Category Archives: All Things Writing

The End of the Beginning

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Well, I finished my last class of the semester today, which means it’s time for a bit of reflection.

As you may remember, I got off to a somewhat rocky start with my classes this spring (okay, so I’m understating things a little bit. What’s the literary term for ‘opposite of hyperbole’? Whatever it is, I’m using it.)

To be blunt, midterms were a nightmare. I felt just like I did when my husband was trying to teach me how to drive a stickshift in a parking lot that was uphill in every direction–“I will never be able to do this!”

Apparently, I wasn’t very good at hiding my deep distress from my classmates: the first class after our midterm, one of them said to me, “Wow, you’re back! I thought for sure you’d be dropping out after that.”

Yeah. Dropping out. If you read my “big-girl panties” post from the beginning of the semester, then you know that all comments like that do is make me angry enough to push on.

So I didn’t drop out. I worked harder, practiced more, cursed a lot, worked some more, cursed some more–call it my “blue period”–and eventually, over the past few weeks, I felt like I was slowly learning how to get myself up those hills.

That’s not to say that I didn’t still backslide occasionally or grind the gears (anyone who watched me trying to print out my project last week in the lab will vouch for the smoke pouring out of my ears), but I finally felt like things were starting to chug along the way they were supposed to.

And of course, timing being what it is, the classes are now over for the summer, just as I was starting to get the hang of them.

So–was it a worthwhile endeavor? Absolutely. I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. In fact, I’ve already registered for a class in the fall (only one, though–I know my aggravation factor now and will respect it).

What made it worthwhile? Well, I learned.  A lot.

A sampling:

Everything has an on switch, including people; some are just harder to find than others.

Throwing your shoe at the thing (or individual) causing your problem rarely helps solve it.

There’s no crying in software class.

Save first, save often, save last, and save even after you think you’ve already saved. If you forget to save, see previous item for advice on how to proceed.

The best teachers are those who know how to push you out of your comfort zone without pushing you over the edge.

You never know if you don’t try. And sometimes, even when you do try, you still don’t know. It’s okay–that’s part of the learning process.

You have to learn to crawl before you learn to walk; you have to learn to walk before you learn to fly; and you have to learn how to do approximately 1 million boring, mundane, and insanely repetitive exercises before software teachers show you what truly cool stuff the software can do.

Skilled is good, but skilled and fast is better.

There’s a reason they call it the “spinning wheel of death” (Mac) or the “black screen of death” (PC). If either one appears on your screen, run, do not walk, to the nearest lab assistant.

Software manuals are impossible to read in a doctor’s waiting room.

Technology is not the enemy (most of the time).

User groups are scary. (I don’t actually know this for a fact; I was too scared to attend mine–maybe this fall.)

In the end, I think I learned more about myself than I did about the subjects I was studying–some of what I learned was good (I will not spontaneously combust through use of the Pen tool); some of it–well, let’s just say there will always be room for improvement (I’ve registered for that course this fall.)

And there is, of course, the illuminating fact that I did, eventually, master driving a stick shift–and wound up loving it. I’m not saying I’m going to love technology at any point in the near future, but at least I am no longer afraid of it. That right there was worth the cost of tuition.

There Is Only Room Here For Myself

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[I submitted this piece in the horror category of a short story competition held by the Aspiring Writers group back in February; I recently discovered they awarded the story second place, which cheered me immeasurably. Although horror is not my normal genre to write, it was my favorite genre to read in my younger days. For some of you, that may explain a lot.]

There Is Only Room Here for Myself

He’d spotted me.

His dead shark eyes locked onto me, and in that split second, I knew: I was going to die.

I sprang to my—bare?—feet, running blindly through—through what? What was this building? A hospital? A parking garage? Too dark to see.

Chunks of plaster spit at my face as I rounded a corner; he’d just fired at me from behind. Terror exploded through me, slamming into my body. My bladder released; urine ran down my naked legs.

My wet feet slipped on the tiled floor. I went down hard as another shot roared over my head. I scrabbled toward the door to my left, skidding on my own piss.

I knew before I touched the knob: locked.

I struggled to my knees, to run to the next door—too late.

He was already there.

I couldn’t breathe. My legs were cold. Vomit curdled into my throat.

Please! Please don’t do this!

He raised the gun, stepping closer to where I knelt, shaking. The gun’s mouth seared my skin as he pressed it to my forehead.

I blinked, once.

Please.

He fired.

The world tilted—I was on the floor. It was dark. In the faint light from windows far above, I saw his heels move away from me down the hall. The man was leaving.

How could this be? How was I still alive? Had he missed?

Don’t move. You’re supposed to be dead. Don’t move.

I knew I should remain still, in case he returned, but a maddening curiosity seized hold of me.

Slowly, I began inching my fingers across my forehead, searching for the gaping edge of a wound I knew must be there, but could not, somehow, feel.

I probed.

Slowly.

Wetness.

He must have missed.

Sweat?

I touched my fingertip to my tongue.

Not sweat.

Blood.

I forced my fear aside and walked my fingers slowly up toward my hairline, searching for the hole.

My fingers touched only smoothness, my own skin, slick and cool. Terrified, I pressed on.

And then—

Bone.

Fragments, sticking to my fingertips. A horrifying absence of flesh.

Blood, inexorably pulsing.

I began to scream.

My eyes flew open.

Darkness suffocated me.

My heartbeat shook the bed beneath me—bed?

I lay utterly still, feeling the warmth of my body ebbing away with each frantic heartbeat.

I was frozen in place, waiting for the shark-eyed man to return, too terrified to move.

Surely he would return.

My legs were cold, so cold. I’d never felt such cold before.

I reached a furtive hand down to try to wrap my gown tighter around me. There was fabric under my hand, but thicker, softer—a blanket? My forehead itched; I was afraid to raise my fingers to it.

If I don’t touch it, it’s not real.

A menacing rumble sounded beside me in the dark. I froze again and held my breath, trying to identify the sound over the violent pounding of my own heart.

Sudden movement beside me—

My husband rolled over.

Sharp, painful relief, flooded through my body as it dawned on me at last where I was.

Bed.

My own bed.

Dreaming.

I’d been dreaming.

A nightmare.

I was alive.

Alive!

I cried my reprieve silently into my pillow, waiting for the terror to subside. It did, slowly, and the minutes crept by, silent but for my husband’s heavy breaths. My terror gradually began to fade and take on that particular haze characteristic of all dreams.

I jammed my back against my husband’s chest, burrowing into his arms and wrapping the blanket tightly around us both, grateful for his warmth.

Long minutes passed in the darkness around me; a sense of peace returned. I began to feel warm again, comfortable, drowsy.

I felt the tiny itch again on my forehead, and without thinking, I sleepily raised my fingertips to scratch at it.

I began to scream.

Wetness.

Blood.

Fragments.

The room tilted crazily around me once more.

And then, there were only the cold tiles beneath me, a hole blasted through my flesh and my bone, and the dim vision of the man’s heels, casually retreating down the hall away from me.