not very interesting (my life)

So, not much is going on. And yet, I will post about it! (Because I make bad decisions)

I am starting to write another story. No plot yet, just one scene and two characters, but that’s how it begins, right? I’m working on that at night lately. So far, I like it. I have realized that there is this stage in my writing process, at the beginning part of telling a story, where it is super fun, and everything is interesting and magical and sparkly.  That lovely feeling ends much too quickly, and next comes the “oh god this is the worst thing anyone has ever put into words” stage. But for now, it is still all roses and rainbows, so I am enjoying it.

Unrelated to that: I think I may be giving up eating fish, now. I already don’t eat any meat, and haven’t for over 15 years, but I’ve kept on with fish and shellfish because 1.it’s fucking delicious and 2.it gives me more options at restaurants. But the other day we went fishing and the experience was somehow much more traumatic than it ever has been before for me. We were catching scup (aka “Porgy”), a smallish white-fleshed fish that is easy to catch and pretty tasty. My kids love fishing. Not really planning for success, we hadn’t brought a bucket, so when we landed the first fish I had to run up the block to our house and get one. By the time I got back, fish #1 had died on the sand. Fish #2 swallowed the bait & hook whole, and my husband had to rip it out, so that one died with blood leaking from its gills. Fish #3 held out until the end of our (short) fishing excursion, which meant it was alive while it was gutted, gaping soundlessly and staring at me with its shiny yellow eye.

fish
one of my victims

As the little pile of fish innards grew, my son hid his eyes and made dramatic gagging noises, and then explained that this was why he doesn’t eat fish (a total lie. he eats fish sticks all the time). I watched in mild disgust, but said nothing. My daughter is pure carnivore. She watched the fish die without pity and asked if we could go home right away and cook them, saying they “looked delicious”. We ended up putting them in the freezer, since we already had dinner plans.

Anyway, there’s no way I’m eating those particular fish. Too much guilt, now. And I’m not sure why, because it’s hardly the first fish I’ve killed, or watched die. Maybe I’ll get over it? I guess I’ll see how I feel next time I’m ordering sushi.

Another unrelated update: I’ve been going out really late at night for my “jogs” (I use that term very loosely, I mostly walk). The night is still and quiet and gorgeous, and I feel so bold. It’s like my own little Central Park Jogger redemption. If you live in a nice area, I recommend trying it. Although it might be best to bring a partner, for safety. I’m solo (as in almost all my endeavors) and that’s a part of the thrill, I admit. (I say to myself “Women Unite! Take Back the Night!” every time I leave) I guess one of the only benefits of living through rape and abuse is the realization that there isn’t much that could happen to me that I haven’t already survived. It’s not likely that a stranger could hurt me more than I’ve already been hurt.  I guess that’s a backwards way of finding strength, but it’s what I’ve got.

And last night, the moon was awesome! (this would be a good spot for one of my trademark crappy pictures, but I didn’t take one)

That’s all for now 🙂

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