If you're looking for an excellent, enticing read, please visit
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/results.asp?z=y&ath=Wanda+Hudson
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0972458689/qid=1142375692/sr=1-1/ref=sr_1_1/102-9098132-7690534?s=books&v=glance&n=283155
http://bwmmag.com/magazine/content/view/684/217/
or email wanda_d_hudson@yahoo.com to find out how to purchase Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Saturday, March 11, 2006
My Write To Breathe
Today is the day I picked up my first order of bookmarks! It's also the day I mailed out copies of my book! Talk about excitement! Some may not understand or say, "What's the big deal?" It's just another book with a flimsy piece of paper to mark the pages. Oh, please don't let me hear anyone say that! If I do, the news will report it as just another ramdom butt kicking by an unknown assailant. Then a blurred sketch photo will flash across the screen, because the victim won't know what actually happened to him/her, or who did the damage.
Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story has been a long time coming for me. At one point in my burgeoning writing career all I thought about was the word rejection. Rejection...Rejection... I seriously thought of changing my first, middle and last name to mirror this one word. Reject would come into play as my nickname.
Ahhh, the woes of becoming published. They can feel insurmountable at times; comparable to falling off a mountain that you’ve tried to climb bare handed, with no safety net to catch you, and no one to offer words of comfort. So why get up and keep trying? Why continue on a journey when many times you feel there’s no end or glory in sight. It’s simple; it’s my and your write to breathe.
If you inhale air and exhale a story, a poem or a novel, you owe it to your every fiber to continue. This is your God given talent, and no one; not a publisher, an agent, or an avid reader can take that gift away from you. Why yes, of course you need all three to be successful, but when you begin to accept their words of denial as your own, you begin to suffocate. Suffocation is not part of your write.
I type this as a voice of experience, a voice of belief. Over time, that I seem obsessed with keeping track of, I have somehow amassed a complete novel of rejection letters. I have them organized neatly in a red binder in order of their receipt. At times I peruse them, wondering how can someone in their position deny me, my novel, my excellence, a chance at being revered by the reading public. What is their problem exactly? Don’t they know this is my write, my life, and my worthiness on this earth?
It would seem they didn't for the letters of dissent kept coming. The thing I love most about the letters is not the impersonal feel of them, but the fact that I’m so good at handling rejection. I have two or three from the same publisher, each on different stationary, but with the same HELL NO signature at the bottom.
I had the idea of attempting to have my rejection letters published. I changed my mind by realizing doing so would take away from the excellent writer I am. Who wants to be known as the Queen of Rejection on their first attempt? That’s not the image I’m going to portray or the story that I have to tell.
My story is one of success. Becoming a published writer - an accomplished novelist. One who can weave a story to entice you, to hold you, to bring you inside of my world, make you stay, and tell you when it’s time to leave. Those are some of the requirements of my write to breathe.
As I neared the end of seeing Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story in print, rejection had become a special friend of mine. Every time we met I became stronger, more determined and destined to never meet his distant cousins by way of the postal service again. Keep in mind that another can never take away what’s in you or define your life’s calling. Then go back to your typewriter or computer keys and inhale. I promise you after all of this, you will still exhale your write to breathe.
Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story has been a long time coming for me. At one point in my burgeoning writing career all I thought about was the word rejection. Rejection...Rejection... I seriously thought of changing my first, middle and last name to mirror this one word. Reject would come into play as my nickname.
Ahhh, the woes of becoming published. They can feel insurmountable at times; comparable to falling off a mountain that you’ve tried to climb bare handed, with no safety net to catch you, and no one to offer words of comfort. So why get up and keep trying? Why continue on a journey when many times you feel there’s no end or glory in sight. It’s simple; it’s my and your write to breathe.
If you inhale air and exhale a story, a poem or a novel, you owe it to your every fiber to continue. This is your God given talent, and no one; not a publisher, an agent, or an avid reader can take that gift away from you. Why yes, of course you need all three to be successful, but when you begin to accept their words of denial as your own, you begin to suffocate. Suffocation is not part of your write.
I type this as a voice of experience, a voice of belief. Over time, that I seem obsessed with keeping track of, I have somehow amassed a complete novel of rejection letters. I have them organized neatly in a red binder in order of their receipt. At times I peruse them, wondering how can someone in their position deny me, my novel, my excellence, a chance at being revered by the reading public. What is their problem exactly? Don’t they know this is my write, my life, and my worthiness on this earth?
It would seem they didn't for the letters of dissent kept coming. The thing I love most about the letters is not the impersonal feel of them, but the fact that I’m so good at handling rejection. I have two or three from the same publisher, each on different stationary, but with the same HELL NO signature at the bottom.
I had the idea of attempting to have my rejection letters published. I changed my mind by realizing doing so would take away from the excellent writer I am. Who wants to be known as the Queen of Rejection on their first attempt? That’s not the image I’m going to portray or the story that I have to tell.
My story is one of success. Becoming a published writer - an accomplished novelist. One who can weave a story to entice you, to hold you, to bring you inside of my world, make you stay, and tell you when it’s time to leave. Those are some of the requirements of my write to breathe.
As I neared the end of seeing Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story in print, rejection had become a special friend of mine. Every time we met I became stronger, more determined and destined to never meet his distant cousins by way of the postal service again. Keep in mind that another can never take away what’s in you or define your life’s calling. Then go back to your typewriter or computer keys and inhale. I promise you after all of this, you will still exhale your write to breathe.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
40 Luv
With age comes wisdom, or so I've been told. With each decade comes a knowledge that will prepare you for a future of wealth, happiness, peace and abundance. Someone told me that, also. Well, I entered into another decade with grace, and yes, I feel more confident than ever.
March 2nd, 2006, I Wanda D. Hudson, turned forty years sexy. I remember vividly when I was sixteen counting the years that it would take for me to reach the age of forty. Thinking it was a long way off is the one thought I remember the most. Whoever said time sure flies when your having fun spoke the truth. Time also does some Starship Enterprise stuff when your finding your way without a road map, and if you had one, you couldn't read it anyway.
I think from the age of twenty-two until I was thirty-three I was kind of stupid. I won't say I was totally ignorant, because I knew I had to work, have shelter and pay bills to survive. But I look at many things about my history and slap myself. (I then apologize by eating something...hehehe) Many ideas of who I wanted to become didn't settle in until I was thirty-five, and many parts of my being claimed that it was too late - a broken heart and used body equaled damaged goods. Then I thought about the Salvation Army. You can get a GREAT deal on the used items there. Suddenly, being refurbished became a goal I reached for with both hands, with my mind, and with my used body.
At forty I have so many plans for my future, so many dreams that will happen while I'm awake - so many beautiful reasons why I luv who I am, and why I luv where I came from. Many of us want to stay young or turn back the hands of time. Honestly, if I could go back and be sixteen again, with the knowledge I have now of course, I would. Since there is no human that is able to hit a rewind button, or a time machine that will transport me, I'll keep my sexy self here and keep on pushin'.
There are a few things that I need to find out as being true in my new decade. One being, is sex better in your forties? Is this the decade when older women begin to find younger men more attractive? And in your forties, do you really get "IT"? And do you really give a damn if "IT" even exists?
Two days have passed since my birthday and I still feel confident. I'm more secure with simply being me, and more secure with the extra pounds that I'm carrying, not that I'm going to wear a belly shirt and show you, but these extra pounds are all mine to luv. I feel like whatever it is that I need He is going to make sure I have it. I'm not going to stress anymore over my wants. I feel postive that my daughters will open up their hearts and learn from their mama, luv her, and not be ashamed of where she has been. I feel good, people. I feel real good.
There is no need for me to volley right now. 40 Luv is a score I want to hold onto for awhile.
March 2nd, 2006, I Wanda D. Hudson, turned forty years sexy. I remember vividly when I was sixteen counting the years that it would take for me to reach the age of forty. Thinking it was a long way off is the one thought I remember the most. Whoever said time sure flies when your having fun spoke the truth. Time also does some Starship Enterprise stuff when your finding your way without a road map, and if you had one, you couldn't read it anyway.
I think from the age of twenty-two until I was thirty-three I was kind of stupid. I won't say I was totally ignorant, because I knew I had to work, have shelter and pay bills to survive. But I look at many things about my history and slap myself. (I then apologize by eating something...hehehe) Many ideas of who I wanted to become didn't settle in until I was thirty-five, and many parts of my being claimed that it was too late - a broken heart and used body equaled damaged goods. Then I thought about the Salvation Army. You can get a GREAT deal on the used items there. Suddenly, being refurbished became a goal I reached for with both hands, with my mind, and with my used body.
At forty I have so many plans for my future, so many dreams that will happen while I'm awake - so many beautiful reasons why I luv who I am, and why I luv where I came from. Many of us want to stay young or turn back the hands of time. Honestly, if I could go back and be sixteen again, with the knowledge I have now of course, I would. Since there is no human that is able to hit a rewind button, or a time machine that will transport me, I'll keep my sexy self here and keep on pushin'.
There are a few things that I need to find out as being true in my new decade. One being, is sex better in your forties? Is this the decade when older women begin to find younger men more attractive? And in your forties, do you really get "IT"? And do you really give a damn if "IT" even exists?
Two days have passed since my birthday and I still feel confident. I'm more secure with simply being me, and more secure with the extra pounds that I'm carrying, not that I'm going to wear a belly shirt and show you, but these extra pounds are all mine to luv. I feel like whatever it is that I need He is going to make sure I have it. I'm not going to stress anymore over my wants. I feel postive that my daughters will open up their hearts and learn from their mama, luv her, and not be ashamed of where she has been. I feel good, people. I feel real good.
There is no need for me to volley right now. 40 Luv is a score I want to hold onto for awhile.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Wait For Love:A Black Girl's Story / Excerpt
The first month of the new year is more than halfway over and I haven't posted a thing. I think it would soothe the souls of all that have missed me (smile, smile, smile)to make up my error to you all by posting an excerpt from my new novel, Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story. Although my last post was titled Promotional Suicide, I believe in this instance that is not the case. A blog is a website-less individuals way of reaching readers so...
Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story is available at all online book sellers, and by emailing yours truly at wanda_d_hudson@yahoo.com.
Enjoy
*******************************************
As my mild shock wore off I looked him in his eyes. A different man looked back at me. For the first time, I saw him as my husband and he saw me as his wife. He knew he wouldn’t deny me tonight.
“Are you sure this is what you want, Lynnde?”
“Desmond, let’s not talk anymore. I love you.”
Desmond began undressing me, working his way around my body from top to bottom, and back up once I was unclothed.
“Lynnde, you’re beautiful.”
He continued to kiss me and helped me to lie down on the floor. This was worth the wait. I lie on the floor caressing my body as Desmond undressed himself for my eyes to see. This was going to be perfect. He was going to be perfect for the rest of my life.
I admired Desmond’s naked body, which was quite pleasing, until my eyes saw “it.” What was “it,” you ask? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m not a day care provider. Why did all of a sudden I feel like I was in nursery school? Now I know why he made me wait so long. He knew I wasn’t going to get anything. I’d continue to wait if I’d known this.
Desmond’s penis was the size of a Chap Stick tube. No, no it wasn’t. It was more like the size of a Vicks inhaler that had nothing else left to inhale. Picture a sweet gherkin pickle? Or how about a fat free Vienna sausage? Does that help you to understand what my eyes didn’t see? I can’t believe I waited a year and a half for nothing. Good things come to those who wait my ass.
But, Lynnde, wait. You love him. He’s your soul mate. He’s perfect for you. You want to spend the rest of your life with him. Look at all the roses. Think of the poems. Think of how nice he was to you when you got sick at the club, remember? You’re his queen and he wants to take care of you. He loves you.
“He can’t take care of anything with that midget dick of his.”
“Okay, okay calm down. Sex isn’t everything. You can work this out.”
Oh no, he’s coming towards me and rubbing that little creature up and down my leg. Ugh. He’s having surgery. There has to be something out there that’ll help. A transplant, implant or a pump. Wait, not a pump. A pump will just make it look swollen, like a fat lip or something. I don’t want to do this at all. Right now, all I feel is disgust. He shouldn’t take too long. Damn, he’s kissing me and saying sweet nothings, and I’m really emphasizing the word nothing. I guess he’s really in the mood. My mind is so far away from this moment.
Now he’s trying to enter inside me. Ugh. All I feel is aggravation. Desmond is really enjoying himself. He’s really giving that little thing a workout. He keeps saying, “Oh, Lynnde, you feel so good.” How would he know? I guess I should look like I’m enjoying him, but all I want to do is tell him to get his earthworm out of me. I manage to say, “Desmond, you feel so good,” and “don’t stop.” Keep thinking how much you love him and how much he loves you. Those thoughts aren’t working. I want him to hurry up. Now he’s making a screeching noise. It sounds like car tires on a wet road that have just run over a hissing cat. If this is what his orgasms are going to sound like, I hope I go deaf tonight.
Stop it, Lynnde. Desmond loves you and will give you the world if he could. Good, he’s done. I hope he doesn’t talk. I hoped too late. He says he loves me and can’t wait for me to become his wife. I barely get out the words I love you in return and hear snoring. Oh, hell no. No pleasure for me and he’s asleep? You love him. You love him. You love him. That’s not working right now. Okay then, look at the ring and your roses. That’s not working either. No wonder that fool spent so much on the ring and wants to pay for the wedding. And who does he think is going to water all these flowers, and clean them up when they die?
Lynnde, sex isn’t everything and you know you love Desmond, right? “Yeah, right. But all of a sudden I feel used. He made sure I was in love with him before he let me see his Brown and Serve. Wait until we were committed to each other, my ass. He should be committed and promoted to the newborn baby club president. Ugh.
A tiny wet spot is on my inner thigh and I want to throw up. I sat up to take a closer look at what he thinks is a penis, but it retreated back inside itself. What I saw made me think if a fly had a penis this is what it would look like. Tsk, even his balls are little. They look like burnt, dried, button mushrooms. Lynnde!
Desmond’s boxer underwear are lying on the floor. First thing in the morning, I’m taking them to the store and get his money back. I’ll buy him a pack of toddler under-roos to replace them. Disgust won’t let me talk anymore. I hope I have some hard liquor in the cabinet because the only way I’m sleeping next to him is drunk. Hurry up tomorrow, because tonight has got to go.
© Wanda D. Hudson 2006
Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story is available at all online book sellers, and by emailing yours truly at wanda_d_hudson@yahoo.com.
Enjoy
*******************************************
As my mild shock wore off I looked him in his eyes. A different man looked back at me. For the first time, I saw him as my husband and he saw me as his wife. He knew he wouldn’t deny me tonight.
“Are you sure this is what you want, Lynnde?”
“Desmond, let’s not talk anymore. I love you.”
Desmond began undressing me, working his way around my body from top to bottom, and back up once I was unclothed.
“Lynnde, you’re beautiful.”
He continued to kiss me and helped me to lie down on the floor. This was worth the wait. I lie on the floor caressing my body as Desmond undressed himself for my eyes to see. This was going to be perfect. He was going to be perfect for the rest of my life.
I admired Desmond’s naked body, which was quite pleasing, until my eyes saw “it.” What was “it,” you ask? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m not a day care provider. Why did all of a sudden I feel like I was in nursery school? Now I know why he made me wait so long. He knew I wasn’t going to get anything. I’d continue to wait if I’d known this.
Desmond’s penis was the size of a Chap Stick tube. No, no it wasn’t. It was more like the size of a Vicks inhaler that had nothing else left to inhale. Picture a sweet gherkin pickle? Or how about a fat free Vienna sausage? Does that help you to understand what my eyes didn’t see? I can’t believe I waited a year and a half for nothing. Good things come to those who wait my ass.
But, Lynnde, wait. You love him. He’s your soul mate. He’s perfect for you. You want to spend the rest of your life with him. Look at all the roses. Think of the poems. Think of how nice he was to you when you got sick at the club, remember? You’re his queen and he wants to take care of you. He loves you.
“He can’t take care of anything with that midget dick of his.”
“Okay, okay calm down. Sex isn’t everything. You can work this out.”
Oh no, he’s coming towards me and rubbing that little creature up and down my leg. Ugh. He’s having surgery. There has to be something out there that’ll help. A transplant, implant or a pump. Wait, not a pump. A pump will just make it look swollen, like a fat lip or something. I don’t want to do this at all. Right now, all I feel is disgust. He shouldn’t take too long. Damn, he’s kissing me and saying sweet nothings, and I’m really emphasizing the word nothing. I guess he’s really in the mood. My mind is so far away from this moment.
Now he’s trying to enter inside me. Ugh. All I feel is aggravation. Desmond is really enjoying himself. He’s really giving that little thing a workout. He keeps saying, “Oh, Lynnde, you feel so good.” How would he know? I guess I should look like I’m enjoying him, but all I want to do is tell him to get his earthworm out of me. I manage to say, “Desmond, you feel so good,” and “don’t stop.” Keep thinking how much you love him and how much he loves you. Those thoughts aren’t working. I want him to hurry up. Now he’s making a screeching noise. It sounds like car tires on a wet road that have just run over a hissing cat. If this is what his orgasms are going to sound like, I hope I go deaf tonight.
Stop it, Lynnde. Desmond loves you and will give you the world if he could. Good, he’s done. I hope he doesn’t talk. I hoped too late. He says he loves me and can’t wait for me to become his wife. I barely get out the words I love you in return and hear snoring. Oh, hell no. No pleasure for me and he’s asleep? You love him. You love him. You love him. That’s not working right now. Okay then, look at the ring and your roses. That’s not working either. No wonder that fool spent so much on the ring and wants to pay for the wedding. And who does he think is going to water all these flowers, and clean them up when they die?
Lynnde, sex isn’t everything and you know you love Desmond, right? “Yeah, right. But all of a sudden I feel used. He made sure I was in love with him before he let me see his Brown and Serve. Wait until we were committed to each other, my ass. He should be committed and promoted to the newborn baby club president. Ugh.
A tiny wet spot is on my inner thigh and I want to throw up. I sat up to take a closer look at what he thinks is a penis, but it retreated back inside itself. What I saw made me think if a fly had a penis this is what it would look like. Tsk, even his balls are little. They look like burnt, dried, button mushrooms. Lynnde!
Desmond’s boxer underwear are lying on the floor. First thing in the morning, I’m taking them to the store and get his money back. I’ll buy him a pack of toddler under-roos to replace them. Disgust won’t let me talk anymore. I hope I have some hard liquor in the cabinet because the only way I’m sleeping next to him is drunk. Hurry up tomorrow, because tonight has got to go.
© Wanda D. Hudson 2006
Monday, December 12, 2005
Promotional Suicide
The holiday season is upon us, which is a beautiful thing. The Christmas/New Year collaboration is supposed to be, in my opinion, the celebration of the birth of Christ, the joy in our world, and the blessing of being on this earth another year. Many of us celebrate by giving gifts to show our appreciation of one another, having family and friends over for festive gatherings, and possibly getting drunk to forget about all the money you spent and the ill-meant well-wishes you sprayed because 'tis the season.'
Is Wanda D. Hudson a scrooge? No. I absolutely love the holidays. What I don't love is the fact that some people use the holidays as a personal promotional tool. Yes, I do believe in promotion - hell, I have a novel that will be released in January of 2006, so I'm a promoting fool right now. Sure, push your book as a Christmas gift. If someone if going to spend their money to show their appreciation for their fellow man, why not spend it on your work. My problem comes with people who burst down your door to get the job done.
I am a member of a few online writing groups. Every year some of these groups do gift or Christmas card exchanges. Beautiful. I signed up in a couple of the groups. Everyone gave out their home address or PO box numbers and the cards began flying. Well, I received my first card in the mail last week. I was so happy! I mean, to think someone who doesn't even know me included me in their holiday spirit! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Well, I got so mad when I opened the card and the author's promotional bookmarks fell out! Those bookmarks took my holiday happiness and stomped on it. In an instant I became another stranger at a fair who that particular writer wanted to reach. I know how the author felt, I am the same individual trying to reach that potential buyer.
I just feel that the majority of us in these groups know what each other does. I know you're trying to blow up, shoot, so am I. But the purpose of the card exchange, in my opinion, is to spread holiday cheer. Would it really harm any of us to simply put those promotional items to the side? I feel like my home was invaded. I gave my address to a stranger and then they just came in and did as they please. Yeah, I'm probably turning a mini cupcake into a German Chocolate Cake, but this is my vent space. I had to get this off of my chest.
Maybe I am judging someone's actions and for that I apologize. I haven't thrown the cards away, but I have no intention on purchasing the writer's works. Will keeping my money in my purse hurt the author? Probably not. Promoting until you are on the best sellers list is a dream that many of us have, and that many of us will accomplish. Promoting by entering the back door, when you're welcome thru the front, is promotional suicide.
Is Wanda D. Hudson a scrooge? No. I absolutely love the holidays. What I don't love is the fact that some people use the holidays as a personal promotional tool. Yes, I do believe in promotion - hell, I have a novel that will be released in January of 2006, so I'm a promoting fool right now. Sure, push your book as a Christmas gift. If someone if going to spend their money to show their appreciation for their fellow man, why not spend it on your work. My problem comes with people who burst down your door to get the job done.
I am a member of a few online writing groups. Every year some of these groups do gift or Christmas card exchanges. Beautiful. I signed up in a couple of the groups. Everyone gave out their home address or PO box numbers and the cards began flying. Well, I received my first card in the mail last week. I was so happy! I mean, to think someone who doesn't even know me included me in their holiday spirit! Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Well, I got so mad when I opened the card and the author's promotional bookmarks fell out! Those bookmarks took my holiday happiness and stomped on it. In an instant I became another stranger at a fair who that particular writer wanted to reach. I know how the author felt, I am the same individual trying to reach that potential buyer.
I just feel that the majority of us in these groups know what each other does. I know you're trying to blow up, shoot, so am I. But the purpose of the card exchange, in my opinion, is to spread holiday cheer. Would it really harm any of us to simply put those promotional items to the side? I feel like my home was invaded. I gave my address to a stranger and then they just came in and did as they please. Yeah, I'm probably turning a mini cupcake into a German Chocolate Cake, but this is my vent space. I had to get this off of my chest.
Maybe I am judging someone's actions and for that I apologize. I haven't thrown the cards away, but I have no intention on purchasing the writer's works. Will keeping my money in my purse hurt the author? Probably not. Promoting until you are on the best sellers list is a dream that many of us have, and that many of us will accomplish. Promoting by entering the back door, when you're welcome thru the front, is promotional suicide.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Dreaming In Perfecta-Vision
Hey all,
Please visit http://myinvisiblehusband.blogspot.com/2005/12/dreaming-in-perfecta-vision.html . I am the guest blogger on Miss Sheila Goss', the author of My Invisible Husband, website.
Find out what kind of dreams really do come true.
Please visit http://myinvisiblehusband.blogspot.com/2005/12/dreaming-in-perfecta-vision.html . I am the guest blogger on Miss Sheila Goss', the author of My Invisible Husband, website.
Find out what kind of dreams really do come true.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Daddy's Babygirl
Babygirl – a name my father began calling me the day I entered this world. I swear I can hear his voice right now, and I see the scene of a pretty brown newborn being cleaned up on a table in a delivery room, and him standing by proudly saying Babygirl over and over again.
Strangely enough I used the title of this post as one of the chapter titles in my soon to be released novel. Life imitating art, to say the least, is an unsettling feeling. Three weeks ago I had to face the callous reality that one day until the rest of my life, I will never hear my father call me his Babygirl. Some realities you can never grasp or want to own. My father had his second recorded heart attack, and this time his kidneys began to fail. I’ve never had to deal with death so closely. I’ve had friends and cousins lose their parents and cried with them, but never fully understand how they felt until now.
I never thought about my daddy dying. I figured I’d be in my late sixties or seventies when he passed away. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this. My parents are divorced and somehow I think that if they had stayed together and we were a “proper” family unit, he never would have gotten sick. I shake my head at my childish beliefs and am forced to grow up in an instant.
Thinking of my father being sick ills my heart. I don’t want him to suffer. He is under Hospice care and hearing him speak of dying shatters me every time. Then I think of how man made Jesus endure a painful death, and of all the sick people in the world, the catastrophes, and tragedies. Although I believe in God, in times of weakness none of this knowledge changes my heart; I don’t want my daddy to suffer. Hey, I’m human…I’m not perfect.
At the present I reside in the Bronx and he lives in Florida. This doesn’t help. I have to move, I have to help him in order to help me. The daunting scenes of my father lying in a coffin, and of me crying, is not a black art picture that I want to go on sale. This hurts. Nothing about black art should hurt…black art is beautiful.
I flew to Florida a week after his attack and stayed with him for five stingy days. Five days is no way long enough to spend with a man that made sure you had a hot meal, clothing, and a place to sleep every night. Oh, don't let me forget the sight of him putting together my first metal dollhouse. A whole lot of metal clanking and cursing, but hours later, I was playing without the thought of ever growing older. I only stayed five days because I had to be an adult, and return to my place of work so I could do the same for my child as he did for his. For once, I wish I had no job.
Losing a parent is devastating in more ways than I can imagine. The one thing I’m afraid of is, when my daddy passes on, it will be official. I will be an adult. I will be the one next in line to become a grandparent, and the one who everyone looks to for guidance. I have no choice but to take the reins and handle them like he did. But I was always the babygirl. To this day, at age thirty-nine, I’m still the babygirl. At least that’s how my daddy makes me feel. If he leaves me, will I still be the babygirl? Funny, I have two daughters and I still want to be the baby when it comes to my father. Before I left Florida to go to the airport he kissed me and said, “Stay sweet, baby. I love you.” It’s my birthright to be the baby.
Each day I’m living with the knowledge that death is going to come and choke me. The one thing that soothes me is I now know that no matter where my daddy is, I will always be Daddy's Babygirl.
Strangely enough I used the title of this post as one of the chapter titles in my soon to be released novel. Life imitating art, to say the least, is an unsettling feeling. Three weeks ago I had to face the callous reality that one day until the rest of my life, I will never hear my father call me his Babygirl. Some realities you can never grasp or want to own. My father had his second recorded heart attack, and this time his kidneys began to fail. I’ve never had to deal with death so closely. I’ve had friends and cousins lose their parents and cried with them, but never fully understand how they felt until now.
I never thought about my daddy dying. I figured I’d be in my late sixties or seventies when he passed away. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this. My parents are divorced and somehow I think that if they had stayed together and we were a “proper” family unit, he never would have gotten sick. I shake my head at my childish beliefs and am forced to grow up in an instant.
Thinking of my father being sick ills my heart. I don’t want him to suffer. He is under Hospice care and hearing him speak of dying shatters me every time. Then I think of how man made Jesus endure a painful death, and of all the sick people in the world, the catastrophes, and tragedies. Although I believe in God, in times of weakness none of this knowledge changes my heart; I don’t want my daddy to suffer. Hey, I’m human…I’m not perfect.
At the present I reside in the Bronx and he lives in Florida. This doesn’t help. I have to move, I have to help him in order to help me. The daunting scenes of my father lying in a coffin, and of me crying, is not a black art picture that I want to go on sale. This hurts. Nothing about black art should hurt…black art is beautiful.
I flew to Florida a week after his attack and stayed with him for five stingy days. Five days is no way long enough to spend with a man that made sure you had a hot meal, clothing, and a place to sleep every night. Oh, don't let me forget the sight of him putting together my first metal dollhouse. A whole lot of metal clanking and cursing, but hours later, I was playing without the thought of ever growing older. I only stayed five days because I had to be an adult, and return to my place of work so I could do the same for my child as he did for his. For once, I wish I had no job.
Losing a parent is devastating in more ways than I can imagine. The one thing I’m afraid of is, when my daddy passes on, it will be official. I will be an adult. I will be the one next in line to become a grandparent, and the one who everyone looks to for guidance. I have no choice but to take the reins and handle them like he did. But I was always the babygirl. To this day, at age thirty-nine, I’m still the babygirl. At least that’s how my daddy makes me feel. If he leaves me, will I still be the babygirl? Funny, I have two daughters and I still want to be the baby when it comes to my father. Before I left Florida to go to the airport he kissed me and said, “Stay sweet, baby. I love you.” It’s my birthright to be the baby.
Each day I’m living with the knowledge that death is going to come and choke me. The one thing that soothes me is I now know that no matter where my daddy is, I will always be Daddy's Babygirl.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Brand New
It has been a few months since I've done the Blog thing. As a writer I miss posting my inner thoughts for all to see. I also miss it as an everyday plain ole gotta make that money girl. As we all know making money, it doesn't matter how much the amount, eluded me for a minute, which seemed like an eternity when I was BROKE. I don't consider myself BROKE anymore, just broke. My life is still excellent.
The latest news I have is that I'm waiting on the proof copy and PDF file for my novel, Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story. The excitement over my first novel is unexplainable. I feel like I'm breathing and suffocating myself at the same time. Sounds weird huh?
My days are no longer than anyone elses but it feels like the hours that make up my time are playing tricks on me. They, meaning the hours, stare at me as I watch the clock tick. Sometimes the minute hand goes in reverse, and even skips a few numbers just to go back and double up on the time it spends with any particular number. I won't even begin to elaborate on the hour hand...just RIDICULOUS! Stopping in mid-cycle as if it's stuck in rush hour. Some days I feel like screaming where is my book! I'll take the you dumb fool looks with ease. If the world knew the beauty that was coming for me, it would scream, too.
A prominent saying or belief is that patience is a virtue. I know one of the words in my novels title is wait but geez...Oh shoot, with the clock and watches and even hourglasses teamed up against me I guess I can't complain. So much has happened to me in such a short period of time. I'm still the same old sexy Wanda, but waiting on my novel and the trials that have passed makes me feel so brand new.
Overall if being brand new feels this good, I'll continue to wait. Now where is that mailman????
Virtue=Sexy=Wanda=Brand New=Wait
Okay, I get it. I should, I wrote it. :-)
The latest news I have is that I'm waiting on the proof copy and PDF file for my novel, Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story. The excitement over my first novel is unexplainable. I feel like I'm breathing and suffocating myself at the same time. Sounds weird huh?
My days are no longer than anyone elses but it feels like the hours that make up my time are playing tricks on me. They, meaning the hours, stare at me as I watch the clock tick. Sometimes the minute hand goes in reverse, and even skips a few numbers just to go back and double up on the time it spends with any particular number. I won't even begin to elaborate on the hour hand...just RIDICULOUS! Stopping in mid-cycle as if it's stuck in rush hour. Some days I feel like screaming where is my book! I'll take the you dumb fool looks with ease. If the world knew the beauty that was coming for me, it would scream, too.
A prominent saying or belief is that patience is a virtue. I know one of the words in my novels title is wait but geez...Oh shoot, with the clock and watches and even hourglasses teamed up against me I guess I can't complain. So much has happened to me in such a short period of time. I'm still the same old sexy Wanda, but waiting on my novel and the trials that have passed makes me feel so brand new.
Overall if being brand new feels this good, I'll continue to wait. Now where is that mailman????
Virtue=Sexy=Wanda=Brand New=Wait
Okay, I get it. I should, I wrote it. :-)
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Shift
First, I was fired. Two weeks later, I was hired. The job didn't pan out due to a laspe of insurance in 2002, which I had no knowledge of until 2005, that was on my driving record. I would have to operate a company car in their lot on occasion, and my NYS driving skills couldn't overcome a three year old piece of paper that was shuffled in a mix-up. Of course I ALWAYS rebound and one week after that, I was hired again. I began the job and low and behold, two days later, another employer thought I was the stuff top rate employees are made of and hired me again! So tomorrow morning I shall report for duty with a great attitude in hopes of prosperity and as of late, the very evasive paycheck.
This last month has been a collage of mood changing experiences for me. I feel like I have been driving with a broken brake fluid line and my clutch is corroded. I was forced to shift to keep up and surpass a set speed limit. Some days I drove into barriers. The dents sent me into deep thought and revelations but I gassed up and kept on rolling.
I've been on so many shifts this last month. The first shift was the 8am to 8am haul. I stayed home on those days. Contemplating exactly what I was supposed to do with the confusion filled speed bumps that popped up just when the road seemed paved slapped me into a dazed stupor. 8-4, 4-12, 12-8...you better shift if you want to stay afloat.
A median of a normal steady stream of air is what I desire. I desperately want to go each day without holding my breath, sitting and staring at the telephone, or checking my lottery tickets over and over, knowing the numbers don't add up to the jackpot. My eyes have never lost sight of my writing or releasing my first novel. I never understand when someone said they could taste success. Having to shift to stay afloat slammed the taste of success into my soul. I can smell it, feel it, and even have my clothing chosen for my first television debut.
This shift in my life was unexpected. The fact that I didn't total out or file a claim is excellent. I still have the unsettled jitters of being 'at will', which I plan to dispose of in my future. But in the meantime, I'll handle this shift will the exquisite style that I am accustomed to producing.
This last month has been a collage of mood changing experiences for me. I feel like I have been driving with a broken brake fluid line and my clutch is corroded. I was forced to shift to keep up and surpass a set speed limit. Some days I drove into barriers. The dents sent me into deep thought and revelations but I gassed up and kept on rolling.
I've been on so many shifts this last month. The first shift was the 8am to 8am haul. I stayed home on those days. Contemplating exactly what I was supposed to do with the confusion filled speed bumps that popped up just when the road seemed paved slapped me into a dazed stupor. 8-4, 4-12, 12-8...you better shift if you want to stay afloat.
A median of a normal steady stream of air is what I desire. I desperately want to go each day without holding my breath, sitting and staring at the telephone, or checking my lottery tickets over and over, knowing the numbers don't add up to the jackpot. My eyes have never lost sight of my writing or releasing my first novel. I never understand when someone said they could taste success. Having to shift to stay afloat slammed the taste of success into my soul. I can smell it, feel it, and even have my clothing chosen for my first television debut.
This shift in my life was unexpected. The fact that I didn't total out or file a claim is excellent. I still have the unsettled jitters of being 'at will', which I plan to dispose of in my future. But in the meantime, I'll handle this shift will the exquisite style that I am accustomed to producing.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Monday, May 02, 2005
The Reason Is...
A new month already. Wow. If you're not having fun does time still fly by? On some days yes. And boy have I measured every minute of my day. I've recovered from my job dilemma but still have not managed to obtain another. Well, I was "hired" by a company but I haven't physically put in 8 hours yet. What's the hold up? If I knew I'd tell you. You know the employed never rush for the unemployed. One day I promise to not allow someone to wonder if they're going to eat on the street or just be on the street.
I've had ample time to write and even received a few opportunities. Everyone says if I'd never gotten fired those chances would have never been available. True. Writing is what I was born to do so every chance I get I'll take it. I've also enjoyed staying home with my Poopah. Looking at her makes me strive to do better. Her eyes have shown me I'm the best thing going so any employer that gets me will have some top notch stuff on their hands!
Each day that passes puts me closer to the day when my novel, Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story, will be available. I had to take a minor u-turn but I'm a writer. We always persevere. Setbacks make you see how good you have it. There is someone out there who is in a much more dire situatuion than you are, but of couse you don't believe it because you and that person will never meet. I'm fine with that understanding. The one thing that will make my life perfect is simply figuring out what the reason is for the confusion that surrounds me. But then again, who do you know with a perfect life?
I've had ample time to write and even received a few opportunities. Everyone says if I'd never gotten fired those chances would have never been available. True. Writing is what I was born to do so every chance I get I'll take it. I've also enjoyed staying home with my Poopah. Looking at her makes me strive to do better. Her eyes have shown me I'm the best thing going so any employer that gets me will have some top notch stuff on their hands!
Each day that passes puts me closer to the day when my novel, Wait For Love: A Black Girl's Story, will be available. I had to take a minor u-turn but I'm a writer. We always persevere. Setbacks make you see how good you have it. There is someone out there who is in a much more dire situatuion than you are, but of couse you don't believe it because you and that person will never meet. I'm fine with that understanding. The one thing that will make my life perfect is simply figuring out what the reason is for the confusion that surrounds me. But then again, who do you know with a perfect life?
Sunday, April 17, 2005
At Will
If you're wondering why I chose this particular title for this post I'll tell you. During my peaceful sleep this title came to me. Usually, when something like that happens it's embedded into my memory. If I live until I'm ninety-five and unfortunately devolope Alzheimer's disease, I'll always remember the incident that caused me to write this.
For those of you that have been following my blog, I thank you. You know that recently I was fired from a job for a reason that most of us feel was simple. I've moved on past that incident but I feel I have to tell you what has given me an extra boost to do so.
First things first. I have applied for seven jobs in which I am qualified for. Actually, I wasn't qualified for one but I applied anyway. I had a dollar for the thirty-seven cent stamp to mail off my resume and a dream. I didn't get the job but I used the change to help do my laundry. Ahh, progress. I have an interview Monday, April 18th with another prospect so wish me luck!
Now, back to the title of this post. Just to see if the little people have rights I contacted the Labor Board about my situation. After answering various questions via telephone I was informed that my situation is within the law. I was deemed as what is an employee 'at will.' I knew a guy in High School named Will who got on my nerves. Maybe I should have been nicer to him.
I listened intently as the person broke it down to me. Basically, move on, lady. There's nothing you can do about it. Oh yeah, I could try to sue for mental duress but the voice told me he doubted that will go anywhere. Gee, thanks.
That prompted my need to exactly define the meaning of 'at will.' I had a basic understanding of it but as a writer I needed more. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary has the word at meaning - a point in time, a goal, a position or condition, or means cause or manner. The word will is in my version three times so I'll just give the first listing of each.
1. wish , desire
2.wish or desire often combined with determination
3.to dispose of by or as if by a will, bequeath
With this information I took the definition of 'at will' in my circumstance to mean your condition or manner is disposed of - Your Fired. Oh well.
Today is a beautiful day. I know that and know why I'm here. Tomorrow is a day that I hope to see. Will my job put me 'at will' of another employer? Probably. The one thing that gives my steps bounce is the fact that I have new knowledge going in. Lessons come when they want. They force you to learn them. I have. Think, Wanda. Think before you go into action. My lesson. My question...are you 'at will' of your employeer?
Come'on career. At will of self. A writers' dream fulfilled.
For those of you that have been following my blog, I thank you. You know that recently I was fired from a job for a reason that most of us feel was simple. I've moved on past that incident but I feel I have to tell you what has given me an extra boost to do so.
First things first. I have applied for seven jobs in which I am qualified for. Actually, I wasn't qualified for one but I applied anyway. I had a dollar for the thirty-seven cent stamp to mail off my resume and a dream. I didn't get the job but I used the change to help do my laundry. Ahh, progress. I have an interview Monday, April 18th with another prospect so wish me luck!
Now, back to the title of this post. Just to see if the little people have rights I contacted the Labor Board about my situation. After answering various questions via telephone I was informed that my situation is within the law. I was deemed as what is an employee 'at will.' I knew a guy in High School named Will who got on my nerves. Maybe I should have been nicer to him.
I listened intently as the person broke it down to me. Basically, move on, lady. There's nothing you can do about it. Oh yeah, I could try to sue for mental duress but the voice told me he doubted that will go anywhere. Gee, thanks.
That prompted my need to exactly define the meaning of 'at will.' I had a basic understanding of it but as a writer I needed more. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary has the word at meaning - a point in time, a goal, a position or condition, or means cause or manner. The word will is in my version three times so I'll just give the first listing of each.
1. wish , desire
2.wish or desire often combined with determination
3.to dispose of by or as if by a will, bequeath
With this information I took the definition of 'at will' in my circumstance to mean your condition or manner is disposed of - Your Fired. Oh well.
Today is a beautiful day. I know that and know why I'm here. Tomorrow is a day that I hope to see. Will my job put me 'at will' of another employer? Probably. The one thing that gives my steps bounce is the fact that I have new knowledge going in. Lessons come when they want. They force you to learn them. I have. Think, Wanda. Think before you go into action. My lesson. My question...are you 'at will' of your employeer?
Come'on career. At will of self. A writers' dream fulfilled.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
My Bookmark Cost Me My Job
In my previous post I said my next novel would be the title that I chose for this particular post. Creating an entire novel on this wouldn't be fiction, which is more my forte, so I'll place my non-fiction pieces here.
Yes, it came to pass. I wouldn't say the ax fell, being that I'm still intact physically and mentally, nor will I say the other shoe has dropped. I love shoes and allowing them to hit the floor without a soft place to land isn't up my alley. I, Wanda D. Hudson, one the most competent, hardworking and knowledgeable individuals you may ever meet, was fired from my job on Monday, April 11th, 2005. What a way to start the week off.
This is how the event unfolded, or shall I say, exploded. Well, I really don't know what took place. I wasn't priviledged to attend any kind of conference or meeting or even speak on my behalf. My previous post ended with the decision to terminate me being postponed. This should have happened on Friday, April 8th, 2005. As a result of this I had to work my regular scheduled shift, the twelve midnight to the eight a.m. shift, Saturday and Sunday night. First question. If what I did was such an offense and a violation of policy, why was I allowed back on the organizations property AND paid to be there? Why didn't the powers that define what is righteous suspend me, without pay, until the matter was resolved? What level of stress do you believe I suffered? Oh, the mental anguish this has caused me! Mental anguish is a condition you hear in what type of setting? I may need a few of you to refresh my memory.
Well, I left work that Monday morning with a seriously diminished hope of returning that night. I mean, I didn't even get to say an apology. With that information my job search began the day I was told I may be fired. Everything else about my world continued with normalcy. Using the health insurance I had just became priviledge to I took my daughter to a doctors appointment, and would find out my verdict when I returned home.
My answering machine revealed it all. Actually, the message was only half there and I had to call my immediate supervisor to hear the words I waited stressfully to hear. Basically, there was nothing that could be done on my behalf. The decision came early and was made before Monday morning even arrived. Turn your uniforms in at this particular location, I wish you the best and yow-sah, yow-sah, yow-sah....
I think I got fired for promoting pornography. No, I believe it was the image and words on my bookmark. Wait a minute, could it be I was let go because of one persons perception of what pornography is? If you're unmarried and having sex is that correct? If you have children out of wedlock is that holy? If you're married and choose a few positions that are, well, uh...anyway, is that disgusting? The itty bitty school girls skirts that are worn as part of a uniform, what exactly is that promoting? Not the study of any English language found in Webster's. Remember these are MY thoughts. Please don't criticize or downgrade them. You can, however, feel free to voice yours.
I'm really not complaing. I'm doing what the blog demands from us. Write it down, get it out and maybe someone will read it. I know that I wasn't supposed to be employed there. So many people say when a door closes...The sad thing is that I'm not the only person that has ever gone through this. How many people have been viewed strangely because they choose to do what is their passion? It doesn't matter if it's erotic writing, science fiction, children's books, photography or a masseuse. The plain fact is someone will ALWAYS have a different opinion from yours. That I can deal with. If your opinion offends the masses do you have to change your stance or will an apology suffice? Should you get a second chance on probation, or, does probation mean tip-toe, kiss butt and breathe?
I've moved on. The passing out of my bookmark cost me my job but it will never, ever interfere with my career.
Yes, it came to pass. I wouldn't say the ax fell, being that I'm still intact physically and mentally, nor will I say the other shoe has dropped. I love shoes and allowing them to hit the floor without a soft place to land isn't up my alley. I, Wanda D. Hudson, one the most competent, hardworking and knowledgeable individuals you may ever meet, was fired from my job on Monday, April 11th, 2005. What a way to start the week off.
This is how the event unfolded, or shall I say, exploded. Well, I really don't know what took place. I wasn't priviledged to attend any kind of conference or meeting or even speak on my behalf. My previous post ended with the decision to terminate me being postponed. This should have happened on Friday, April 8th, 2005. As a result of this I had to work my regular scheduled shift, the twelve midnight to the eight a.m. shift, Saturday and Sunday night. First question. If what I did was such an offense and a violation of policy, why was I allowed back on the organizations property AND paid to be there? Why didn't the powers that define what is righteous suspend me, without pay, until the matter was resolved? What level of stress do you believe I suffered? Oh, the mental anguish this has caused me! Mental anguish is a condition you hear in what type of setting? I may need a few of you to refresh my memory.
Well, I left work that Monday morning with a seriously diminished hope of returning that night. I mean, I didn't even get to say an apology. With that information my job search began the day I was told I may be fired. Everything else about my world continued with normalcy. Using the health insurance I had just became priviledge to I took my daughter to a doctors appointment, and would find out my verdict when I returned home.
My answering machine revealed it all. Actually, the message was only half there and I had to call my immediate supervisor to hear the words I waited stressfully to hear. Basically, there was nothing that could be done on my behalf. The decision came early and was made before Monday morning even arrived. Turn your uniforms in at this particular location, I wish you the best and yow-sah, yow-sah, yow-sah....
I think I got fired for promoting pornography. No, I believe it was the image and words on my bookmark. Wait a minute, could it be I was let go because of one persons perception of what pornography is? If you're unmarried and having sex is that correct? If you have children out of wedlock is that holy? If you're married and choose a few positions that are, well, uh...anyway, is that disgusting? The itty bitty school girls skirts that are worn as part of a uniform, what exactly is that promoting? Not the study of any English language found in Webster's. Remember these are MY thoughts. Please don't criticize or downgrade them. You can, however, feel free to voice yours.
I'm really not complaing. I'm doing what the blog demands from us. Write it down, get it out and maybe someone will read it. I know that I wasn't supposed to be employed there. So many people say when a door closes...The sad thing is that I'm not the only person that has ever gone through this. How many people have been viewed strangely because they choose to do what is their passion? It doesn't matter if it's erotic writing, science fiction, children's books, photography or a masseuse. The plain fact is someone will ALWAYS have a different opinion from yours. That I can deal with. If your opinion offends the masses do you have to change your stance or will an apology suffice? Should you get a second chance on probation, or, does probation mean tip-toe, kiss butt and breathe?
I've moved on. The passing out of my bookmark cost me my job but it will never, ever interfere with my career.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Job Or Career? You Make The Call
Hmm, I guess the only way to begin is to begin. The end of this past week has been a bit stressful for me. Writer's write. That's how we breathe. In order to make your chest continue its rhythmic heave, we promote. That's all I thought I was doing. Promoting. Nothing to offend, nothing to sicken, nothing to cause any dispair. My first work, which happens to be in ebook form, is a short erotic collection of stories about women. The title It's a Woman's World says it all.
My next work may be titled, My Bookmark Cost Me My Job. Does it sound idiotic? Maybe, but it could be true. I, like any writer, had certain promotional items made to annouce our work and keep our names on the lips of readers. My items are bookmarks that consist of the book cover, which is a silhouetted woman holding a globe, and the saying, Seduce your mind with a literary tryst by escaping to It's a Woman's World. Your sexual fantasies will never be the same. It also has the web address, my name and my email account.
Temporary insanity? Laspe of judgement? Mistake? These words may constitute why I handed out bookmarks promoting sexual, erotic, but in my opinion, no way pornographic stories. As I handed the promo items out with a smile I stated, "Now, don't go to this site at work. Visit it at home." In all honesty I'm sure I mouthed some other stuff but without hypnosis I probably won't remember.
A few hours later I received a call from my immediate supervisor informing me that he had just come from a meeting where serious events transpired pertaining to me. "What?" Basically he told me of the bookmark caper and that termination loomed over my head. "What?" One of the women I gave a bookmark to went to the site and proclaimed that I was promoting pornography at work. My job deals with sensitive issues, an issue I personally dealt with a year ago, and I may pass these things out to the clients. "Huh?"
It's a Woman's World. This isn't the way the women treat each other in the stories. Ripping off and burning your bra happened when? Everything goes these days. I think I sexually harrased a few women with the bookmark. For that I apologize.
I'm going to keep this short. Are my bookmarks offensive? Do they portray full frontal nudity? Yes, there are a few words of sexual nature, and I may add they are in the dictionary, but would that warrant me getting seriously garbage canned? I can go on and on as to why I'm right, that I did no wrong, but my voice won't be heard. The plain fact is I offended someone. I'll be a dark damper on the entire organization. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I've only been there a month and am still on probation. We all know you'd better not do a diggity dog thing wrong on probation! And I scraped the bottom of the barrel promoting porn.
I need a job. A job pays the bills. A job keeps my internet service active so I can talk to you. A job offers health insurance, which with a small child, I desperately need. I guess I'm not so upset because I know that my job will never define my career. One day my career will do all the things of a job and more. With this knowledge I'm willing to let this job go and find another for the sake of my career. I'll never stop writing. I will, however, think three times before I promote my work to someone with a totally different view.
My next work may be titled, My Bookmark Cost Me My Job. Does it sound idiotic? Maybe, but it could be true. I, like any writer, had certain promotional items made to annouce our work and keep our names on the lips of readers. My items are bookmarks that consist of the book cover, which is a silhouetted woman holding a globe, and the saying, Seduce your mind with a literary tryst by escaping to It's a Woman's World. Your sexual fantasies will never be the same. It also has the web address, my name and my email account.
Temporary insanity? Laspe of judgement? Mistake? These words may constitute why I handed out bookmarks promoting sexual, erotic, but in my opinion, no way pornographic stories. As I handed the promo items out with a smile I stated, "Now, don't go to this site at work. Visit it at home." In all honesty I'm sure I mouthed some other stuff but without hypnosis I probably won't remember.
A few hours later I received a call from my immediate supervisor informing me that he had just come from a meeting where serious events transpired pertaining to me. "What?" Basically he told me of the bookmark caper and that termination loomed over my head. "What?" One of the women I gave a bookmark to went to the site and proclaimed that I was promoting pornography at work. My job deals with sensitive issues, an issue I personally dealt with a year ago, and I may pass these things out to the clients. "Huh?"
It's a Woman's World. This isn't the way the women treat each other in the stories. Ripping off and burning your bra happened when? Everything goes these days. I think I sexually harrased a few women with the bookmark. For that I apologize.
I'm going to keep this short. Are my bookmarks offensive? Do they portray full frontal nudity? Yes, there are a few words of sexual nature, and I may add they are in the dictionary, but would that warrant me getting seriously garbage canned? I can go on and on as to why I'm right, that I did no wrong, but my voice won't be heard. The plain fact is I offended someone. I'll be a dark damper on the entire organization. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I've only been there a month and am still on probation. We all know you'd better not do a diggity dog thing wrong on probation! And I scraped the bottom of the barrel promoting porn.
I need a job. A job pays the bills. A job keeps my internet service active so I can talk to you. A job offers health insurance, which with a small child, I desperately need. I guess I'm not so upset because I know that my job will never define my career. One day my career will do all the things of a job and more. With this knowledge I'm willing to let this job go and find another for the sake of my career. I'll never stop writing. I will, however, think three times before I promote my work to someone with a totally different view.
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