny.

5. Run on a treadmill. Especially helpful if there is a Twinkie dangling in front of treadmill. Also works if someone has a taser pointed at you from behind.

6. Watch The Biggest Loser. Suddenly you aren't feeling so bad about yourself anymore. If Biggest Loser isn't on try The View. See? You're gorgeous!

7. Eat off your husband's plate. It's a little known diet fact that calories only count if they are on your own plate. If he objects tell him he is looking pudgy himself and you are trying to help him out. If that still doesn't work, threaten him with fork.

8. It is another little known fact that calories in batter format do not count. Eat half the cake before it is cooked and the other half after it is cooked. You have just saved yourself 50% of the calories!

9. Install a vomitorium. It worked for the Romans. It can work for you. Best when used in conjunction with Tip #3.

10. Enroll in an exercise class and tell everyone. You don't have to actually go. Just let them think you are going. You will suddenly get comments from friends and family about how great you look.

Married Date Night

I sat at the small round table, my hair curled, my face done, my breasts pushed up as high as I could possibly hike them. I smiled flirtatiously at my husband, shaking my head so that my oversized hoop earrings would jingle alluringly.

"...and then I went to Target and got us chips for the weekend. Baked Lays were on sale for three dollars a bag, so I stocked up."

It was date night and I was regaling him with the tales from my day. I had already filled him in on my shopping trips, the two episodes of Big Rich Texas I watched on our DVR, and the toilets I had cleaned just because they needed it. I gazed at him, waiting for that look of love that would surely spread across his face. Instead, he reached for the last warm pretzel on our plate and dipped it in cheese.

"Are you listening to me?" I asked.

"Yes of course I'm listening," he said, taking a bite.

"Then, what did I say?"

His face froze mid-bite and I could hear the wheels turning in his head. Finally, like the reels of a slot machine, they settled on something and hoped for a win. "The Dodgers game," he said, "You said you could win a trip to a Dodgers Game if you volunteer as a cancer testing guinea pig." Satisfied with his answer he turned his attention to a large flatscreen across from us. I growled but he didnt hear me.

I had feared this would happen when the hostess told us that the only seats available were in the bar. The room was a noisy, testoserone filled mancave complete with tabletop trivia machines and enough televsions to cause a power outage in a neighboring small town. But my husand seemed okay with the arrangments. In fact, he seemed downright happy.

I, on the otherhand, was peturbed. It was date night. A weekend ritual in our coupledom, forged in those first few grope-filled meetings and carried on into our now married existence. It was a tradition, damnit, and he had better pay homage to it. And attention to me.

"So," my husband said during a commercial break, "Did I answer right?"

"No, you didnt answer right."

"But you were talking about Dodgers and volunteering."

"Yes," I sighed, "I was talking about the Dodgers and volunteerism, but they were two different subjects separated by at least ten minutes of conversation about other subjects. I also talked about my mother, my diet, and what kind of cats we should get when we are old."

My husband stared blankly back at me, like he was hearing my words but not understanding them. "What I was saying in regards to the Dodgers and volunteering was this: #1 I am volunteering to assist with the local cancer awarness 5k this year and #2 Lee Dewyze is going to sing the National Anthem at the Dodgers game."

"Well, I was close anyway. I got two words right."

"You were not close. You listened for key words and combined them into something you hoped would work."

He shrugged, taking the last bite of his pretzel. "But I was half paying attention. That's better than a lot of guys."

"Maybe I should turn into a lesbian. That would serve you right."

"Okay, I'm listening now. Keep talking." He paused, his eyes rolling back into his head like he had just received divine inspiration. "Although, that lesbian idea isnt a bad one..maybe just on the weekends."

I sat there stewing, but decided to continue. We could still salvage date night if we tried. ."I talked to my mom today. She needs new glasses, but she is really enjoying the..."

"Fuck! Did you see that play? They are going to replay it. Watch!" My husband's gaze was directly over my shoulder and I turned in time to see some guy in white tights touching another guy in white tights with a small white ball. Safe! Declared the announcer to a jeering crowd."That could be the play of the year."


That was the moment I gave up. Maybe date night was something you did in the 'woo-ing stage of courtship, something that shouldn't be carried on once the monotony of marriage took hold. I mean, what could we talk about now that we spent 16 of our 24 hours per day together? Weeds in the backyard? The best preschools in our neighborhood? Who are neighbors have buried in their back yards? Perhaps date night for couples was a myth and I should just give in now. Better to give up now then to fight it for the next forty years only to come up with weekend after weekend of bitter disappointment. Our dinner came and I ate in silence, my husband's eyes still moving from one monitor to another making the full rotation of the room. It took him 15 minutes to notice that I hadn't said another word.

"Is something wrong?" He asked, wiping his chin with his napkin. "You suddenly got quiet."

"Nope," I said calmly as I polished off the rest of my wine. "Im just watching tv. Thats what we do on date night."

"Right on," he grinned, toasting me with a drumstick.

The Bastard.

***

"Honey, you sure everythings okay?" My husband asked later that night as we were getting ready for bed. Two hours had passed and I had still not spoken to him. I put on my oversized flannel pajamas, spread cold cream all over my face, and replaced my good underwear with the giant white ones purchased from the dollar store. If date night was offically over for us, so was the lingerie.

"Everything's fine," I said, making my way towards the living room. "Just going to watch more TV. I bet there's a few games we didnt catch in the restaurant."

My husband scratched his head, following me. Things were starting to register for him. "Im sorry," he said as I put my hair up into a ponytail with an old scrunchie. "I should have been paying attention to you tonight, not watching sports on TV. I'm terrible at multi-tasking."

I nodded and plopped onto the sofa. "I put on Spanx just for you." I said, fiddling with the remote. "Do you know how hard it is to get into those things? Let alone, out of them?"

He smiled. "Yes baby, you've told me. Again, I'm sorry. Tomorrow I will take you out again. Your choice. And there will be no TVs"

"Fine," I said, warming but not quite satisfied.

"You know," he said, settling down next to me on the couch. "You looked really good tonight. I liked your bangs, the way they wisped around your eyes like that. You must have got them cut."

I nodded and unfastened my pony tail. I shook my hair out for him to inspect and peered up at him from beneathe my newly carved bangs. "You really like?" I asked, surprised. No one had noticed, not even my best friend.

"And was that a different perfume you were wearing?" he asked, pulling me into his side. "You smelled amazing."

"You sure it wasnt the chicken wings?"

"No, it was all you."

I breathed deeply feeling his warm presence next to me.

"It was a free squirt from the Victoria's Secret store."

"You should get some. It was very sexy."

I smiled, accepting his arms. "I guess it was partly my fault too. I spent the entire evening talking about reality TV and my mother. Not exactly sexy."

"This must mean we are offically married now," he said, watching as I stood up and made my way towards the staircase. "Where you going?"

"To wipe this stuff off my face," I said, smiling at him. "And maybe if you are really lucky, to put on the good underwear."