Falling In Love

by Brenda on May 22, 2014

photo-22I can’t recall the exact moment I became enamored with love. I just know for as long as I can remember it’s enthralled me. Even after trying it on for size, falling hopelessly, and later gluing the shards of my broken heart back together I continued romancing the elusive vixen.


Four silly little letters once combined in a specific order can rock a person’s universe unlike any other of the letters in the alphabet. As a united unit, the letters L.O.V.E. can alter a person’s appearance. Some say— likely non-believers—that love is not tangible or physical, but I disagree.

Have you ever witnessed a person—yourself included—in love’s firm grip?  Can you recall the look in their eyes and how they carried themselves? It’s noticeable. Equally visible is a lover on the wrong side of a passionate relationship. A fractured heart is undeniable. But when it is good, love is discernible in the eyes and body: bright and hopeful, taut and upright. But when the bottom falls out, those baby blues are dull and dejected, and the body is slack and hunched.

Love is not limited to a singular type, size, or duration. Hostile borders do not intimidate it. Nor can any keep it contained. It has a force of will so great none can resist its provocative wink–Julius Caesar and Rhett Butler, to name a few who fell under its spell. Once love is entwined with the fiber of our being it regulates our life force. When it leaves—often for no particular reason—it’s no wonder a person can’t function. Most of us fail a few times before accepting it’s a complex emotion with layers, stages within phases inside of nuances. As a writer of romantic stories, I keep a short list and prefer exploring the broader junctures:

Wrapped in love’s cocoon
Picking up the pieces


I liken this to June Carter’s song for her husband, Johnny Cash, “Ring of Fire”. She wrote it when she was falling for the man in black.

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire

Wrapped in loves cocoon
There are books, poets, and singer-songwriters who’ve written hundred of thousands of songs on this phase alone. One of my favorites is “Iris”, by the Goo Goo Dolls

And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be

Picking up the pieces
For me there is only one voice that can sing broken heart and that’s Patsy Cline. “I Fall to Pieces” pairs nicely with any of reds. I’d not argue that there are other songs and singers who’ve cornered heartbreak. Taylor Swift and Adele have made a living baring their souls in verse. But Patsy and me go way back…

You want me to act like we’ve never kissed.
You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met.
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I haven’t yet.
You walk by and I fall to pieces.

As harrowing as a loss can be we’re not wired to walk away from the flutter of romantic passion. Myself included. There were a couple of times in my life when I came close to entering a convent but my foolish heart had other ideas. She kicked me to the curb when love was in the air, immune to our tattered past. Damn if I didn’t try to pull her in at the start of something I knew was doomed. Didn’t listen to a single warning. When it was all over, it was that cracked heart of mine, Patsy, and me filling the glass with a hearty red.

Eventually, love would come to bewitch and define me as a writer. I didn’t choose to be a writer of love stories. I tried fighting it. A writer friend reminded me that I have a knack with matters of the heart and way of saying what a woman feels on the inside but doesn’t dare utter to the outside world. I never thought it was attribute, more of annoyance. I’ve envied other writers, the literary types who can articulate in abstract, but’s not me. My friend was right about my writing voice. Thanks, Kelly. 

I never tire of rediscovering the rush of falling, the loss of self in the moment, and the wretched aftermath–on the page. I’ve been here. I’ve swallowed the pain and washed it back with hearty guzzle, and damn if I didn’t swear to myself, never again. Ha! Truth is I can’t resist a good love story.

Did you every throw caution to the wind, even if the odds were stacked against you and give way to romance?

For the one I lost but have never forgotten. xo


The Reluctant Extrovert

by Brenda on May 7, 2014

IntrovertIt never occurred to me, at least consciously anyway that I was an innie—someone who prefers the comfort of their own thoughts, stands outside the circle of a crowded room, and would rather shuck oysters under the blazing sun than make small talk—and not an outtie.

I had an inclination that I preferred the cool of the shade, since I’ve propensity to circle a room looking for a window to crawl out of or a whole to jump into. I loath standing center stage under the bright lights; rather I bloom in the intimate setting. Further, I was (am) circumspect with what and whom I share my secret self with—because she’s all sorts of suspect and seven types of scary—all of which were/are clues to my true self.

Of course, there were other signs, like the realization that I had only one best friend at a time, not several. I never understood how a person could have multiple besties at once. Maybe for some it’s possible, but not me. I’d die having to confess to twelve best buddies about the kiss with that boy whose sculpted chest and immense arms melted me, or about the big scandal I had the pleasure of being forcibly made to participate in. Hell, I barely managed to tell my husband, but that was only after a martini and a bottle of wine. But then he sort of already knew since my picture made the front page of several newspapers. It wasn’t something I could deny when he inquired about the lost weekend.

Another clue was how short my attention span is. I have a habit of falling instantly, truly, madly, and deeply, enamored with someone, but quick as a wink I can be wooed by another. In my defense I’m deeply committed during the length of a relationship but when it’s over, it’s over. I move forward.

Over the years, I’ve pondered the why of this and came to the understanding that I’m one of those odd ones who believe people are destined for one another, but that at the same time not every encounter is meant to last all the seasons of my life.  This was and is difficult to accept, which I have I’ve come to believe has shaped my skepticism and limited appreciation of social media.

If I hesitate confessing the number of lovers I’ve had over the years to my best friend you can imagine my reluctance disclosing concerns about the size of my bum or how I feel about tofu on Facebook or Twitter. It seems to me the world is a quieter place without me adding witty quips in 140 characters or less on any topic, yet I do. It pains me to admit, 1) am a reluctant exhibitionist, 2) I share unnecessary facts about meaningless topics, 3) having a virtual thumbprint gives me street cred with editors and agents, and 4) it’s a must do for writers and bloggers.

It’s mandatory to share my innie feelings.  I must be witty, thoughtful, profound, articulate, funny, sensitive, purposeful, energetic, and above all, go against my genetic code, and become an outtie.

BUT….I am occasionally one or all of the following on any given day or the week:

  • I’m grumpy
  • I’m too blue
  • Or red with road rage
  • Just not in the mood, can’t be bothered to share  or offer commentary about tofu
  • I’m pensive, whiny, bitchy, emotional, or simply caught in moment I can’t get out of
  • Focused on something, like a novel
  • Day dreamy about the lanky with come hither
  • Definitely not witty
  • I’d rather write

Clearly I am whiny innie.

How much do you reveal about yourself in the virtual hemisphere?

Enhanced by Zemanta


Being True To Yourself

by Brenda on April 9, 2014

The first kissAnd then it comes, the blaze of our first kiss. It is a bottomless kiss, soft and tender, hard and unrelenting, hungry, but not sated. He pulls back but only long enough to whisper, “Is this what you had in mind?” His kiss is with the agility of vast experience. As I lose myself inside of his kiss, I wonder if there is a hall of fame for ‘the best of the best’ somewhere in the Smithsonian, and remind myself to Google kisses later.

Have you been kissed like this?

I like to think everyone has known the thrill of this sort of kiss at least once in their lifetime.  I also hope it’s not a one time event, rather there multiple moments when the ground disappears.

One of my top twenty favorite songs is Passionate Kisses, written by Lucinda Williams:

Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you

I should!  I think to myself whenever I hear this song. And then, I set about to making sure I do.  But that’s another story.

I am writer with a bent for writing stories with a passionate twist, thus there is always a blank page waiting for the description of the first kiss between the lovers in my story.  While I don’t limit myself to fiery narratives, I will confess to a long standing fascination with the many facets of love.

Love is one of those themes that had endless possibilities.

Motherly love
Fatherly love
Family love
Love of music
Of words
Of ……

And on the list goes

I’ve dabbled with a few themes from the list but romantic love is what entices me. How to describe the flutter in my stomach, the rush of my pulse, the pounding in my heart, the taste of the kiss, just slays me. As much as I am enthralled with the notion of falling deeply, is how the mind loses all control and becomes a slave to the logic-deprived actions of the heart.

But this wasn’t always the case…

When I first came out of the closet and declared myself a writer I thought I should aspire to be lofty, be literary, use words that required a dictionary to understand. I believed dense, opaque writing would find me obscure fame and place on the table of contents of The New Yorker.

I know why I felt this was who I should be as writer. I succumbed to the pressure of the workshop, drank the green Kool-Aid, and convinced myself I was like my classmates—a literary-ista wannabe. Oh yes, this was my destiny. I drove home the night of my first meeting spewing platitudes believing my manufactured revelation to be my fate as a writer. I was euphoric. I had a blueprint to the table of contents of The New Yorker, maybe even The Atlantic.

The problem was no matter how hard I tried to write poetic prose I continued doodling little hearts. I drew big ones, interlinking ones. I drew on the notebooks that I carried with me at all times. Nothing was safe from my wandering pen: napkins, the inside of a gum wrapper, and even on the tops of my thighs, I drew hearts with my trusty red Sharpie.

I was not destined to be a literary-ista.

Instead, I chronicle the stories of quirky characters longing to explore love—in all it’s flavors—upon the page. It’s what my inner vixen wanted to write, although she does not prohibit me from spreading my wings.

What puts the bounce in your step and the flutter in the pit of your stomach, beside a kiss, of course?


A Writer’s Writing Process

March 31, 2014

My Writing Process revealed: Thanks, Kelly Hashway–Speculative Fiction Author– for inviting me to participate in the My Writing Process, worldwide blog tour. What the heck am I working on today? As Rosanna Dana always said, “It’s always something…” in my case, there is always something brewing on my pages. My current project, BIPPITY BOPPITY BOO, is […]

Read the full article →

Loving is Good

March 22, 2014

A sneak peak at Loving is Good “Wear those jeans you bought—you know, the ones that cost a couple hundred dollars—a black bra, and one of those white tank T-shirts you wear around the house.” “The I’m easy, come and get me, baby, Latina-from-the-hood look? Seriously? That’s not a positive image for the next generation […]

Read the full article →