Creature of Habit

I’ve thought this to myself so many over the years that it’s practically seared into the cells of my being. Damn, that sounded unbelievably pretentious. But that doesn’t make it any less true. I’ve been writing fiction since I was broody little ankle biter and it’s always been the same routine. I’d get struck with an idea for an interesting story, work feverishly for a week or two and suddenly lose all desire to continue. Then, anywhere from six to eighteen months later an idea for how to proceed with an older story would hit and the cycle would begin again. It’s made me realize that I need to develop a habit of working daily on the projects I’ve got going right now.





Silver blue streaks race across an otherwise unblemished afternoon sky. The smells of relaxation waft towards the tangle of sheets, a fragrant blend of peppery bacon, warm cinnamon, sweet cream on scones and pungent, first-flush Darjeeling. Minutes later a soft knock sounds against the open door. The lump twitches.

“Breakfast is served milady.”

It snores. Rolls to the left. Right. Left again. The linen mass tumbles to the floor

A soft snort punctuates the fall. “Go away Rex.” An arm snakes out of the mess, swatting at some imagined figure. The intruder stills, tray balanced precariously on one hand. A faint wrinkle forms.

“Rex?” he mutters quietly. Seconds later, a decision is made and the tray set on the nightstand.A sticky-sweet strip of bacon pilfered from its brethren.

“No,” she groans “not the bacon.”

He freezes barely millimeters from consuming stolen booty. How did she know?

A drowsy snicker escapes. “I see everything.

He shudders. There’s no way.

He shakes off the sudden chill and proceeds to bite into his prize and waits as sixty excruciating pass. Noting the distinct lack of reaction, he reaches for a second slice.

“Not my bacon!

That piteous wail was the final straw. The plan had to be enacted. Bacon in hand, he slunk toward his target. One-two-three muffled steps later the foodstuff is brandished in the general direction of her nose. A chaotic mass of bedhead inches out of the linen cocoon. Her hand latches onto his wrist and, in one smooth motion, he was drawn into The Lair.

Unbearable Lightness of Being


Each of these words possess such deep meaning for me that it’s difficult to choose just one. Really, it isn’t just that each of them is personal but also that they are all so interconnected that I can’t separate them. However, for the purpose of this post I’ll just go with ‘Uncertainty’ and toss the rest in The Prompt Box for another time.

Uncertainty is something I’m intimately acquainted with. Growing up, I was uncertain about other kids’ motives in wanting to be friends. Because of the bullying I’d endured, I could never be sure if little Jenny and Timmy were interested in being friends because they liked me or just wanted me to do their homework. Why would I have been bullied? Because I was different. As a result of a neurological condition I was born with, my vision and motor coordination were significantly affected. Until I’d had about three surgeries to correct it, I was unable to focus both eyes in the same direction. It took nearly three years of physical therapy to correct the issues with my motor coordination. Even then, while my walking improved to the point where the problems I’d had were only noticeable when it rained, I had to go through an additional year of exercises to improve my writing and coordination in my hands. Of course primary aged children are merciless little monsters so I was picked on relentlessly and isolated for differences I couldn’t control.

That led to uncertainty in romantic relationships and indirectly to my issues with food and exercise. That sense of uncertainty quickly bloomed into a subtle, pervasive sense of inferiority. Despite the love and care my family and my few friends showered me with, I just couldn’t shake this feeling that I was somehow less than the other people around me. I would spend hours on a treadmill trying to outrun the orcs and demons that plagued me and hours awake wondering what I’d done to deserve being cosmically shat upon for so long. Even now, with my darling Babycakes I’m still uncertain about why he’s with me of all people when he could easily find someone taller/prettier/bustier/smarter. A woman without a fraction of the issues I have. Who knows? For whatever reason, the silly man puts up with me. He’d probably get really mad at me for being so negative about myself if he saw this but this assignment is about uncertainty.