... probably not what you were expecting

(That’s a big number for me, by the way. I know some people can write that in a day, but I don’t. Some months I only write 25,000 words or less)

And the thing is, I didn’t try to write more. I didn’t drag myself to the library, put myself on the clock, and say “I’m going to sit here until I’ve clocked X number of hours writing.” I didn’t try to fill the hours I would have been working with words.

I did it anyway.

This is so motivating and yet so, so disappointing. Because it’s just one week, right, so it’s a skewed sample size, but it also points out something I was so, so reluctant to acknowledge. Working full time has harmed my writing. It has sucked the life and the energy out of me so that when I come home at night, all I want to do is crawl into bed. Sometimes I force myself to write anyway, but my pace is different, and my sessions are short. I don’t start two hour sessions that result in 2000 word scenes. I write for half an hour and give up after 300 words.

So obviously I’ve got to figure out how to make a change. I know my current job is killing me. Maybe the best I can hope for is that by getting a new one, the strangulation, the complete cutting off of all my creative air, won’t be so bad?

She was pretty. So pretty. Classically attractive with a slim figure that had exaggerated hips and a bust, although everything was small. She was small; smaller than me, the perpetual giant in every room.

(As an aside, I remember my lunch in freshman year as a study in contrasts. Me, the Scandinavian Frost Giant, 5’9’’, 230 pounds, sitting with a petite Guatemalan and two itty bitty Indians. I loved them, adored them, but sometimes that contrast, in size and in skin, hurt.)

Everything about her screamed femininity. Tailored clothes, perfect makeup. Hair dyed cheaply but frequently, and sometimes, in the extremely low-key method of just using John Frieda shampoo.

(It worked, believe it or not. In her senior year, my junior year, her hair attained a faint, reddish sheen.)

She was more fashionable than me, more knowledgeable than me, more informed. A sharp edge honed her speech, not unkind but biting all the same.

In high school, my identity was default heterosexual. I’d had crushes on boys, but I didn’t realize that liking girls—really liking girls—was ever an option. Still, I remember thinking about her late at night. Not in the desperate, lonely way I thought of my crushes, but with curiosity. Detached, reserved, wondering.

(Would I like to kiss her? Would she kiss me? What circumstances would even prompt it if we did? We were friends. Not even great friends. Just… friends.)

In retrospect, most of my crushes in high school weren’t based on sexual desire; they were based on personality. On validation. I liked guys because they were nice and interesting and well-liked, and because sometimes, they seemed to like me too, in an acquaintance, casual companion sort of way. I don’t remember physical attraction; I don’t remember imagining kisses. I don’t remember stalking the boys’ athletic fields in the hopes that someone would take off his shirt. I never stared at lips and pictured that they were on mine, that we were together, somewhere entwined.

(I pictured her lips, though. Sweet and pink and always covered in some type of sticky gloss.)

Sometimes I wonder about crushes. About socialization and sexualities and all the tiny, infinitesimal cues that steer a person in one direction or another. Did I like her, then? In another place—in another time—would our friendship have evolved into something more? I don’t know. I’ll never know.

“I can’t believe a place like this exists,” she said.

Easton’s lips pinched. The expression wasn’t quite a smile. “We’ve long coasts, in this court. Some abut deserts, still others jungles. But this… this is my favorite stretch.”

It was easy to see why. The flat sands became loose and tossled as they receded from the ocean, gradually transitioning to tall, stalky grasses. In the distance a few trees, filled with fully budded deciduous trees, loomed like old, gnarled giants.

The air was hot, as she’d expected, but the moisture in it caught Tess by surprise. The thick, almost soupy air fought her for every breath.

i’m a heathen priestess in green and blue. i learn myself through ritual and spellwork, build myself, break myself, set myself free.

i wander through life, friend, counsellor, witch, expert. my own little house is tucked deep in the woods, but i’m not there much, i’m on the road, visiting communities and sites, communing with nature and the world.

there are many friends. many colleagues. many men. it’s a road of equal parts spirituality and hedonism, that is, until it ends.

the man is special to me. special in ways i can’t explain. when i visit, he holds me late at night. when we meet, he lights up the darkest day. but he never asks me to stay. he never asks me to hold his hand through life, bear his children, be his confidant and helper and friend.

i do anyway.

the baby comes as a surprise, just before my fortieth birthday. she’s blonde and small and his family, two parents, a brother and a sister, both wed, love her instantly. we move into a big house on a secluded bit of property. yellow.

we raise falcons in the yard.

All right. Admittedly, that’s an oblique and stupid way to start a post. But I guess I’m oblique and stupid.

But I’m also lonely. I’m lonely and disappointed and sad, and I feel like I have nobody to talk to or unload on, so I go to the blog that nobody reads because hey, at least it’s out of my head, right?

Except for when it doesn’t leave my head. Yeah. Whoops.

Some people need positivity and others need realism. I just discovered which one I am.

I’ve mentioned before, on this blog and to anyone who’ll listen, that at this point, my job search feels hopeless. I won’t belabor the point; suffice to say that I feel like a square peg trying to be shoved into a hexaquadridecimal hole, and I fear that I’ll get stuck at Kohl’s forever.

Recently I’ve been receiving emails from recruiters. Most of them have sucked by miles; they’ve all been crappy sales jobs, and I have zero percent interest in sales. I hate people and I don’t want my entire salary to depend on me convincing them to buy things.

But today, I got an email from not one, but two different recruiters. And the postings sounded like something I might actually like.

Now, I understand the point of realism. It’s sensible to know that recruiters aren’t looking out for you, specifically. It’s good to realize that they may have dozens of other candidates in mind for the same job. ‘Don’t get your hopes up’ is good advice for any job seeker for any position.

But also, fuck you.

Because my whole life philosophy is ‘don’t get your hopes up.’ Don’t hope that you’ll get out of your shitty job. Don’t hope that you might one day publish your book. Don’t hope that you’ll find love or family or even people who’ll understand you. Don’t hope and you won’t be disappointed.

Screw that.

After I got that email from those recruiters today, I felt optimistic for the first time in weeks. I felt like maybe there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of changing my life. Of changing my circumstances. I didn’t need to go online, and ask an honest question, and have people shit all over me. I needed advice, yes, but I didn’t need people to tell me “tailor your resume for every position” or “the recruiter isn’t trying to get you a job” or “I get five recruiting emails a week!”

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you!

I needed to be optimistic today. It changed the way I interacted with the world. It made me a pleasant person, for the first time in a long time. I actually made small talk with my customers. Me.

So that’s my life lesson for today. Sometimes I need to hope. To dream. To believe that change is right there, waiting, at the tip of my fingers.

Sometimes I need to believe that I can reach out and grab it.

The details of the previous night drifted back to her as long tangled thorns on a vine. The highest holiday of Spring. Polaris’ interminable festival. Eating and dancing and stars, so much wine.

Tess could still taste it on the back of her tongue, pungent and vile. For a long moment, she lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling and thought of nothing more complex than hurling her guts across the room.

And then the sheets next to her moved.

A warm scent—honey, or clove—washed over her, and memories assaulted her with a flash of heat. Her young, pretty sister had gone off with some young, empty-headed fae. Easton, always the favored son, had done likewise a few hours later. Tess had been left, lonesome and angry, and after she’d downed half a cask of wine, Polaris had found her.

The argument had been ugly, short and brutal. Tess’ magic had flared, and Polaris lashed out just as fast.

They should have taken down the castle. They should have remade half the court. But instead, when the magic collided, something had happened, some tiny shift halfway in tune with nature’s course.

And now she was here. In Polaris’ bed.

She had a feeling that the sick churning in her stomach wasn’t just the aftermath of the wine.

A trace of breath stirred the hair on her neck. “You’re still here.”

The silky tones of Polaris’ voice coming from beside her, in bed, was nearly Tess’ undoing. Panic clawed at the back of her throat, and it tasted of vomit.

I am the Lady of Winter, Tess told herself. I am as cold-hearted as ice itself.

“Did you expect me to flee at dawn?” Tess said.

Polaris stretched. The movement shifted the bedcovers around Tess’ frame. Silk smoothed across bare flesh, a promise and a curse. “I expected you to start screaming about how this was a mistake hours ago. You know, after the first throes of passion faded from her mind.”

Test could hear him smirking. She kept her face expressionless, her voice flat and dull. “This was a mistake.”

Polaris had the audacity to laugh. He turned on his side, curled his body against Tess’. A hand slid out, stroking her waist. “You liked it.”

Tess couldn’t argue that. AT the time, she had. Anger had twisted the fury in her veins to passion, a lifetime worth of loathing Polaris into terrible aching lust. As a girl, Tess had wanted nothing more than Polaris’ attention, his acknowledgement, his approval in everything she did. She’d craved validation from him for more years than she could count.

She’d finally gotten it. It burned.

Carefully she untangled herself from Polaris. He didn’t latch onto her, didn’t try to resist. He was as loose and as pliable as a doll. But then, he could be. He’d already won.

“We’re not going to speak of this again,” Tess said.

Polaris raised his hands over his head, displaying acres worth of fine, golden skin. “And I suppose that decision is yours alone?”

Tess took half a moment to brace herself before she pulled back the sheet and stood. Cold air rushed in to bite at her skin. “You’re not going to tell anyone, Polaris. It will land you in a world of hurt.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a recitation of fact,” Tess said. She stooped to pluck her dress off the floor. A visceral memory hit her; Polaris’ long fingers sliding the straps of her dress down her arms. Those perpetually smiling lips clamped to her jaw.

Heat rushed over her, remembered lust and embarrassment and anger all in one. She’d have to burn the dress. Which was a shame, since she’d liked it.

Polaris had propped himself up on one elbow. Tess could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin like a brand. “I am the Lord of Spring. If it serves me to speak of what happened here, I will.”

“And will it serve you?”

Tess slid the dress over her head. It slipped into place around her, an utterly insufficient shield. “Think of all the people this will hurt, Polaris. My mother. Elidis. Your son.”

Polaris sucked in a breath, and Tess knew she’d hit home. “You know he left with another fae last night. Two other fae. Why should he care what you and I do?”

“Why should he care that his father slept with his first love? I don’t know, Polaris. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Polaris’ eyes darkened. Outside the clouds gathered. “He’d be upset with you, too.”

“Undoubtedly,” Tess said. She made herself stand before the mirror. Her hair was a wild mass of waves. Bruises peppered her neck and her collarbones, a visual map of her shame. “But I don’t rely on Summer as an ally. You do.”

Thunder rumbled. “He is my son.”

“But not your heir.” Tess smoothed her hair back from her facie. “Kyra will inherit Spring, and Easton will inherit Summer. You have what you wanted, Polaris. A child on either throne. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it grand?”

Snow draped the castle like one of Matthias’ worn blankets. Patches of creamy stone stuck through like holey knees. “This is it?”

Sven quirked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t seem impressed.”

Matthias made a face. He’d been duly impressed an hour ago when the massive stone shape of the keep had loomed up at him over wide, snow-swept fields. The aging ramparts stood sentinel over the Louir River valley, displaying crenellations and arrow windows that had been in vogue not so long ago. Riding his stout little pony, shaking and starving and half-mad from the cold, Matthias had felt, vaguely, like he’d slipped backwards in time. Like he wasn’t a disgraced lord from modern, progressive Crannarch, but a dirt-poor peasant on a desperate journey to win favor from his liege lord.

The sensation had faded, but Matthias’ trepidation hadn’t. He blew into his stiff hands. “Are we going to be allowed inside?”

Sven grinned. His bulk was made for this kind of weather, and more than once Matthias had envied him his fur coat. “If we weren’t going to be allowed in, we wouldn’t have made it past the guards.”

Matthias frowned. He turned on the spot peering back over his shoulder. The thick walls of the keep loomed before him. Though he stood on heavy stone pavers, he’d yet to pass through a gate. There was no drawbridge, no moat.

But something niggled at him. The last stretch of the road had been narrow. It had passed through a series of switchbacks as it had climbed to the mountain’s top. Matthias hadn’t thought about the entrance, he’d been too cold and too tired and too hungry, but there had been more than one place where there’d been stone on both sides.

Stone towers. Tall enough to hide more than one guard.

Lia lifted the hanger from her wardrobe. A cream skirt, gauzy and full, spilled onto the ground.

“Well then,” she told Carlotta. “Apparently the dress code has changed.”

Carlotta, perched on the edge of Lia’s bed, pursed her lips. When Lia had emerged from her bath, steam pink and shrouded in a robe two sizes too big, Carlotta had already been there, waiting. It was only Carlotta’s persistence that had persuaded Lia to open the wardrobe. It was only Carlotta’s refusal to leave that saw Lia still standing rather than curled up in her bed.

Lia stretched up on her toes to hang the dress off the edge of the doorjamb. It was, truly, a magnificent confection. Gold embroidery modelled after a popular brocade pattern, lined the bodice before flowing out onto the skirt. The tulle that gave the dress its shape glimmered in the light from the roaring fire.

The neckline fell well below the clavicle, displaying the skin of the wearer’s neck and chest. It was the latest fashion sweeping the continent, popular and scandalous in equal turns. Apparently one of the Grand Duchesses had banned it.

Lia crossed her good arm over her bad.

“You have to put it on,” Carlotta said. “You have to put it on, and you have to come. You know what will happen if you don’t.”

“Do you really think the King of Shadows will come up here and haul me to dinner in my nightclothes?”

“He won’t,” Carlotta said. “But Marvin might. Marvin or Erling or Bay…”

A shudder rippled down Lia’s frame. Her hand squeezed, almost involuntarily, around her upper bicep. “Do I have to wear this dress?”

“It was a gift,” Carlotta said. “You know how he is about gifts.”

Lia’s hand drifted to her neck. “I know. But all that skin…”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Modesty? From you?”

Lia gave her an arch look. “I have bruises. From combat.”

Carlotta’s eyes flashed. She stood up, and the silk of her own dressing gown rippled around her, a shining sheet of pink. “Just put it on, Lia. You’ll look beautiful. Bruises or no.”