Monthly Archives: April 2013

Tuesday Morning Press 24 — In Which I Attempt to Interview Myself


Yes, you read it right. I’m going to interview myself. I find the concept of offering my thoughts on why I write or who I am to be not unlike walking into a cocktail party only to hear, “HEY! HERE’S A CHEESE SQUARE! ENJOY IT!?” as it nears your face, suspended by a toothpick yielding under pressure as it’s held out by a winsome host.

But this is good cheese. And today I am winsome.

So while I wait for me to show up, I’ll tell you a little about why I’m doing this.

I’d like to thank the craft of writing, in specific, for its generosity. Writing has allowed me to express myself in a way through humor, candor, fiction and other ways that I didn’t really think it could.

Oh, here she is. I can’t believe she’s wearing that. Really? Well, no one ever said writers were fashionistas. No one lied.

Me: Molly, I’m so glad you are able to take some time out of your busy schedule of being a mother to chat with us today. What you do is very demanding, I’m sure.

Other me: Yes, it’s very demanding. This spring in particular has been very difficult, the children —

Me: Yes, we’ll get to them later. What we are all here to learn about is writing and why you do it. Especially publicly. Why not paint? Or just you know, journal.

Other me: Well, ok. If we’re going to be technical, yes, what I write is public, but not everyone reads it.

Me: >snorts< Ya got that right.

Other me: Furrows brow, narrows eyes, purses lips. Right, so because no one, well, not everyone reads it, I still feel relatively safe in expressing myself. I’m also pretty secure in what I write because it’s largely benign and it’s often stream-of-consciousy.

Me: Did you say ‘stream-of-consciousy‘? Aren’t you a little sick of that genre? Don’t you ever plan to … plan or outline what you will write? Don’t you think you’re cheating a little?

Other me: Yes, I do tire of the stream-of-conscious genre, and I have sort of plotted things out, but I also find that when I plot things out, it’s not as exciting to me. I like to see what the page will show me. I did write a 75,000-word book last summer and it’s still in draft mode and I’m not sure it will see the light of day, but learned a lot. I learned that I had to organize my characters, create family trees, give background on characters. Not everyone can just show up on a page; we have people who show up in our lives, but that’s different. In a book, people expect context. In life, we’re more forgiving. I believe I will eventually move forward and self-publish this first book because then I can let it go and do other things.

But no, I’m not cheating. I’m writing and people are reading. Even if it’s only two people.

Me: Moving on. What’s the first book about?

Other me: It’s about growth. In many forms. Lots of authors will say their first book is a type of thinly veiled memoir, and I suppose I’m no different. Pat Conroy’s The Great Santini was his; The Bell Jar was largely considered Sylvia Plath’s memoir. That was Plath’s only book; she was a poet.

Me: Zzzzznzzznzzzznnng.

Other me: Hello? Hey!

Me: Oh, sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I was thinking about why I am writing at all.

Other me: Hey, that’s my line. It’s not for the money, that’s for sure.

Me: Right. Sorry. Straightening in chair, taking a sip of coffee. You were saying… Plath was a poet?

Other me: Yes, she was and while her poetry is profound and wonderful,

Me: >blurts< You’ve never read her poems.

Other me: Fidgeting with hair, twirling it around index finger. I’m sure I’ve read some. In college or — Anyway, I was saying, that we owe a lot to Henry Miller.

Me: You were not. We haven’t gotten there yet. You were talking about Plath. You did read The Bell Jar, remember? Ah, screw it. What about Miller?

Other me: I was reading yesterday about Tropic of Cancer. I’m in a writing group, The Peevish Penman, and we were chatting about banned books and whether we’d read any or what we wish we had. I mentioned Lolita and Tropic of Cancer.

Me: Miller didn’t write Lolita, Molly.

Other me: I know that. Why do you have to be so nasty? I lumped it in with the books I’d not read. Man, lighten up. Anyway, Tropic of Cancer was pretty revolutionary. Miller threw the gloves off, so to speak, when he wrote it. It was the first of its kind. Highly charged, considered obscene, it was the vanguard of what we largely consider to be tell-alls and is very likely the wellspring of the sexual revolution, what we consider modern personal blogging and memoir writing.

Me: Oooh, I can’t wait to get into it. Can you say ‘consider‘ maybe one more time?

Other me: I know, right? Hey! Then edit it out.

Me: So Tropic of Cancer reminds you of your memoir?

Other me: No, not necessarily, because I haven’t read it, remember? But I think its existence has given me the guts, if I will, to go forward and be less fearful of sharing who I am with people. I’m not some repressed Boston Irish Catholic.

Me: You do write fairly personally. I mean, that post on PMDD and your family relationships and other lady stuff is sort of y’know, private. Why do you do that? Don’t you have any dignity?

Other me: I have tons of dignity; but what I’d also like to say I have is guts. Look, I’m not out there being totally explicit and boring and oogey about it; I do have a sense of humor about these things and the fact of the matter is that hormones suck, aging sucks, sometimes our parents suck and if someone doesn’t like it, they can pack up and go home. I’m not for everyone. And I really don’t care. I’m not in this to offend anyone, but I’m sure as hell done trying to please everyone fer crissakes.

Me: Ooooookaaaaay. Sooooo, given that, when will you commit to the book and sort of really get going on it? You do lots of blogging now and I know the social media thing is a huge distraction for you.

Other me: Don’t patronize me. That’s not entirely fair. The social media thing is a distraction by definition and by its mere existence, not by my action. I’m not texting while driving or checking my email constantly or tweeting my face off. When I worked in public relations and merger communications, we had a phrase —

Me: Zzzzzzznnnnznzzznzznznnnnnggngnnnnzzg. Sorry.

Other me: I’ll be brief and this will make sense: the phrase was “Create the Need.” And it was all vapor and glass and mirrors. We would create the need (or someone else would come up with the concept of the product) and then sell it; make it seem as though life without it was absurd, impossible, insane even. Social media is no different than that. You’ve heard of “FOMO” — Fear Of Missing Out? Same thing: it’s the concept that we need social media: that I should be doing more of it, that I should be engaging more in it, that’s the distraction, and it feeds on itself and creates a type of vortex of need. I hate need. I strongly dislike the concept of need. It’s out there, I know; and I’m a needful person at times, but I really believe we are at our best when we are resourceful and active. I don’t need to be a monk on a mountain in Tibet to have a better sense of who and what I can be.

Me: You say that a lot.

Other me: Say what?

Me: That line (dumbing down voice to make me sound like Homer Simpson), ‘be a monk on a mountain in Tibet…’ — that, you say that a lot.

Other me: That’s because I believe it. The bottom line is that no amount of tweeting is gonna make me a better writer. It’s all a façade. It’s a ruse. China doesn’t want us to be productive; China wants us to tweet. I guess I just have to stop preaching and talking about it; stop analyzing it, intending it.

Me: Riiiiiight. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Stop intending to be good, just Be Good. Stop intending to be a writer, just Be a Writer.

Other me: right. Because it’s all bullshit if you don’t do it. Anyone can talk about it.

Me: It’s the doing that makes it real.

Other me: Right. So what else is in the hopper?

Me: A book about motherhood.

Other me: Oh, no. Really? What? There aren’t enough books about parenting and motherhood and bloggers out there? Really? You think what you have to say hasn’t been said yet? Have you seen the book shelves at Barnes & Noble devoted to funny, poignant, clever and smart mothers?

Me: crawling into a hole. No. I try not to look at them.

Other me: Why? You need to know your market.

Me: Oh, I know my market. Plus, I have to remember why I do any of this.

Other me: FINALLY. We get to the crux of all this. WHY? Why do you do any of this?

Me: Because I can. I’m not in this to get rich.

Other me: Maybe you should be.

Me: I’m rich enough. I have wonderful friends, my health, my children are —

Other me: We’ll get to them later, but honestly, Molly. You don’t want money? Fame? Income?

Me: Income, yes. I would gladly take income. Fame? No. I am totally cool without it. I don’t need the world to know who I am. I was just talking to my oldest son in the car yesterday on the way to crew practice and we were talking about Steve Martin and how he got tired of all the travel and he just wanted to work and write. Not be on stage…

Other me: Annnnnd?

Me: And it was then that I realized that I don’t need fame. Fame! I wanna live forever… I wanna learn how to fly FLY! … But no, I don’t. I have done a lot of soul searching and I have come to three conclusions.

Other me: Just three?

Me: For the moment, yes and I hope they’re the ones that stick. 1) I believe that I am a good writer, finally. I’m good with it. I can get better, always, but I’m confident now. I am. I don’t need a bazillion dollars and a ton of fans to tell me that I’m good at something. This has taken a long time to allow. And even though I’ve allowed it, I’ll still waver in my convictions. 2) That the way I tell things is specific to me. No one has my eyes and my brain and my way of telling things and I don’t have anyone else’s way. It’s a fantastic thing to be able to say that; it’s quite liberating. And 3) that writing contests and keeping at it and continuing to get better is the only way I can really show myself who I am.

Other me: Who are you?

Me: I am me and you are we and we are all together.

Thank you.

ps – my other interviews:




Friday Fiction 2.1 — Greetings with Flowers


Claire turned down the stereo in her sweet little shiny metallic-green Carman Ghia convertible her grandmother left her in her will. As she pulled into the parking lot, she kept belting out her unsolicited accompaniment to Adam Levine’s blessed falsetto in his song “Just a Feeling.”

You left your flowers in the back seat of my car / The things we said and did have left permanent scars / Obsessed, depressed at the same time / I can’t even walk in a straight line / I’ve been lying in the dark / No sunshine, no sunshine, no sunshine…

She parked the car, rolled up her window, gathered her things, and hummed to herself the rest of the stanza. As she opened her car door, her beautiful and athletic left leg which tapered into a classic bone pump was the first thing to exit the car after her humming. She unfolded from the driver’s seat, reached back in for her things, and as she stood up beneath the cement buttress in the cold and antiseptic parking garage, her hair cascaded over her shoulder. she flipped it back, only to be socked in the hip by the chocolate brown leather messenger bag her mother bought her as a gift for her college graduation. Instead of moaning, she continued her serenade,

You’re not even thereeeeeeee….. Just a feeling … Just a feeling … / No I can’t belieeeeeeve that it’sss ovvvverrrrrr…

[go here for the first part of this story: ]

Her voice echoed through the garage, giving vibrancy and life to an otherwise dank and dreary place. Her voice was powerful and gorgeous. She sang for no one but herself and her shower. Sometimes her neighbors would hear her belt out a tune now and then, she liked to pretend she was Bobby Darren singing “Mack the Knife,” into a feather duster. Sometimes she sang when she vacuumed her apartment and could often be spied upon having spontaneous dance parties by herself in her boxer shorts and JAWS t-shirt as she would muscle through a day of housekeeping and bathroom cleaning, her wavy brown hair in a ponytail or hidden under a bandana scarf.

What she was unaware, as usual, was her effect on people. She thought she was bad inside, she thought people saw through her, she thought people thought she was fake; that it was all a ruse: her cheerfulness and her altruism and team spirit. The truth to her, deep inside her though, was that she sang and danced and played to feel alive inside when most of the time she felt like she was an empty shell.

Luther parked farther back in the garage, as he usually did because he felt it was important to give the female employees (mostly Claire) the spots closer to the lights and the elevator for their personal safety although no one knew it. They just thought he liked to park his shiny Mustang far away because he acted like a snob and a jerk.

When he walked toward the building, he could still hear Claire’s voice bouncing off the pilings and gray walls long after she had stopped singing. He knew the song himself and silently played it in his head, gently swaying his head in time with the melody.

The soles of her pumps shuffled along the gritty substrate and her heels click, click, clicked to the elevator, picking up their pace as she heard the bell ding-ding, going down… hurry!

“Hold the car!” Luther shouted, “Claire! Hold the car, please, my legs are killing me.”

“Ok, only for you Luther, and only because you’re supposedly injured,” she said.

Pressing the doors open button blanched her thumb, it was practically bent into a U from the pressure. As he ambled into the car, he looked at the button and her thumb, and thanked Claire.

“You can let go now, Claire, your thumb is begging for some blood, thanks again,” he said.

“You’re welcome. What’s wrong with your legs? Did you do too many squats, too many thrusters? Did you lift too many gorillas at the gym last night?” she said indicating toward his legs with her free hand, which was not free at all, it was holding her water bottle, a purple rubber-covered glass bottle she bought at her yoga studio a couple months before. The doors closed smoothly and silently and the elevator began its ascent.

>Ding< “First floor,” the elevator announced.

“Uh, no. I … uh, I have a … yeah, you’re right, I lifted too many gorillas at the gym last night. It wasn’t so much them, it was the squat thrusts I had to do at the rail yard against those coal cars,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, if you jocks would just admit that the football game ended fifty-thousand years ago, your legs might be nicer to you, if you’re nicer to them,” she said, softening her tone, her eyes glancing at the ceiling in the moment of awkwardness.

>Ding ding< “Second floor.”

“That’s quite a water bottle,” Luther said.

>Ding ding ding< “Third floor.”

“Water? This? No. It’s vodka. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. It’s how I get through the day here…”

>Ding ding ding ding< “Fourth floor.”

“This is us,” she said and held the door open for him to leave first.

“After you, really, I’m gonna be a while,” he said.

“Well, it’s ok, I’ve got my water, wink… I will wait for you; look, if you’re sore from working out, I get that, take your time. Yoga was tough the other night, I’m still feeling it in my arms. We’ve still got a couple minutes before the new Greetings with Flowers Just Because meeting kicks off,” she said, her hand covering the door’s bumper to keep it from closing on Luther. “Giddy up, I’ll hold it, really.”

Luther looked at her and smiled a bit, but it was more of a grimace from the effort of moving his body.

Claire, forgetting herself, started singing the song again

I can’t believe that it’s ooooverrrr

And then, terribly self-conscious, she stopped herself almost as soon as she had started.

“Um, sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s a habit I have, a bad one… I sing when I’m … uh, I don’t know, I just sing.”

Luther looked at her and smiled wide, his teeth showing this time and he nodded, “I know. It’s ok. I have heard … It’s totally ok,” he said as he cleared the threshold of the elevator, the brown carpeting and tan walls, IKEA-inspired artwork and other knick-knacks instantly muted their voices and muffled their sounds and the elevator’s ding! them as they entered the lobby of Hansen’s Greetings, still America’s second-largest greeting card company.

Claire stepped out of the elevator, her heel clicked its last unless she dared leave the office, or used the bathroom or the kitchen during the day.

“See you later, Luther. Five minutes to the meeting,” she said. “G’morning Elise, how are you today?” she said to the receptionist, a new girl they’d hired last week.

“I’m good, thanks!” Elise said in a mousy voice. “You?”

“Me? I’m … I’m good. I’m good so far, thanks,” Claire said, looking after Luther, watching him walk tenderly and slowly. She physically restrained herself from moving to help him with his walk. “Poor jock, some people don’t know when they’ve hit their limit… even Superman has his kryptonite, Luther!” she said to him.

Luther turned back and smiled at her, wincing again, “Yeah, I know. I think I’ll lift only chimps next time… ha…” he said and turned back toward his cube.

It’s the way she seems to stare right through my eyes / And in my darkest day when she refused to run away / From love she tried so hard to save

But it wasn’t Claire singing; it was a beautiful falsetto passing the copier machine just past Elise’s desk.

kelly debie made this. :)

kelly debie made this. 🙂

© 2013 Molly Field :: All Rights Reserved.

Ok… here’s the song:


Here is the next installment:

This was fun. I am listening to some music at the moment; can you guess which song? I think we’re gonna see some amazing things happen between Claire and Luther… or are we? And if you’re paying attention, yes, Elise is back. I believe I’m attempting the impossible: making sense of the last three entries for this 2.0 round of fiction.

Many thanks to Sandra over at Bulamamani for today’s prompt:

“The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;”

Inspired by this excerpt from Galway Kinnell’s poem “San Francis and the sow”, you will describe a situation where your character is remembered of her/his own beauty/talent/gift. Let your imagination and words flow this is your blossoming time too dear co-writers!

And a belated thanks to Susanne over at Susanne’s World for her prompt last week!

And a very belated thanks to Kristal over at Clearly Kristal (Moments Matter) for her prompt two weeks ago. We are a team!!!

Go check out the great stuff coming from today’s other participants (as soon as I get their URLs I will list them)!




What might be a weed to my neighbors is a gift to me.

I have these lovely little hearty violets dotting my lawn. They never die, they come back every spring.

They remind me that what might be a nuisance to others is an opportunity to me.

Life is like that sometimes always.

Things are seldom what they seem.

Slow down, think again, see the flower instead of a weed. See the standout from the crowd.

In all the millions of blades of verdant, straight and narrow grass, this little guy, despite all the odds against him (or her), comes out and says, “Here I am! Work around me! If you pluck me and kill me, that’s about you, not me.”

Thank you

Lessons To Be Learned From A Recent WP Attack


head’s up word pressers – recent WP attack.

A Mixed Bag

There was a recent aggressive attack WordPress users. It was people launching aggressive botnets to try to hack accounts. You can learn how to avoid this by taking a look at this article here.


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