No fifty shades for me

Published February 22, 2015 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

I won’t be seeing this. Not because I’m a prude and will be offended by the sexiness of it all, but because I refuse to give one cent in contribution to REALLY BAD WRITING. Oh, I read the first one. A friend had a copy and I skimmed it. I couldn’t actually read the whole thing because I feared for the death of my grey matter. And the author is now a gazillionaire.

Green eyes aren’t always becoming.

Not the greatest showing, eh?

Published February 18, 2015 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

So I’m back again after how many days, weeks, months, years?  The world didn’t end, and I didn’t have a lot of sex, but I may or may not have eaten my weight in chocolate.  So much so that the idea of the magic cardigan has gone to hell in a hand-basket.  BUT…I finally finished my novel.  And as much as it makes me want to barf every time I contemplate it, I’m starting to send it out into the world.  World, please be kind.  Book, go out there and kick some serious ass.  SERIOUS.

Thoughts from mid-January

Published January 17, 2013 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

Here it is, almost mid-January.  That’s perfectly OK with me as I have kinda come to the conclusion that I will never, ever, ever like this month.  Maybe if I could be granted the entire month to hibernate, then I’d like it.  See, I don’t especially love cold weather…it makes me feel sluggish and cotton-brained.

Although I do like the idea of a fresh slate.  The new year (albeit one that is almost a month old by now) stretching out before me, just chock full of possibilities.  Or not.

I like to speculate, at the beginning of the year, what it will bring.  Will this year see my book published?  Maybe.  If I work my ass off.  Actually, I’ve been working my ass off for the past few months so there is that.

I used to speculate if I’d meet my Prince Charming in the upcoming year, then I downgraded it to at least meeting a slightly tarnished stable-boy with a borrowed mule, now, I don’t think he exists, and I”m OK with that.

I quit speculating long ago if I’d manage to lose weight in the new year.  It could happen, it could not, either way, I’m still me:  a slightly agoraphobic, slightly anti-social, slightly extroverted writer/teacher who is fairly happy most of the time, but who would be a helluva lot happier if they could invent a chocolate cream filled donut that was the next big health food.

And yes, even though the Mayans had it wrong, I DID eat several of those on December 21.

Onwards and upwards.  Here’s to 2013

We’ve got less than a month before the world ends, well, according to the Mayans.

Published November 30, 2012 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

So we’ve got less than a month…actually, it’s exactly three weeks from today.  So if the world were going to end in exactly three weeks, what would you do that you’ve never done or stop doing because you wanted to finally kick bad habits for good or even toss out the good habits and do what you damn well please  because life really is too short?  I’ve thought about this and I can come up with only a few things, so that either tells me just how damn boring I really am, or maybe it’s because I really have a pretty good life and am fairly content with it.  Either way, here they are, in random order.

1.  Go back to England.  I loved it there, it was so amazing, and it’s been over twenty years and I’m  still saying “someday.”

2. Stop dicking around with the last fifty pages of my novel, finish it, then finish editing the last half and give it to a buddy whose opinion and feedback I value.

3.  Have a lot of sex, but have it early enough in the three week time-period that I can still make it to confession.

4.  Get one last super-charged confession in.

5.  Take a road trip or two and tell a couple of people what a sad excuse for a human shaped douche bag they really are, leaving enough time for the confession.

6. Spend one entire day eating  as many chocolate cream filled Krispy Kreme donuts as I can.  Then spend another day eating chocolate all day long.  Hell, just eat anything and everything in sight for three weeks, and if I outgrow my clothes, who the hell cares if I step up to some plus-sized clothes in the afterlife?

7.  Tell people that I love them, and tell them exactly what they mean to me and thank them for being part of my life.

8.  Snuggle with my Babycat.

9.  Finally let go of every last remnant of giving a shit about what people say or think about me.

10.  Not worry about a thing because it’s all going to end soon.

I’m sure there are more on this list, but honestly, # 6 filled me with such glee that I”m not having fantasies.  And no, it wasn’t the have lots of sex one, but the neverending Krispy Kremes one.

The thing is, most of these things are valid and completely do-able and probably should be done anyway, even if the Mayans got it wrong and we keep on trudging along

.  Well, maybe variations of #3, #5, #6, and #10.

And the Sunday night rambings continue

Published September 23, 2012 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

There’s just something about Sunday nights that lends itself to musings.  Probably because I would rather muse than grade essays.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking and I suspect I am way too materialistic.   Especially for being a writer.  I mean we’ve all read Walden.  Aren’t writers supposed to go live out in the woods and commune with nature?  I doubt I would last very long.  I went camping once, a camping complete with tiny tent and sleeping bag.  I did not like it.  Plus, during the camping I thought it wise to drink half a pint of supreme evil called Hot Damn 100.  Heaving in the woods in the middle of the night is something I never wish to repeat.  But I digress.  The bottom line is, I like stuff.  I am girly; I like makeup, shoes, clothes, pedicures, manicures, did I mention makeup?  Anyway, I think that’s probably not what serious writers like, is it?  I mean, I guess it’d be OK for that kind they call “chick lit” but that’s not what I write.

My stories aren’t pretty, they aren’t glamorous, and they definitely aren’t girly.  I don’t match my stories.  Last winter, at a writer’s conference I was at, there was also an Avon lady conference going on at the same place .  I was mistaken for one of the Avon ladies.  The women at the writing conference were all much cooler looking than I was.  They wore black mostly, with red lips, and wild glorious hair, and they looked as if they didn’t try at all.  And because of that, they all looked amazing.

And I looked like an Avon lady.

A Sunday night rant about guilt, fears, magic cardigans, shithouse rats, and entitlement

Published September 17, 2012 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

God I am so pitiful.  I haven’t posted on this in how many months?  I’ll blame it on my job; I’m an English teacher, and I truly believe that teaching sometimes sucks the very life and soul out of me. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am a good teacher, but I think that’s why it drains me.  I work at it.  I have to grade papers constantly just to keep my head above water, I have to constantly read for my lectures, and, if I don’t do this, I feel really guilty.  Just like I feel guilty for not updating my blog, when in all actuality, nobody gives two shits about it but me.  But I like guilt.  I like to wallow in it and then try to figure out why I like it so.

You know what scares me?  The thought that I’ll never get one damn thing published.  Sometimes I think that’s why I will go for days without working on my novel.  Because if it’s not finished, then I don’t have to face sending it out to try and get a) representation and b) published.  And I don’t have to face having people tell me it sucks.  Because that would be like telling a mother her kid is butt ugly. 

I guess I could always publish the sucker myself, like so many seem to be doing lately…NOT.  Call me a snob, call me whatever you want to call me, but I can’t do it.  If a publisher doesn’t think it’s good enough to publish, then I sure as hell am not going to do it myself, then post on Facebook for everyone to “buy my book” when I know damn good and well nobody wanted it. 

That’s a pet peeve of mine lately:  self-published books.  I’ve read some, and the ones I read were fracking BAD.  I mean bad as in grammatical mistakes, no character development, a plot line with gaps so huge you could drive pregnant elephants through them, just not good writing.  And it’s published.  And people read it and write reviews such as “it’s sooooooo amazing!”  OK, maybe I’m just bitter and jealous.

So I’ve gained about 20 pounds since last year.  Why?  I guess I like to eat unhealthy crap.  And I’m not exactly broken out with the love of exercise.  Just something else to feel guilt about,  “how I’ve let myself go.”

Whenever I’m on the higher end of weight, and I’m reaching for clothes in the fat end of my closet, I also reach for the “magic cardigans” or “magic jackets.”  You know the ones.  The ones you whack on over the top of something in the hopes that these garments will suddenly camouflage all of that 20 pounds and no one but you will ever know it.  Then, once your willpower and discipline return, the magic garments can once again be stored in the spare closet.

The longer I live, (and yes, I have a birthday next month, and hell no I don’t tell anyone which one it is) the more convinced I get that most people are basically crazier than shithouse rats.  What is a shithouse rat?  Well, really I couldn’t tell you.  I assume it’s a rat that chooses or is forced to live in a shithouse.  Hence the craziness.  If you’ve never had the pleasure of visiting a shithouse (think outhouse) then you haven’t a clue, if you have visited one, you know what I’m talking about.  But seriously, people are barking.  And most of them take themselves far, far too seriously and someone, somewhere, has convinced these people that they are far more intellectual superior than they actually are.  I don’t disabuse them of this notion.  I just write it all down.

What is with this sense of entitlement I see in young people, meaning my students, these days?  How the hell did they get this idea that in order to succeed and make a good grade in a class (more specifically MY class) they only need to show up and then turn in some kind of half-assed paper and all will be zen and one with the world?  Seriously, the thought of reading an assignment before class doesn’t enter into most of their fluffy little heads.  Because that’s what I’m there for, I’m the one who’ll tell them everything they need to know about whatever novel/essay/short story/poem they were supposed to read, because to actually read it would interfere with texting/socializing/’mudding(I’m still not sure what this is, but apparently, kids in rural areas do it) and watching Jersey Shore.

And don’t even get me started on Snookie’s best-seller novel.



Be kind

Published January 11, 2012 by rhonda*williams:laughing at the absurd

Kindness has been on my mind lately.  Both receiving it and giving it.  I had an opportunity to be kind to someone recently, and you know, I kinda dropped the ball on that one.  Never mind that the person in question was irritating enough to part a boar hog from his balls, I should’ve been kinder. 

Kindness really doesn’t  take a lot of effort does it?

I was on the receiving end of someone being not-so-kind, about something I had done, or rather, hadn’t  done exactly right.  There was a tone in the voice that made me feel like a newspaper was being rolled up to swat my behind, and I was about to have my nose rubbed in pee.

And yet, it didn’t have to be that way.  The issue could’ve been addressed with kindness.  I would’ve still realized I screwed up, but maybe I wouldn’t have felt like a screw-up.  And there is a big difference in that.

Kindness is a good thing.  Pass it on.


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