My Cardboard Balcony

It's been...quite a week. Quit one job, started another. Been writing, of course. While maybe some days I'll feel too lazy to write the next great novel, I'm writing a lot more productively than I did sometimes as a student or as an unemployed young woman. And honestly, besides reading, watching movies, playing online games, going out for a drink, or just having fun with family and friends - a big chunk of free time I use after school/work/whatever is for writing, songwriting, playing guitar, and performing. Yes, truth be told, I'm writing a decent amount. Brainstorming for a TV show. I restarted my graphic novel scriptwriting. I've been writing poetry. Lots of poetry. As you can see. And tomorrow, of course, will be another Storyteller - a segment I have a love/hate relationship with. But hey...it works. Also, tonight I watched one of my new favorite movies: Beginners, with Ewan McGregor, Christopher Plummer, and Mélanie Laurent. You don't know who she is?

I Run Pleasure Island  by Belinda Roddie It’s true! I run Pleasure Island. So many years ago, my grandfather opened this realm of idle dreams where young ruffians do what they please. Yes, they gorge on sweets and meats made by the best of chefs from all parts of the world. My father, you see, was once like those boys, his head detached and floating, no plans ahead. Instead he played each day until he was put in a single file line. His high was gone, replaced with sweat, low pay, and later a helpless scream when he lost all but his wedding ring as the blades tore at what became a useless reminder of what he could have become. So with a beard gone white by pitying tears, my grandpa hatched a plan. Just as my father became a jackass, all boys like him would do the same. And so they do, guzzling beer, belching anthems of rebellion until they begin to bray. Yes, that very night they fall, they cry one last time for their mothers. The fools! They cry for those beautiful women, whose one

In the beginning...there was cheese. At least, there should have been. At least, that's what my boyfriend John's father said. He had not only been a cheese artisan in his youth, but he had tasted almost every cheese in the world. All, he said, but the mystical ones. "Let me guess...you're planning to fly to the moon, aren't you?" John asked his dad. His dad winked and grinned. "I've got the rocket already built."