#or a literary freedom you have worked on for years…. it’s not free real estate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

victoriagloverstuff · 6 years ago

Text

The Patron Saints of Pessimism: A Writer's Pantheon

If all is for naught, then why bother writing it down? Caught in a vicious circle, ensnared in the logical absurdities of awkward self-awareness. It seems there are one of two options: either speak to this situation, or remain silent. The writer’s failure is that they know they should choose the latter, but cannot help attempting the former. Writers (and readers . . . when there are readers . . . ) console themselves by naming this failure: an apology, a confession, a testimony, a treatise, a history, a biography, a life. But the continual accumulation of that-which-cannot-be-put-into-words always points back to this one basic realization—that, when it comes to human beings, silence is the most adequate form of expression. There are, then, two paths. Ultimately writers dream of taking neither path, leaving all paths for the forest. But it’s just a dream.

The patron saints of pessimism watch over our suﬀering. Laconic and sullen, they never seem to do a good job at protecting, interceding, or advocating for those who suﬀer. Perhaps they need us more than we need them. There are patron saints of philosophy, but their stories are not happy ones.

Even in cases where the entire corpus of an author is pessimistic, the project always seems incomplete, as if there was still one more thing to say, one last indictment . . . from Goethe’s sorrowful Werther, to Dostoevsky’s burrowing creature, to Pessoa’s disquiet scribbler; Baudelaire’s spleen and ennui; the mystical pessimism of Huysmans and Strindberg; the stark and unhuman lyricism of Meng Jiao, Georg Trakl, Xavier Villarrutia; the frenetic obfuscations of Sakutaro Hagiwara, Ladislav Klíma, Fyodor Sologub; the haunted and scintillating prose of Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Izumi Kyōka, Clarice Lispector; the misanthropic rigor of Lautréamont’s Maldoror or of Bonaventura’s Nightwatches; the crumbling of reason in Artaud’s The Umbilicus of Limbo or Unica Zürn’s The House of Illnesses. Grumpy old Beckett.

The list quickly expands, soon encompassing the entirety of literature itself, and beyond ( . . . even the great pessimist stand-up comedians). In the end it’s overwhelming; all of literature becomes a candidate. All that remains are singular, anomalous statements, a litany of quotes and citations crammed into arborous fortune cookies read by no one. So I conﬁne myself, somewhat arbitrarily, to pessimist “philosophers,” dubious though this distinction is. But a cursory look at the history of philosophy reveals something quite diﬀerent. Philosophers that stumble and trip over their own feet. Philosophers that curse themselves. Philosophers that laugh at themselves. Philosophers that abandon philosophy, but still remain “philosophers.”

Article continues after advertisement

Emil Cioran

Cioran’s fragments are themselves so fragmented, so shattered (and shattering), that they sometimes seem less than a fragment: more a particle, a speck of dust, the debris of thought.

Cioran published De l’inconvénient d’être né (translated as The Trouble with Being Born) in 1973. It was a time of loss and refusals. A few years before, Cioran’s mother and sister had died. Cioran’s close friend, the playwright Arthur Adamov, committed suicide. The year also saw the death of another close friend, the existentialist philosopher Gabriel Marcel. A year later, the poet Paul Celan, who had translated Cioran’s work into German, also committed suicide. It was a period of refusals. Cioran proudly spurned several gestures of monetary support, as well as numerous literary prizes, many of them ﬁnancially signiﬁcant (there is an anecdote of Beckett lending Cioran money while chiding him for refusing such prizes). All the while Cioran continued to live modestly in his rented apartment, working at his compact and cluttered desk, writing in his multi-colored notebooks, taking his frequent walks. In The Trouble with Being Born Cioran grapples with an age-old philosophical dilemma—the problem with being here, in this moment, thrown into an existence that one has neither asked for nor desired, in a world that we have diﬃculty whole-heartedly accepting or rejecting.

Article continues after advertisement

Philipp Mainländer

On the evening of the ﬁrst of April, 1876, 34-year-old Philipp Batz gathered together copies of his book Die Philosophie der Erlösung (The Philosophy of Redemption), which had just arrived from the publisher. He had worked in the ﬁnance and banking sectors for nearly a decade, before quitting his job in disgust. He had been discharged from his military service due to exhaustion and fatigue. He had written several poems and literary works which remained unpublished. And, from the time he was a teenager, he had enthusiastically read Schopenhauer, in addition to Leopardi, Dante, and Heraclitus. In his Oﬀenbach apartment, Batz gathered together the copies of his 900-page book, but with how much premeditation it is impossible to know. The book, published under the pen name of Philipp Mainländer, talks of a pervasive “Will-to-Die” that indifferently drives everything that exists, to exist—to exist in order to be extinguished. Batz arranged the copies of his book on the ﬂ oor into a single pile. He stepped up on top of his books, and hung himself from the ceiling beam of the room.

At the core of Mainländer’s philosophy is the idea that everything that exists, exists in order to not exist—not for some imagined and fantastical afterlife, and not in order to re-enter the cycle of birth, suﬀering, and death, but for pure annihilation—a “mortiﬁcation of energy.” Everything that exists, driven by a blind “Will-to-Death,” exists only to achieve its own nulliﬁcation. Mainländer calls this “redemption.”

Michel de Montaigne

Aristocrat, statesman, businessman, diplomat, humanist, socialite, melancholic, tourist, bibliophile, translator, and essayist—Michel de Montaigne was by all standards a worldly person. Born near the Bordeaux region to a wealthy merchant family, he had been reared according to the highest standards of humanist education. As a young man he served in the Bordeaux Parliament, and then at the court of Charles IX. As an adult Montaigne would also become a wine-grower, editor and translator, and would serve as Mayor of Bordeaux. As a statesman he was often pulled into the national negotiations surrounding the religious and political conﬂicts of his time. He travelled extensively across the continent, sometimes making spiritual pilgrimages, sometimes seeking convalescence for health problems, sometimes out of curiosity. It is perhaps strange, then, that, at the age of 38, Montaigne would decide to refuse the world. He shut himself in his library in order to write. So decisive is this refusal that Montaigne christens it with an inscription made on the wall of his library:

In the year of Christ 1571, at the age of 38, on the last day of February, anniversary of his birth, Michel de Montaigne, long weary of the servitude of the court and of public employments, while still entire, retired to the bosom of the learned Virgins, where in calm and freedom from all cares he will spend what little remains of his life now more than half run out. If the fates permit he will complete this abode, this sweet ancestral retreat; and he has consecrated it to his freedom, tranquility, and leisure.

What does he write? As any reader of his Essays can attest, Montaigne seems to have written about everything—over a hundred essays in three books, covering everything from the art of conversation to cannibalism, much of it written in the ﬁrst eight years spent in his retreat from the world. However, what is noteworthy among the pages and pages of observations is Montaigne’s often unfavorable view towards life—human life in particular. The diplomat so enamored of conversation now writes: “We are nothing but ceremony; ceremony carries us away, and we leave the substance of things; we hang on to the branches and abandon the trunk and body.”

It would seem that owning an estate and castle would be more than a suﬃcient means of shutting out the world. But the Château d e Montaigne was still too “worldly” for Montaigne. What is needed, as he notes, is an arrière-boutique, a kind of room-within-a-room, where one can recede from the governance of daily life: “We must reserve a back shop all our own, entirely free, in which to establish our real liberty and our principal retreat and solitude.” Montaigne himself decides to spend most of his time in “the Tower,” a small circular abode located at the southern tip of the castle. It is comprised of a central tower and an adjoining smaller tower that serves as a staircase.

It appears that Montaigne’s bibliophilia extended to the physical space of his library as well. On 46 of the 48 ceiling beams of the library Montaigne had inscribed almost 70 quotations in Latin or Greek, mostly from classical authors or the Bible. Among them one ﬁnds stark statements such as this, from Pliny the Elder: “Only one thing is certain—that nothing is certain. And nothing is more wretched or arrogant than man.” And then there are an abundance of lines from Greek Skeptics, foremost among them Sextus Empiricus: “I decide nothing.” “I understand nothing.” “It is possible, it is not possible.”

This peculiar form of graﬃti had a more practical purpose. Montaigne notes how he often paces around his library, occasionally glancing up at the beams for inspiration. His refuge is less a place of work, and more a space of wandering, in which the space of the library becomes the hollowed-out listlessness of the skull: “When at home, I turn aside a little more often to my library . . . There I leaf through now one book, now another, without order and without plan, by disconnected fragments. One moment I muse, another moment I set down or dictate, walking back and forth, these fancies of mine that you see here.”

Friedrich Nietzsche

Though he is commonly regarded as a philosopher, Nietzsche himself was not so sure. With its mania for constructing elaborate systems, philosophy was perhaps too well-formed for Nietzsche. Perhaps what he sought was a philosophy with less integrity. An oft-repeated aphorism reads: “I mistrust all systematizers and I avoid them. The will to a system is a lack of integrity.” And yet, Nietzsche continued to write, up until he could no longer—or would no longer—write. A fragment from Human, All Too Human lauds the “incomplete thought”:

Just as it is not only adulthood but youth and childhood too that possess value in themselves and not merely as bridges and thoroughfares, so incomplete thoughts also have their value. That is why one must not torment a poet with subtle exegesis but content oneself with the uncertainty of his horizon, as though the way to many thoughts still lay open. Let one stand on the threshold; let one wait as at the excavation of a treasure: it is as though a lucky ﬁnd of profound import were about to be made. The poet anticipates something of the joy of the thinker at the discovery of a vital idea and makes us desire it, so that we snatch at it; he, however, ﬂutters by past our heads, displaying the loveliest butterﬂy-wings—and yet he eludes us.

Paul Deussen, a friend during Nietzsche’s boarding school days at Pforta, and who would later, as a scholar, translate the Upanishads into German, once described Nietzsche’s dwelling in Sils-Maria in 1887 as a “cramped and dingy cave,” littered with “coﬀee cups, egg shells, manuscripts and toilet articles thrown together in confusion,” set oﬀ against a perpetually unmade bed.

__________________________________

Good read found on the Lithub

2 notes · View notes

johnrgordon · 6 years ago

Text

Writing a historical novel #6 – research is intimidating (but has to be done) pt 4 of 4 – breakthrough

(image: ’Black Angels’ by George Barnard)

For the past ten years I have been working on a historical novel, Drapetomania, Or, The Narrative of Cyrus Tyler and Abednego Tyler, lovers, set in slavery times in the American Deep South, and telling of the passionate love between two men, Cyrus and Abednego, and their bid for freedom from bondage – out now! As I worked on a final edit of the 183,000 word manuscript, I began reflecting on the process. These are some of my thoughts.

Plowing through 1700pp of slavery narratives, alongside historical accounts, contextualizing information and contemporary fictions (including, belatedly, Huckleberry Finn, which I realised I had never read, and is, it turns out, a post civil war tale of pre-war slavery times and thus a curious, paradoxical exercise in recent nostalgia), was ultimately liberating, and in several ways, some obvious, some less so.

The most basic change was simply this: I had moved from knowing nothing (much) to knowing a great deal about historical representations of slavery experiences and the context in which they arose. Funny how one can internalize ‘not knowing’ as an identity, but I realised that for half a decade I had done so.

While modern history is extremely useful in framing the past, there’s nothing like reading contemporary material to give you a feel for the idiom, for the aesthetic and therefore mental landscape of a period; and allowing some sense of that to enter your writing fairly much automatically creates an authenticity of tone without a need to overdo quaint dialogue or overwork period terms or references (which is very tempting): sometimes a mule cart can just be a mule cart and need not be a barouche or phaeton, and so on.

Behind that commonsense evocation of another time is an interesting – and in its way somewhat liberating – philosophical point: what makes a historical novel feel real to any (non-academic) reader is how far it seems to embody the tone and timbre of novels that were written at the time in which it is set. Yet those novels – that is, those fictions – were and are themselves cultural constructs, informed by the personalities and perceptions, quirks and kinks of their authors, as well as by what was generally permitted at their time of writing. Did real people ever talk as Dickens’ characters talk? Or Jane Austen’s? Probably not. Or maybe yes, kind of. Did they also say shit or cunt? We can’t penetrate very far beyond that essentially literary limit of possible knowledge – we literally cannot know, as there are no other records of direct speech, (beyond court testimonials, themselves generally ‘written up’ by officials who sometimes added literary flourishes of their own, and would have at the least redacted swearing and blasphemy), how people really spoke back then – and so (I believe) the modern writer is free to permit him/herself to improvise around general impressions without being too weighed down by forensic fears about historical accuracy of register once obvious anachronisms have been tidied away.

A further level of literary reflexivity arises in consideration of slave narratives, which, being as they tend to be billed as ‘the true account of’, it’s natural for us to approach initially as if they are simple primary sources. This is to ignore the attention those who escaped slavery paid to ensuring that their autobiographies conformed both to the existing novelistic conventions of the time, and (soon enough) to the evolving (oftentimes best-selling) new genre of The Slave Narrative itself. So these historical artifacts are not simply ‘true’ – they too are literary constructs; and indeed, reading them I was struck by how often they cleaved to conventions of romance novels such as Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre – this is perhaps most strongly evident in the narrative of Harriet Jacobs (Linda Brent), one of the few women to write her story (& she was proprietorial about it too). Ironically, to a modern reader, the flourishes – the ‘Picture if you can, dear reader’ asides – that would have drawn in a nineteenth century reader are somewhat off-putting nowadays: we hope for the unvarnished truth of experience, or a truth that seems unvarnished, anyway.

Helpfully for the fiction writer, the narratives reveal that slaves endured wildly differing conditions synchronically as well as diachronically, and that plantations differed hugely in how they were run, what those enslaved could hope to get away with, what freedoms were allowed or curtailed in terms of movement, what punishments imposed; even such grimly basic matters as whether shoes were available. So as a non-academic I could write my story without too much anxiety that I was failing to capture some single, singular, detailedly true and therefore authentic monolithic account of things only accessible to scholars. There were many experiences, and those we have are only those recorded: other experiences were possible.

Another point to note as far as using slavery narratives as a resource is that the published tales – some ‘as told to’ and therefore mediated to unknown extents by their white amanuenses – were intended to be read by a white audience. Therefore there is behind them of necessity a hidden, largely unspoken version that just occasionally breaks the waterline: the account that might have been written for a black readership, had such a thing then been imaginable. This sense of things unsaid, of things left out, was liberating to me from the point of view of presuming to create a fictional tale: the realization that there was something beyond a greater level of explicitness about the facts of life that might legitimately be added to both historical records and autobiographical writing, something beyond my simple initial impulse to realistically render passionate same-sex love in such a time and place.

While the slave narratives are moving, disturbing and full of insights, they often lack contextualizing detail for the modern reader of 150-200 years later. Writing about my own life now I might say something today like, ‘I topped up my Oyster and got the tube to town’ – perfectly comprehensible to any reader in C21st London. However, in 200 years’ time every element of that statement might be wholly obscure, (‘perhaps he means he ate a heavy meal of shellfish before setting out?’) and it’s certainly lacking in evocative detail – use of money or a payment card, yellow disc on ticket machine, automatic barriers, escalators, sliding doors of carriages, name of tube line etcetera. All this kind of information tends to be absent from primary sources, the more so as their intent was campaigning and therefore contemporary in focus.

Unexpectedly liberating in this regard was the British abolitionist MP J.S. Buckingham’s 1839 Journey through the Southern Slave States. While in many ways a dry read, precisely because he was a tourist (& one critical of slavery, which the British had finally abolished in 1833, to white southern consternation) Buckingham records many details a local would omit, including potted summaries of the economic workings of many of the towns and villages and estates he passed through; competition and lack of competition in stagecoach lines; quality of rooms and food in inns and so on. This – finally – gave me greater confidence in sending my protagonist out into a wider world beyond the plantation’s bounds.

As settings fell into place, the internet was invaluable as an adjunct, of course. What type of pistols were used in 1850; what carriages ridden in; what hats worn? One academic website has assembled advertisements for runaway slaves decade by decade, and you can study the way the phrasing altered over time, and the amounts offered for recapture; and so, without ever stating the year, (because ultimately I felt it would never mean anything to my protagonists), I could embed the tale ever more densely in its period.

All this meant that Cyrus could now leave the wilderness into which he had first run, into which he had been pursued by dogs, and from which he had emerged following a sort of psychic rebirth, and find himself once more among people. And so a break in the writing that lasted nearly five years was ended, and I accelerated forwards.

Buy Drapetomania here (US) & here (UK)

#black gay lgbt slavery drapetomania

2 notes · View notes

raybansandcoffee · 7 years ago

Text

A New Life in New York: Once Upon a Time in New York City (Huey Lewis & The News) - Part Three

Did you miss parts one and two? Find them HERE. I can’t wait to hear what you think of these of this new series!

January 8, 2020

Janie

“Thank you for coming over so that I can get some stuff done this morning,” I said to Bridget. She was a former student of mine who nannied for me occasionally when I needed to get out and leave the kids at home.

“No worries, Ms. Finnigan.” She still called me Ms. Finnigan, normally I’d try to convince her to that she could call me Janie but today I wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. I needed to make my coffee appointment on time and trying to convince Bridget that when she is my nanny Ms. Finnigan didn’t matter and she could call me Janie wasn’t worth the time. Fuck, she could call me any name she wanted and I’d happily hand her some cash and hug her for giving me free time.

I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. I plugged my headphones in and turned on Monday’s episode of Pod Save America and started to mentally go through the notes I had for my meeting. It didn’t take long before I was in my favorite coffee shop, ordering the biggest latte they had and happily agreeing to the extra shot. Noelle, the barista, knew me all too well and must’ve sensed the desperation I had for caffeine. I’d been trapped in the apartment since Friday with a sick kid and it was Wednesday and I was just getting my first taste of freedom and coffee that I didn’t make, forget about and then drink when it was ice cold.

“Thanks, Noelle,” I said as I took the cup from her.

“You’re welcome. Are you here for the whole morning?” she asked. That often happened. If I wasn’t getting inspiration in the apartment I came here, sat at a table in the corner and wrote for hours.

“I’ve got a meeting and then my fingers are crossed that I can sneak to a spin class or something. I’ve been stuck at home with a sick kid for nearly a week.”

“That sounds miserable. That extra shot was clearly necessary.”

“Yes, yes it was.” I headed back to the normal table I inhabited in the corner and sat down. I was at least a half hour early for my meeting. I always did this, it gave me a chance to enjoy the first few sips of decent, warm coffee before I started talking to whoever I was meeting with and the coffee got cold.

Today’s meeting would hopefully be less of me talking, more of me listening. It was a literary agent I’d known for several years who had contacted me last week to tell me she had a project she wanted my input on. I knew her in my past-life and she’d only been a pop-in acquaintance of the current version of my life.

“Jane, lovely to see you,” she greeted. I stood from my spot to give a quick hug as a greeting. I’d learned that this woman was a hugger over the years.

“So nice to see you as well, Marianne. Thank you for making the trek down to Tribeca for me.” She worked at an agency on the Upper East Side and I’d sensed on the phone that she wasn’t all that pleased about having to come to Lower Manhattan for a meeting. If I remember from our brief conversations she also lived on the Upper East Side.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. This coffee shop seems cute.” Don’t roll your eyes, Janie. Don’t roll your eyes.

“So tell me about this project you wanted my input on.”

“Well, your blog, I just want to start by saying I love it.”

“Thank you, it’s a labor of love but something very important to me.”

“I have this idea of taking your blog and the following you have from that and turning into a published series.” I’d had this pitch from other agents before, I think even one from her agency. I never took them, it meant less freedom to write what I wanted because they all wanted me to be the next big Mommy Blogger turned Best Selling Author.

“Okay.”

“I think your story is a very intriguing one and would resonate well with readers.”

“What about my story?”

“You’re a young single mom and doing this all on your own.”

“I mean, I appreciate that but I’m not. That old saying ‘it takes a village’ is true, I have a pretty badass one behind me.” She visibly cringed when I said badass.

“Yes, and I think talking about that is important as well.” She didn’t actually think that her eyes told me she’d edit out the mentions of my 26-year-old sister who gave up her single girl life at 24 to move in with her suddenly single sister who needed help with her kids.

“I’m sure you know that your agency has approached me with a similar pitch before.” She nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. “And that I’ve turned it down before." She again took a sip. “What makes your idea different?”

“I want to focus on the love story involved.”

“So this is meant to be a fictional retelling of my life?”

“Yes, you don’t need to rehash your blog in a self-help book. You’re a talented writer and great storyteller. I’d like to tell that story.”

“I don't know if I’m comfortable telling that story.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the other half of that love story isn’t here to sign off on it. And I don’t want my daughter to someday pick up a book and read it thinking she’s going to hear the charming love story of her mom and dad and figure out that it was edited into softcore porn.”

“Oh my god. That is not my intention.”

“That is the modern romance novel.”

“I think yours can be different. And your concern about the other half of your love story is unable to sign off on it, I knew Greyson well. He would be supportive.”

And we’ve reached the point of the conversation that makes me want to scream. People claiming they knew what Greyson would think. Most people knew the person Greyson presented to the public, they didn’t know him. Marianne was one of them. If I remember correctly they’d sat on a non-profit board together and that she’d been insanely jealous that he’d fallen in love with a 22-year-old political journalist and had a whirlwind romance that resulted in a short courtship, a rather small beachfront wedding on a private island, and two sickeningly cute kids. I also know she wouldn’t trade places with me in a heartbeat even if she thought that the love story was that of a best selling novel.

The Greyson I knew would’ve loved the idea of me writing fiction because it would’ve kept me in one place instead of me being on a bus in the middle of nowhere or riding a train to DC every other week. And because romance is less stressful than politics. But he wouldn’t have wanted me to describe in detail what our romance was like. It also wasn’t just me and our kids I had to worry about. I had his three older kids and ex-wife to worry about. But no one ever thought of that. They just thought of the idea of this pretty 29-year-old widow and her two gorgeous kids.

“I appreciate your time, Marianne, I truly do. But I have to politely decline.”

“Why is that?”

“Greyson’s legacy deserves more than some smutty fiction meant to get the stay-at-home mom crowd all hot and bothered.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She could tell she’d set me off.

“You also have to consider that Greyson has three other children, not just mine. I’d have to be concerned about how they felt about it. I don’t write about Greyson often out of respect for his older children, they are in college and prefer to keep a lower profile. Having their step-mother write a romance novel about their father isn’t fair.”

“Well, I have an offer for you that I’d like to give you. Take it home. Look it over. Talk to all of the kids. I hope you consider it.” She handed me an envelope before standing up. I stood as well, knowing I’d have to give her a hug before she left.“Thank you for meeting with me. I hope you and the kids are doing well and I hope to hear from you soon. Please know that my intention in meeting you today wasn’t to upset you and that I do truly think you have a beautiful story to tell. I want you to tell the story you want to tell. Be it self-help, fiction, or memoir. Greyson often gushed of your talent. That man loved you more than breathing and the world needs more stories like that. So truly, I do hope you reconsider my offer.”

“I’ll take a closer look at it and think through it. I’m sorry about overreacting.” Her face softened as she sank back into her chair causing me to sit back down in mine. “I have a lot of people who want THE story.”

“Not at all. That is your choice to tell. I approached with a fictionalized version because it might be easier for you to write. Though for a memoir I’d still offer that same deal. You went through a lot. I tried to reach out.”

“I know. I shut out his world. It was easier than dealing with the sad eyes and the uncomfortable hugs. People who didn’t know what to say to the 26-year-old pregnant girl who suddenly didn’t have a husband. The nosy ones asked.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it was. You and Greyson were so in love. Losing him so unexpectedly was hard for everyone that knew him, but for you and Finnigan, well I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it was. I take it by the request to meet in Tribeca that you have moved back to Lower Manhattan.”

“I have. The apartment was done and we’d still been living in the brownstone in Brooklyn. It was too much being there so the kids and I moved at the end of summer into the penthouse of the building on Greenwich Street.”

“That’s a gorgeous building. I have a client who lives there.”

“He always had a vision for that stuff. It is just as he’d imagined the whole place would look when it was over.”

“Did you sell the brownstone?” she asked. Everyone always had questions about the real estate, I didn’t fault them for that. Greyson was known for that. It was a way for people to connect with him.

“No, it was an investment property when we moved into it. It’s not far from my parents and was going to be perfect for a big family. The penthouse is much better for me and the kids. My sister Nellie lives with us as well.”

“I think I remember Margaret telling me that.” Now I felt like a super bitch. I forgot this woman was also friends with my older sister.

“Yeah, Nellie moved in immediately. She is loving Tribeca.”

“Is she still working at Refinery29?”

“She is,” I replied. “She loves it. A lot of places have tried to steal her but the freedom she has there is perfect for her.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“Still writing for Huffington Post on occasion. I occasionally get picked up by other outlets, mainly my parenting stuff.”

“Do you miss politics?”

“I still get to write about it a bit, but yes. Especially this time of year. The Iowa caucus is in a few weeks. I’m supposed to be following a candidate around from diners to VFW halls in small snow-covered towns. But instead, I get to sit in the comfort of my penthouse apartment and text back and forth with my friends who are still part of the press pool. They pretty much all hate me.” She laughed a bit. We talked for a little while longer, long enough that I missed the spin class I’d been hoping to make and knew I needed to head back to the apartment and let Bridget get to her part-time job. I stood to finally say a real farewell to Marianne.

“Thank you for meeting with me. Look at the offer. Talk it over with his kids and if they are okay with it I hope you consider it.”

“I will.” As I went to walk out of the coffee shop with her I saw a very sweaty Harry standing in line for coffee. “Hi,” I said smiling.

“Hi, Janie. How are you?” he asked.

“I’m good. How are you?”

“Sweaty or I’d hug you. I just got done with class at Soul Cycle.”

“Dammit you made it to the class I was supposed to go to!” Marianne was standing awkwardly because she was ready to leave. “Marianne, I’ll call you in a few days. Thanks again.”

“Thank you,” she replied. It was hugs and air kisses and she was out the door.

“Sorry, my meeting ran long and I missed class. I’m still pissed.”

“Want to grab a coffee with me instead?” he asked. He was a few people from the front. I caught Noelle looking at us and she raised an eyebrow.

“Normally I would love to but Noelle put four shots of espresso in my latte and I have to go relieve the babysitter that is at the apartment now and get the kids fed before the next babysitter comes in for the evening.”

“Alright well maybe sometime soon since you appear to live near me.”

“Send me a DM and we can grab coffee sometime this week.” I smiled through the rest of our goodbye and was out the door and hurried home. I paid and relieved Bridget while running around the house getting stuff ready for Elizabeth to get here for tonight. She loved coming and spending time with the kids and Nellie demanded we have a girls night tonight and was dragging me out to some restaurant and for drinks. I needed to make sure the sheets on the guest bed were clean because Elizabeth often stayed if she babysat late.

“Hello,” she called as she walked into the foyer.

“I’ll be down in a second,” I yelled back. One last pillow was thrown on the bed and I headed downstairs. There she stood looking like a model with her blonde hair and long legs. Her gorgeous figure was that of her mother, her steel blue eyes were her father’s and looked exactly like the pair I’d woken up to this morning. I gave her a hug quickly. “Hi, Lilibet. How are you?”

“I’m good," she said as she followed me into the kitchen. “You look frazzled.”

“Too much caffeine, not enough sleep, longer than necessary meeting today and really no desire to go out tonight with Nellie.”

“You need it, I can tell. Plus Aunt Nellie text me earlier and told me that because Finny had been sick all weekend that you’ve barely slept because he’s been sleeping in your room.”

“He has.”

“Then you definitely need the night out. But that’s not why you're so frazzled, what was the meeting?”

“A literary agent.”

“What about?”

“She wants me to look at writing fiction. Or a memoir or self-help or something. I don’t really know. I haven’t looked at her offer,” I said as I gestured to the envelope in front of her. Marianne had written on it with her perfect handwriting, scrawled across the envelope, Jane Murphy. “I mean she clearly doesn’t even know who to make the offer to.”

“Yeah, who is Jane Murphy?” Elizabeth asked laughing. “Dad would’ve loved to see this and made SO much fun of you.”

“I know, I nearly gagged seeing it but I could hear him in my mind. ‘Jane Murphy, if dreams came true that would be your name,’ he was such a pain in my ass sometimes.”

“He was a pain in both of our asses. I had one of those moments last night. I was set up on a blind date, didn’t ask too much because I just wanted to shut my roommate up. Turns out it was the President of the Young Republicans on campus.”

“Your father would’ve LOVED that. His rowdy feminist 21-year-old, the firstborn, stubborn, pain in his rear on a date with a Republican. His laugh would’ve filled the house.”

“I know. I miss him.”

“It’s okay to still miss him. I do every day.”

“And it’s okay for you to go out and have fun sometimes, you know that right?” I nodded. She opened the envelope. “Janie, you didn’t look at this at all?” I shook my head. “You might want to consider her offer.”

“I’d never want to. She wants the love story of Greyson and Jane. That’s not fair to you, Becks, Jameson or your mother.”

“Mom wouldn’t care, they’d been split forever by the time he met you. Rebecca wouldn’t mind and Jameson would hope people would assume he was as romantic as his dad and go on dates with him. He’s 18 and a freshman at Columbia, girls are the only thing on his mind.”

“He’s a mini-version of your Dad that’s for sure."

“Think about it and then come to us. We all love you and support you. We want you to be happy and do what you want. And Dad would too.” I hugged her tightly. Elizabeth was my biggest fear when I met her father. I’m a mere 8 years older than my oldest step-daughter. Turns out we bonded really quickly and it was Rebecca, the middle child, that took a bit more work. Elizabeth, or Lilibet as her Dad had always called her, came to watch the kids at least one night a week and last summer after we moved into the apartment was here every day. She was in school at NYU and we were often times a better dinner option than takeout and ramen noodles. We were also closer than her mother who lived on the Upper West Side. She was the one who took to the kids fastest. In fact, she offered to step in to play the role of birthing coach when I needed one for Grey.

“I made up your bed upstairs. You should stay with us tonight. I’ll make breakfast tomorrow. Do you have anything tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Why don’t we have a day with the kids then? Finny has been begging for a day with his big sister.”

“I’d love to. It's kind of boring at my apartment. Only one of my roommates is still around and Becks is already gone.” Rebecca had opted to go to college in London, she’d taken the loss of her Dad the hardest and just wanted out. She had only come home for a few weeks for Christmas and wouldn’t be back until summer. The kids, Elizabeth and I had a plan to go visit in March over part of Elizabeth’s break and around Grey’s birthday.

“Is it the roommate you hate?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“You know you can sublease your room and move here if you want. The kids would love it. I’ve told your Mom that if you decide that you can just save what she is putting towards rent and I’ll cover everything.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“If your Dad was here that room upstairs would be yours anyway. You had a rough fall semester with roommates. Think about it. But we’d love to have you here. I promise to not force you to babysit your brother and sister constantly too.”

“We’ll talk about it. Have the kids eaten?” she asked.

“Not yet but I ordered delivery from that Chinese restaurant you love. She wants to grow up to be like you so Grey is excited to eat it.” Elizabeth laughed.

“Go get ready for dinner then. I know that Aunt Nellie said she wanted to make happy hour somewhere or something.”

“I will.” I ran upstairs with Elizabeth on my heels and as I entered the bathroom I heard the kids cheers as she walked into their playroom. I started to curl and pin my hair so they would hold throughout the night. Before too long Elizabeth came into the bathroom with Greyson. Their matching blonde hair and eyes always melted my heart. My little girl looked like her big sister and both of them looked like their Daddy minus ending up with the blonde hair from their mothers. What can I say, Greyson loved blondes. “How are my girls?”

“You’re pretty, Mommy,” Grey said.

“Aww, thanks.” I leaned over and kissed her chubby little cheek. I’d finally started on my makeup knowing that Nellie would be home any minute and probably would’ve scheduled some makeup trial how-to video or something at the end of her day so she looked perfect. My phone vibrated on the counter, I glared down expecting it to be her, it wasn’t so I pushed it aside as it vibrated again. “What should Mommy wear out tonight?”

“Pretty dress,” Grey answered.

“Let’s pick something out!” Elizabeth said excitedly jumping down off the counter and picking up her little sister to head into the master closet. Elizabeth loved fashion and I’d sort of thought she’d end up at the Fashion Institute of Technology for school but ended up at NYU and was studying Dramatic Writing in the Tisch School of the Arts. She was amazing and already planning on applying for graduate school at Tisch as well. She loved school and learning. We were opposites in that manner. If you told her she could be in school and learn forever she would and I’d graduated college in three years because I wanted to be in the real world.

“Nothing too short,” I called after Elizabeth.

“No…short!” Nellie called as she walked into the bathroom. I flipped her off. “You look cute so far.”

“Thanks. I knew you’d come home with a full face of makeup and your hair done.”

“We did videos at the end of the day.”

“Of course you did,” I replied as I rolled my eyes. “I shouldn’t be too much longer. I know you wanted to hit up some happy hour thing.” It was 6:00 and food for the kids should be here shortly and I knew that Nellie would want to go out early. It was weird, she normally loved going out late but she always claimed after work happy hour was great. She’d actually met her current boyfriend at happy hour. I finished my makeup just as Elizabeth and Grey came out with a short burgundy dress with high neck.

“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked.

“It’s perfect, Lilibet.” I quickly changed, threw on some heels and allowed Nellie to shove me out the door after 10,000 kisses on the cheeks of my kids. "So why do we need a night out?”

“Because you haven’t gone out since that Christmas party that you drug me to in the middle of December.”

“I have kids I can’t go out every night.”

“Yeah, but you can have a social life. You’re only 29 sis. It’s not like your life is over. You’re young.”

“I know but I have two kids at home to worry about, three if you count that Lilibet is there a couple nights a week.”

“Yes and because Lilibet is there occasionally it’s okay for you to go out with me and get a drink every once in a while." We walked into the bar she'd picked for happy hour and got a seat. It was nice to spend some time with my younger sister without the kids. She was amazing at helping me with them but sometimes we got so used to speaking in kid code that it would be midnight and she’d still be trying not to swear when she spoke.

Drinks and appetizers were great. We caught up on how her trip to Miami had been and I told her about the offer I’d been given at my coffee meeting with Marianne. Then we were headed to the next restaurant for dinner. I’d let her pick the entire evening but told her that we needed to stay within walking distance of the apartment because Finn was still sick and I felt pretty terrible making Elizabeth watch him when he wasn’t feeling well.

“Just one more drink,” she begged.

“Fine. One and then I need to go home. I want to give Lilibet the chance to go home if she wants.”

“She’s staying and you know it. She hates her apartment.” We were linked arm-in-arm as we walked towards the bar she claimed we needed to go to next.

“I actually told her she could move in with us if she wanted.”

“I would love that.”

“I figured you would. You and Lilibet get along really well. She loves going out and having fun, I’m old and a Mom.”

“You’re not old. In fact, you’re young. You’re young, beautiful and you deserve to go on a date or I don’t know, have sex again before you die.”

“Nel!”

“What?! You haven’t had sex in over two years.”

“I mean that’s not by choice. My husband died.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean you have to completely swear off of the possibility of ever having someone special in your life or getting laid again.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation. You’re being terribly rude. Like why on earth do you care if I ever get laid again?”

“Because you’re my sister and I love you. You had one of the most epic loves of all-time. But Greyson would be angry at you for refusing to live just because he isn’t.” We’d stopped outside the door of the bar she wanted to go to while we were having this conversation. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream, cry, run away or tell her she was right. I had stopped living. I’d stayed in the bedroom in the brownstone for the first month after the funeral and not left. Finn would come lay with me all day and tell me he wanted to play and the farthest I’d take him was the tiny back garden we had where I’d sit in my robe, drinking decaf coffee, and wishing I could drown my sorrows in vodka but I couldn’t because I was pregnant.

Despite being two years younger than me Nellie had given me one of these stern talks more than once in recent memory. There was the one the day she showed up with a truck full of her belongings and moved into a spare bedroom in the brownstone. She told me that Finnigan deserved someone who wanted to take him to the park and feed him more than processed shit for dinner and that if I couldn’t keep it together to be a Mom for him that she was going to do it. After a few days of hearing them laugh together, I emerged from the bed. Then there was last spring when I was still sulking around the house nearly two years after Greyson was gone. I still wore my wedding ring every day, I’d refused to date and told everyone that it was too soon to move on, that I just wasn’t ready. Nellie told me that I needed to take the ring off and go on a date. I’d done it. It was the worst date of my life. I left wishing I could call Greyson and tell him how terrible this guy was. The next date was less terrible and things had gotten easier from there. No one had made it past date three. I always freaked out. Date three when I was younger was the date that my friends all claimed was the sex date. I wasn’t ready to have sex again so I avoided having a decent third date. The one guy I’d thought might be worth dating I’d sabotaged the date in fear of having to get naked in front of someone. I mean a woman’s body post-baby isn’t the same and what if he didn’t get it and ran and then I was stuck have caught feelings for a guy who left. So I was the worst date ever and he offered to get me an Uber home.

Last summer she told me it was time to stop hiding in Brooklyn. That part of why I was finding it so hard to move one was because I was surrounded by memories of Greyson. Every single inch of our house was filled with happy memories of him and our family. The penthouse in Tribeca had been finished for a while and sitting empty. It was the project Greyson was working on when he died. It was in an area I loved and close enough to the Financial District that his commute to work wouldn’t be terrible. He’d bought the entire building and renovated it but our penthouse was the final project. So after the verbal lashing from my sister, we packed up the house in Brooklyn, put it back on the rental market and moved into this lavish apartment he’d been working on. While I saw pieces of him around the house it was in the design and function, not because of memories like watching Finn take his first step or dancing when we found out we were pregnant with Grey.

Now here we are, on the streets of Manhattan outside of a crowded bar a few blocks from that apartment and I was getting verbally abused by my sister again. This time about how I’d shut my heart off and refused to let myself fall in love. I’d always believed that you only got one true love in life and that Greyson was mine. My sister, however, believed that it was possible to have more than one and that it was time for me to find my next one.

“Janie?” came a voice from behind Nellie. It was a British accent so I was thrown off a bit until I saw him come into the light and I smiled.

“Twice in one day?” I asked. “Are you stalking me?”

“No, just lucky,” he replied.

“Smooth Talker. How is Harper feeling?”

“Good enough that she requested a movie night with Nana and kicked me out of the house.”

“Helps that her godfather asked nicely and with some candy. I’m Ed, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Janie,” I answered. “This is my sister, Nellie.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Nellie. I’m Harry.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Nellie said sticking her hand out. I knew she was going to smack me as soon as they were out of sight.

“So can I buy you both a drink?” Harry asked. “I’ve been told I have to stay out until at least 11:00 because then when I get home Harper will be asleep enough that I would feel guilty sneaking in to say goodnight.”

“Yes, you can buy us a drink. We will be inside in a second. She’ll have a glass of red, you pick she’ll literally drink anything, and I’ll have a tequila on ice.”

“Fantastic,” Harry said before heading inside.

“You know Harry Styles and Ed Sheeran?” my sister practically screamed at me after the door shut.

“I don’t know Ed Sheeran and this is the third time in three days that I’ve run into Harry Styles. It’s not like we are best friends or anything.”

“THREE TIMES?”

“Yeah, the first was at the pediatrician on Monday. He and his daughter Harper sat next to Finny and I. Then this morning I ran into him at my coffee meeting. That bastard got to go to the spin cycle class I wanted to go to while I sat and listened to Marianne tell me that I needed to write a romance novel about Greyson and I. You witnessed time three.”

“You saw him with his kid? Did your ovaries explode?”

“Don’t think so. Why?”

“Because Harry and Harper Styles are about the cutest thing on the planet. Half of my office is obsessed with them.”

“He was just another dad with a sick kid in the waiting room. It’s not like I immediately was trying to figure out how to fuck him or something. Turns out he reads the stuff I write or at least the parenting stuff.”

“How did you not tell me any of this?”

“Umm you abandoned me and your sick nephew for Miami for a long weekend and just got back late Monday and I didn’t see you yesterday. Plus he was just another Dad in the waiting room. It’s not like he was asking me out on a date or anything.” He did ask me to get coffee this morning but I’ll keep that to myself. “Can we go inside?”

“Yes, yes we can.” She opened the door and we walked in. I scanned the room quickly seeing Harry wave at us from a tall table towards the back. He stood to help me into my chair.

“So what are you two lovely ladies doing out tonight?” he asked.

“Nel decided I needed a night out. She sent a cry for help to my step-daughter and demanded she come watch the kids. My step-daughter evidently thinks I need a night out too because she told me to go out and it was similar to your mother’s ‘don’t come back and think you can wake the kids up to say goodnight’ talk when we were heading out the door.”

“How old is your step-daughter?” Ed asked. His face was one I saw frequently when I talked about kids.

“Twenty-one. Why? Need a date?” He nearly shot his beer out of his mouth.

“How old is your husband?” This was always the next question. Harry and Nellie both tried to get him not to ask the question. Knowing that Harry avidly read what I wrote meant I didn’t have to explain the whole widow thing.

“He was 45 when he died. I was 26 nearly 27. Yes, big age difference. He was married once before. My step kids are 21, 20, and 18. You aren’t the first person to think that was weird. It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“Don’t apologize. He’s not the first to ask and won’t be the last. Most people have always thought Lilibet was my sister.”

“Lilibet?” Harry asked.

“Elizabeth, my weird husband once found out that Queen Elizabeth II’s family called her Lilibet and called his oldest that. Then there’s Rebecca who is 20, they are Irish twins but couldn’t be more different. Becks lives in London. And the youngest is Jameson. Jamie lives in New York and goes to Columbia. He still lives with their Mom. Lilibet goes to NYU and is not too far from here. Then my two littles are Finnigan, he’s four, and Greyson or Grey and she’s two.”

“That’s a lot of kids.” Ed’s eyes went wide.

“Yeah, my husband loved his kids.” I knew I was doing something bad based on the look that Nellie was giving me. She seemed to think that Harry was some potential love interest or something because she was giving me the ‘don’t talk about your dead husband’ look that she often gave around cute guys. “So what have you two been up to tonight?”

“We did dinner and are here for some drinks. We were in the studio late this afternoon.”

“Which of you is working on a new album?” Nellie asked excitedly.

“Neither of us really. We were doing some writing. Doing demos to send out to artists. He’s got an album almost finished and I’ve promised myself nothing towards an album until Harper is two which isn’t until the end of March.”

“Grey’s birthday is the middle of March.”

“I know this,” he said. “I may have stolen some of your party planning ideas from your party prep last year. Harper is a week younger than Grey.”

“Aww,” Nellie and Ed both said at the same time. I gave them both a look and turned back to the conversation with Harry.

“Did Grey get sick?”

“Thank god no! Mom kept her in Brooklyn until it was time for bed Monday night and by the time the kids were moving around it was nearly 24 hours of Finny on antibiotics. And he’s starting to feel like himself today.”

“That’s good.” He really did seem sweet and I’d be stupid if I didn’t admit he was cute. I mean the dimples, the eyes, the accent. I’d be lying if I didn’t think he was cute. But despite my sister telling me I needed to date I wasn’t 100% ready to sit and flirt with a guy for a night. A phone buzzed on the table and Harry and I both glanced down to see which of us lit up. “It’s you.”

Message from Lilibet: Both of the kids are passed out cold. I hope you’re having fun. I realized that I’d done my laundry here last week and left some clothes to dry so I have clothes for tomorrow. I’m just gonna stay the night. Sounds perfect. Maybe tomorrow we can talk you staying permanently. Maybe we can. Now stop texting me and have fun!

“Sorry, Lilibet wanted me to know the kids were asleep and she’s staying with us tonight.”

“Don’t worry. I’m just jealous it wasn’t my Mum. I really hope Harp is asleep.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. You deserve a night out.”

“I know.” We eventually all decided it was time to leave and headed out of the bar. It was nearing midnight and I hated being out this late with Elizabeth watching the kids. She always refused money. She told me that because I wasn’t making her break into her inheritance or trust fund to pay for school or living expenses that babysitting her brother and sister on occasion wasn’t too bad. “Do you need a cab?” Harry asked.

“Nah, we only live a couple blocks from here. It’s an easy walk.”

“I’m gonna get a cab to head to my hotel. I’ll see you after lunch tomorrow buddy.” He gave a manly hug to Harry. “It was very nice to meet both of you,” Ed said as he gave a hug to both Nellie and I. We started to walk and Harry walked with us.

“You don’t need to walk us home or anything. We are big girls and I carry pepper spray.”

“It’s okay, I want to walk you both home, make sure you get there okay.”

“Okay,” I said.

“So Nellie are you going to get in trouble for being hungover in the morning?”

“Nah, I’ll just go in late. We are flexible like that. I could even work from home tomorrow if I wanted.”

“That’s nice,” Harry said. “You work from home, right, Janie?”

“I do. We have an office set up for me at the apartment so I can write from home. I’ve got a few pieces for Huffington Post I need to work on this week. It’s almost caucus and primary season. Time to brush up my political writing skills.”

“What she means is she needs to learn how to be somewhat unbiased about politics.”

“I mean not completely. I’m no longer just a straightforward political journalist. As a columnist, I’m given the freedom to have an opinion while I write. Plus I write a lot about women’s issues and in this election women have one big GIANT issue and it’s the Cheeto living in the White House.” Harry started to laugh. “Sorry. I get a little angry about it sometimes.”

“You’re fine,” he replied. “You’re entitled to an opinion and I happen to agree with the one you have. Sadly because I have not applied for citizenship I can’t do anything to help but I’ll listen to you rant if you need it.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and giggled a little bit. After a few more minutes we came upon the building. “Well, this is us. Thanks for walking us home.”

“You’re kidding, right? This is you?”

“Yeah, this is us. Why?”

“This is also me. How have I never seen you here?”

“She’s a hermit who never leaves the apartment,” Nellie said.

“Fuck you, Nel. But yes, I’m a hermit. I rarely leave my apartment. We just moved here last like August. I wanted to be here in time to get Finny into a preschool near here for half day classes.”

“Which unit are you in?” he asked. Ugh, I hated this question.

“Penthouse A,” I said as we walked into the building.

“I mean not to be a dick but how do two writers afford a penthouse in this building?”

“You’re not being a dick. I get asked that a lot.”

“Her husband was the developer of the building,” Nellie answered.

“Yeah, Greyson was a fairly big real estate developer and owned a venture capital firm. I was well taken care of. The penthouse had been our plan when he died. It just took me a while to move in because of his death.”

“That’s understandable. Well, maybe we need to get the kids together for a playdate soon.”

“I would like that,” I said. I reached into my purse and grabbed one of my cards, it had my cell phone number on it. “Text me in the morning and we’ll set something up.”

“I’d like that a lot. Have a good night ladies.” After hugs, we were in the elevator and headed upstairs. I got to listen to Nellie and Elizabeth gush about how I knew Harry Styles as I changed into my pajamas. I kicked them out and climbed into bed.

Message from Unknown Number: It was nice running into you twice today. Yes, it was. Thank you for buying all my drinks tonight. I’m guessing the penthouse apartment thing made you realize that was unnecessary. Sorry I hate that. Greyson was the one with the money. I'm still not really used to it. Don’t worry about it. Buying a pretty woman a drink isn’t a terrible way to spend money. And don’t feel bad about having money. I didn’t think you were one of the stuck up moms in the waiting room. You were the one I made friends with. It’s still unusual to me. I literally spent the first year and a half out of college staying in terrible hotel rooms and living on vending machine food while I covered an election. I met my husband at a fundraising event I was covering. He had enough money to be in the room, I barely had clothes nice enough to get past the door. You’re fine. I won’t judge you for having money. ;) I’ll text you in the morning. We should get the kids together. Unless you have plans with Lilibet. We might. I’m trying to convince her to move in. Her apartment is terrible and she hates her roommates. She should be here with us. Hey if there’s another babysitter in the building I’m for it. I’ll help convince her to move in. She’s mine. Back off. I’ll fight you for her. Goodnight, Janie. Goodnight, Harry.

And there it is. The final part of the introduction to this series! This part was quite a bit longer than the first two but I wanted to give Janie a chance to have a bit of her story told. There are still a lot of things about her story that will be revealed throughout the different pieces of this story. We will learn about the kids, about what happened to Greyson, and perhaps a little bit about their love story. Her story is a bit dark, but sometimes life can be too, and seeing how she makes it through the dark (ooo 1D lyric reference) is important to who she is.

But the exciting thing is to see how she and Harry develop a bond about their shared life experiences and as they navigate their lives as single parents.

As I stated before I intend on jumping forward and backward in time to tell this story. So we will get to hear about how Harry became a Dad, what made him decide on New York, and how he attempts to date as a single dad. So here is the exciting part...REQUESTS ARE OPEN! I do intend on staying in the first part of Harry and Janie getting to know each other but I want to know what YOU want to read. And I’ll add them to a list that I pick from as I write.

As always, any and all feedback is welcomed with open arms. The only way to write this stuff in a manner that pleases the audience is to know what the audience likes. So please, let me know what you think.

xx. AM

7 notes · View notes

saleoutletsneakers-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Golden Goose Womens Superstar Sneakers Sale UK How that Would Earn finances Marketing halloween Party Supplies

The quite possibly true path - wealth is a holiday and along the lines of a pilgrimage. It should require patience and therefore it includes momentum. One particular way your build the wealth is generally by accumulating the offspring that usually are laid daily; and finally use when to bring another goose that sits golden eggs. It really is as simple by means of that. Accompanied by you 've got two goose that remain you a pair eggs common and the person have certainly doubled your primary wealth. Precisely what a complete lot of many do Golden Goose Womens Superstar Sneakers Sale ften is because consumers cannot stall and would love everything today; they visit and transport down these goose trusting that their short time period satisfactions are going so that you can bring merrymaking to most of the lives; mostly to look up out daily they make put alone in a meaningful worse Golden Goose Superstar Sneakers Sale osition then these folks were. Although, they're going to are truly valuable, mainly among top level ranking companies, if a look near and evaluate to appear Golden Goose Womens Superstar Sneakers Sale UK here on sell the site on i would say the Internet (which is exclusively . your greatest resource connected with all to sell through), you have the ability to find those there is ordinarily not the actual lot involving information gone there. For fact, most of of your entire information are inclined to come hailing from forums, which inturn web stylistes are thinking about the concern as within order to where so as to sell the entire group. So, even do your company sell them? The answer to so question is also simple. Any Internet. Although there might possibly not develop into an over abundance connected with knowledge simply because to where to go the leads, that is truly where those business is. And, due to a little guidance, just what you will, no doubt definitely appear here, the public will often be in the main position that would sell and as well profit. One created by the buzzwords or spot phrases wafting around unquestionably the financial rings is 'wealth creation.' The idea has gotten prominence owing to to these ability associated the coordinator or real estate professional to improve their concentration on all encompasing wealth now with their men and women instead akin to just get back on the right particular money. While a holistic method is some very healthy one, exactly wealth design strategies lack really are a understood strategy to get accomplishing well, wealth enhancement! These options often become damaged or vastly under execute because they don't successfully account to produce one of all the most well known parts amongst the abundance picture or that's the very home! Vook becoming started with entrepreneur Bradley Inman along with launched throughout October 1, 2009 with the four very first titles. Only one year later, Vook has got some 10 titles. Partners include San Diego's Absolutely no Limit Publishing, Filipacchi publishing, Woman's Day of the week Brand Group, Simon Schuster, Atria Books, HarperStudio, HarperCollins Publishers, Perseus Reserves Group, Lark Productions, The Chopra Foundation, Vanguard Press, Waxman Literary Agency, also TurnHere On line Video. It has come any kind of day the fact that we may no for a count the exact corporate world, stock community or the government in order to really be normally for our organization when people around the globe are happy to leave the workplace. The good news, people have all of the internet, some sort of resource that past decades did not actually have. Some sort of internet is giving standard people this kind of you together with I make use of to formulate wealth, love nothing people around the globe have in fact seen beforehand. Are everyone ready towards take whole advantage relating to it? Within unquestionably the 'Jar' riches management system, the stock freedom deposit is necessitated for making your 'cheap golden goose sneakers' and specific play scenario is intended to you ought to be used with regards to guilt-free expending. The only rules to have these double accounts probably are that financial mobility account typically is never paid out only put and re-investing to try to create wealth. But the play account must absolutely be dedicated each and every month in any kind of way because makes you might feel creditable. The take up account taking on is always to avert the subconscious mind far from undermining unquestionably the focus high on building assets. This is truly where our own wife and thus I has some acquiring to execute and conquered our rating programming. Unfortunately, that is essentially the simple fact. Like practically business, this needs time to grow, work accessible the kinks, become established, and in this case start having in margin. And one particular first action in a process is going to be gaining so as much facts and strategies possible something like the new line in work we want up to be with regard to. The pro consultant determine up each office when it comes to a miniature support squad in their corporate home office and proceeded to groundwork the setting. He together with the orchards that matured the olives and canvased the planting, cultivating but also harvesting Golden Goose Deluxe Brand Superstar Sneakers rocedures. Next david examined your current storage and in addition ripening development. He spend time among their commuter division mentioning how the olives finished up moved after the rnch to garage area and via storage to positively the house plant. He conscientiously observed bottling, back and delivery overseas to this markets. Third he viewed at generally marketing on top of that sales treatments. After months time of groundwork he coupled with his business considered the mountain regarding data they're going to had developed and strongly recommended a time of action.

0 notes

cheapshoesggdb-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Golden Goose Deluxe Brand Superstar Sneakers Sale UK How To Earn personal Savings Marketing festival Supplies

The reputable path you can wealth is in fact a pathway and akin to a pilgrimage. It demands patience on top of that it consists of momentum. Any way someone build the wealth would be by accumulating the eggs that usually are laid daily; and Golden Goose Deluxe Brand Superstar Sneakers Sale inally use which often to identify another goose that sits golden chicken eggs. It totally is seeing that simple because that. Afterward you gain two goose that then lie you involving eggs form of car and you have certainly doubled your trusty wealth. Precisely what a great of humans do is very much because consumers cannot wait and would love everything Golden Goose Superstar Sneakers Sale UK oday; they run and get down specific goose trusting that their short promise satisfactions normally going up to bring happiness to most of the lives; only real to find out later they have put their company in the actual worse state then folks were. Although, how they are definitely valuable, especially among top ranking companies, if yourself look strongly and try to get where to sell this method on all the Internet (which is unsurprisingly your extremely resource to all in order to sell through), you will find that there is definitely not a suitable lot from information on the internet there. From fact, more of personal information 'll come of forums, ones web stylistes are posing the situation as that would where with regard to sell these kinds of. So, even do a person sell both of them? The say to who question could be described as simple. Any Internet. Although there will probably not wind up an earlier mentioned abundance coming from all knowledge exactly as to even to sell the leads, that has always been where most of the business is. And, together with a little bit guidance, normally you could very well definitely determine here, you will turn out to be in the main position in order to really sell and in addition profit. One connected with the buzzwords or watch phrases wafting around this financial cirs is 'wealth creation.' Doing this has added prominence to be paid to these ability along with the manager or realtor to broaden their concentration on all encompasing wealth now with their customers and prospects instead of just return on a particular outlay. While the actual holistic mindset is a meaningful very beneficial one, those actions wealth creation strategies frequently lack become a discussed strategy to suit accomplishing well, wealth construction! These tactics often flop or a lot Golden Goose Deluxe Brand Superstar Sneakers Sale UK nder perform because all the people don't account to get one connected the largest parts using the huge selection picture and as a consequence that's any home! Vook most likely was started a entrepreneur Bradley Inman and as a consequence launched through October 1, 2009 while using four premier titles. At least one year later, Vook showcases some a hundred or so titles. Newlyweds include San Diego's Without Limit Publishing, Filipacchi publishing, Woman's Event Brand Group, Simon Schuster, Atria Books, HarperStudio, HarperCollins Publishers, Perseus Text books Group, Lark Productions, The very Chopra Foundation, Vanguard Press, Waxman Literary Agency, not to mention TurnHere Internet Video. It may have come a very day very we has the potential to no longer the password count this corporate world, stock real estate market or each government to help you be there for our organization when my husband and i are all set to go to bed. The extremely news, people around the globe have internet, a very resource the fact that past family did no have. An internet is without a doubt giving normal people adore you as well as a I multiply to formulate wealth, similarly to nothing people around the globe have ever seen prior to now. Are we ready on take king advantage together with it? Within the most important 'Jar' money management system, the fiscal freedom password is necessitated for building your 'cheap golden goose sneakers' and some sort of play credit account is headed to be used when guilt-free utilizing. The huge rules for the these double accounts are already that a financial mobility account is probably never squandered only invested and re-investing to initiate wealth. While the action account have to be you spend each along with every pretty good period now in a way through which makes a person will feel acceptable. The work account spending is generally to stay away from the subconscious mind from undermining which the focus about building influence. This is actually where a good wife and I had gotten some practicing to go about doing and overwhelmed our rating programming. Unfortunately, which in turn is essentially the actually. Like a new business, who's needs working hours to grow, work offered the kinks, become established, and then start supplying in earnings. And a first action in the idea process is also gaining available as much critical info possible about the contemporary line involving work you and your family want up to be using. The professional person consultant fixed up a major office among a smaller support worker in her or his corporate headquarters and proceeded to investigation the experience. He bands the orchards that became the olives and calculated the planting, cultivating as well as the harvesting types of procedures. Next this person examined generally storage combined with ripening procedure. He put time when it comes to their transportation division observing how the olives becoming moved everything from the rnch to holding and away from storage as a way to the house plant. He conscientiously observed bottling, presentation and delivery overseas to the markets. As a final point he seen at my marketing and as a result sales convention. After the seasons of master he to his team members considered some mountain for data most people had developed and advised a plan of factor.

0 notes

gplewis · 7 years ago

Text

a few failed beginnings

Why one writes: to unload one’s neuroses without having to explain what every little thing means. it’s a place to talk without being analyzed; perhaps there’s no skin in the game or it’s post-skin somehow; it’s a vortex with comfy clothes

Luckily I’ll never be as obsessed about the perfection of these pages than I was when I was desperate for progress in those critical formative years of 26, 27, 28, 29 and 30. Yes, I’m a bit self-righteous about my age and experience now. I am a new narrator.

“Once written, the text becomes fixed.” —Ismail Kadare https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1105/ismail-kadare-the-art-of-fiction-no-153-ismail-kadare

thank God I failed at fame

I’m an enthusiastic innovator OK with failure; I like the brotherhood of the workday, I make a job a way to satisfaction and participation in the economy a form of play and spirituality; money is value and time is a fresh canvas to blow into and try to be heard by the system in the language it speaks; yes, systems and analytics need their preachers. It’s fun to know what to do and stay focused on the people.

I still want to play piano, sing, play tennis and soccer and baseball, have the choice always to turn to reading or listening (Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff)

—

the book is a record of the person I was, and I feel pride in the young person who was able to write it all down https://theparisreview.org/interviews/6312/henri-cole-the-art-of-poetry-no-98-henri-cole ^ him at 40

another Saturday morning washed up on the shore of the in-between, another new before

comets fly days hum making a song

since women I adored have gone away; it’s OK, I emigrate like a bird to the blinking cursor, Notes track where and how I grew up,

http://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/poems-week-2011-2012/poem-week/dress-rehearsal-apocalypse-tomas-q-morin like Lazarus he rose from the darkest beds taking the splinter where he broke and carved castles from jagged beds he took time to make

My language of obviousness has hollowed out like a hole in a tree and is filling with water; the structure of the Notes is irrelevant in ways - I am not going to publish a memoir about my life experience from 25 to 30; it's good that I have it and I'm proud of the young man who wrote it but I can't see my enthusiasm ever matching up to the action of suggesting someone else read what I have written

writing was a way out of the hell of not knowing myself or what to do

it’s a record of thrashing you’re reading now; thanks

But why throw your Notes at them when you can be nice instead? It’s not like I’m far away. If you ask me for my number I’ll give it to you and we’ll text. We can relate.

—

a tweetstorm I read that mattered https://twitter.com/jonst0kes/status/890970472774602752

life is work. also, love.

ivy climbing around poles, flowers popping out of tractor grates, nature fighting through and against and amid human insistence on place and stillness - nature exerting that time is fluid, everything is burning, things don't remain unbroken; time rusts all

The thing about the moment is it isn't going anywhere; we're gonna be here for the rest of our lives “what I was doing” is never rare; I need not hunt for anecdote https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2018/feb/17/elena-ferrante-im-tired-of-fiction-i-no-longer-see-a-reason-to-go-hunting-for-anecdotes

I have the record of what I was; so much data of two years ago and I edit it; I clean it up, make the trail from birth to hear traversable but we have to live today, bear the burden of survival every hour eat hydrate meditate pray the verbs that keep us together the best thing to do is to be something—use your body, use your day, use your manner of speaking to get a life that’s worth being seen and thought about—so far so good: connive your way to a safe career that finances your creative, spiritual efforts like typing thoughts, reading articles, playing piano, singing, having weekends, taking pictures; of course don’t be a public figure; twentysomethings who haven’t done therapy are going to stay up all day and night clutching their image on screen; you have an ambivalence that is rare and valuable but you have no patience for impressing any media elite

so write and grow to make the truth bearable hit notes well: sing, play, write, message, talk with a backdrop of defensible business career and healthy habits (diet, exercise, water, sleep) live into the years when you know how to write fiction because you have a fuller sense of the human condition - you know no one can save you; you know a profound solitude, a caring, nurturing, generative, restorative relationship with yourself alone at night, in the morning, over lunchtime, standing at a red light—that’s where the joy is

looking forward to seeing her was nice

a man typing to make himself feel better about his losses

Andante - walking pace Allegro ma non troppo - fast but without tripping

fuck literary elites: no one has a monopoly on what is nice to read, how solitude and disappointment draws eyes down and hearts open, seeking a like-minded soul with whom to bond, whose brave existence can make you feel seen, can give you reason to go on yet another day

one media source is insignificant because everything else is just as available

take my lovely worm out of the bag show you what I wrote

[years of sitting with the blinking cursor]

drugs, love, money, art, death, freedom, time, social media, banality and justice are all still of interest; they're the only things left to do once you’ve won career

Vanity, fear, desire, competition

thinking, feeling, living my life with access to a keyboard and the endless internet occupying this political and personal moment in time as my body accelerates toward certain demise

typing, my voice is all I’m left with here at the edge of late capitalism, Saturday, overcast a plane flies overhead

I have no plans except and love shall stomp a new era

a rainforest glistening with possibilities a house on the coast, working from home so many lives I could explain which could be self-sustaining I have many two-year stints left to luxuriate in

and words will fill the pages of my days because a keyboard is where my soul is home

the people I love are out there people who love are out there

we all want the same thing: a safe home, a supportive community, education, time to pursue our curiosity, to contribute meaningfully

I know who I am now

I’m here for the collapse of capitalism

I’m ready for a role in the world as it and I will be

I fear no fate

I love life, I trust life, I am a fucking miracle

I think people will get what they deserve Good people find each other and

Bad people get found out.

the lame crown-pieces at the tops of traditional hierarchies who don’t do anything difficult or admirable are gonna come crashing down

systems of government based on blockchain technology, i.e. transparency

get the rich people at the top out of power—distribute wealth down for education, health care, housing, food, infrastructure, community projects

why is this money sitting in bank accounts? 2017 is the light shone on all dark corners of American reality and the 99% are not going quietly to their desk jobs

millennials are killing everything wasteful and actually think about consequences and interconnectivity

I was made for the future I am just as opinionated and demanding as I was at 26 at the height of burning intensity

Now I've gotten therapy and found a safe career and I'm 100% logged on

and we know that connection is the electric pursuit so

edit something in public and realize it doesn’t need to be there!

working on your front door is good work to do because everyone walks through

06. Connection is the electric pursuit reread and skimmed 10/10 10:11am (21 pages)

As my aging MacBook circles the drain, I wonder: have I overestimated my computing needs? https://motherboard.vice.com/en_us/article/wj9bdm/i-tried-to-replace-my-laptop-with-my-phone-and-a-dollar20-bluetooth-keyboard how much footprint do I really need? I will have to learn how little I have to control (as far as images stored and available and my habits well-worn, i.e. I know the click and search path to getting any particular image I can remember - always honing my library - perhaps that’s the fate of man who’s transcended hourly rate and execution for others’ profit-making schemes

https://www.technologyreview.com/s/511276/free-speech-in-the-era-of-its-technological-amplification/

late nights engaged in conversations on Usenet https://medium.com/s/trustissues/the-messy-fourth-estate-a42c1586b657

to be imaginatively drawn into the sticky world of some nearby human being’s home life https://www.technologyreview.com/s/410623/i-just-called-to-say-i-love-you/

The numbers keep getting worse: the true energy costs of AI, connected devices, and cryptocurrency https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2017/dec/11/tsunami-of-data-could-consume-fifth-global-electricity-by-2025 written by a beautiful woman ripe with life https://genius.com/Talib-kweli-joy-lyrics

The numbers keep getting worse: a memoir of a civilization before its collapse

tsunami of data will consume all Human Resources https://twitter.com/katecrawford/status/1046766828939341824?s=21 giving to the void of send, to the possibly seen the atomization of my desire to be real that’s what will take up electricity for the rest of days

our endless desire for connection is what kills us in the end!  OR we become part of the worldwide effort to save humanity in heroic fashion by therapy for everyone, a collective Kumbaya, a come-to-Jesus moment where we actually come to [have?] a savior and worship, love and people are loved and adored instead of fear and money but we love images and the devices that serve we are comfortable holding an abstraction of the world in our hands and we can operate our piece in it and yes, then we sit down to dinner and realize our body is just the container of our situation...our body is an emissary of the struggle for survival and love we are in this year this month

The craving for that single stranger-filled neighborhood would not stop with the telegraph. Over the next hundred years, radio, television, and even the telephone all dramatically increased the number of daily interactions people have with information. https://medium.com/@Marinaccio/the-telegraph-changed-how-you-spend-your-time-9a691d860e11

0 notes