Key West

Fucked Up Fruit Bowl

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“I like to do the Southernmost Slow Ride. We ride under the full moon from the White Street Pier to Truman Waterfront Park to catch the sunset—and sometimes we have themes, like fairy rides,” I say.

He looks perplexed over his pitaya parfait. “What did you just say?”

“Is the white stuff yogurt?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Do they have non-dairy yogurt?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t know.”

“I’m doing this to build the anticipation and to distract you. Because you’re about to say you know me from the bike ride, and I know you don’t. I’d remember you.”

“Were you wearing a tutu?”

Snap. I WAS wearing a tutu.

“I was wearing a tutu.”

And then, right there, you could hear the pieces fall into place. The switch flipped on. And in its light, we could see that we both remembered the real first time we met. 

“You were doing time-lapse photography with the cruise ship turning just as the sun set.” I could see in his face that this was true.

“And you were in a tutu and super easy to talk to.”

I smile at this. I’ve been told that before and I really like that about myself.

But it was more than that. Earlier in the day, I’d thought about that encounter. I remember ending the conversation with him because the group was heading to the next destination. Before riding off, I’d said something about missing his final product.

“Look for it on Facebook,” he’d said as I pointed my bike towards the other cyclists.

“How will I find it?” I called over my right shoulder.

“Key West Sunset!” 

And today, weeks later, it crossed my mind that I never did look.

Now, here I am, sitting across from him as a curtain of rain holds us hostage under the awning.

It didn’t shelter us from his ex-wife, the mother of his children, biking by.

She smiles at him. And she turns to me, “Do I know you?”  

You know damn well you don’t, my eyes reply.

“I don’t believe so,” my polite words say.

“Can you give me a ride? I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she motions to our fancy fruit bowls, “but it’s raining pretty hard.”

He starts to acquiesce, to my slight surprise, and I start to mark the date done.

I still don’t know who she is. But I sense by now that there’s some history there. This is not some random acquaintance encounter. 

“I mean, I’m happy to give you ten dollars for a cab ride home,” he offers. 

Okay, he’s clearly uncomfortable. Who is this woman?

“I hate cabs. They creep me out.” She’s smiling through this scene, but it is not a happy smile. “You really can’t take me?”

I check my phone for the forecast. One, because I don’t know what else to do, and second, I’m hoping it will tell me that the rain is about to end, so her point, whatever it is, will be moot. 

He starts to assert himself. She throws out the idea of going into a nearby store under the same awning.   

I secretly hope she goes.  

And then I say, “Yeah, I can lose an hour in that store easily.”

She looks to him to save her. He doesn’t. Good boy.

She rides off, pouting. Only then does he fill me in on who she is. “She loves to create awkward situations.”  

She’s really good at it. I think, but don’t say.

We resume our awe over the fact that we’ve already met, and the road has somehow curved to allow us to meet again.  

Funny how that works. Funny, even though my world works like that so very often.  

One (and-a-half) Night Stand

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“It’s so aggressive.” Penis imitation, Bridesmaids

Can we talk about getting a dick shoved into our throats while having our heads held down for a second? What makes guys think this is a good idea? And how can we know they’re the type to do it? Looking back, this dominance in bed showed itself sooner. Now I see clearly what I only got inklings of at the time.

He strolled up to my booth, an impressive presence—hunky, sculpted, chiseled—in search of a water adventure. I felt something as I leaned over the binder to turn the pages showcasing our different options. A familiarity. It wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t coming from my head. From my heart? My soul? 

I stole a glance from under my sunglasses, and I swear I saw his face morph a little until it looked like something familiar before quickly disappearing. My eyes offering affirmation to whatever soul code was playing out. 

General Horseplay was the perfect place to meet with its dark, velvety speakeasy style, and they make a stellar Dark & Stormy.

“Here’s your Dark and Lo… I almost said dark and lovely,” he said. “Which you are.”

[This is not a blog about how to spot a player, which I can do and he obviously is. I’ve declared myself off the market until my book is on the market, so that suits me just fine].

He asks about my life, my world, my work, living in Key West. I tell him I’m writing a book and launching a business. I ask about his life back. He’s a bodyguard, from Miami, we talk about who he’s protected and the job that took him to Afghanistan. He’s well read and we share similar views on things.  

Good looks and good conversation, my favorite combination. For me, foreplay always begins with oral—communication, that is. If I’m stimulated intellectually, I’ll be all the more stimulated when things move closer, and lower. 

He feels comfortable. Easy to talk to. But the conversation never swings back to me. No questions about what my book is about or my business. Or anything.

Once outside, he pulls me into a little alcove, slides his hands around my waist, tries kissing me. I turn my head and say I should probably get going home. He purrs into my ear an invitation to his hotel room, which I decline. I say I have a cat to feed, my phone needs charging, my bed has just-washed sheets I’m looking forward to. He holds onto my hand as I try to walk away. He pleads some more. I say he’s got a snorkel trip to get up for, I’ll see him tomorrow night. 

Then he puts his tongue in my ear (a move akin to kryptonite) and my resolve melts. It feels so good to be wanted, desired, pursued—doesn’t it? Screw it, I think. Let’s have some fun. Even though he looks like he could split me in half if the size of him was any indication of his size. Which it was. 

But did you have to slam it into me to validate the fact? With my wince and my hand pushing against your chest telling you to let me expand and welcome you. Was your pride more important than mutual pleasure? 

Sure it was.

Everything after the entry was orgasmic, so I came back for more the next night. It’s not every day you get turned into a puddle in the middle of the bed, and he was only here for a few days. 

The vibe was different. Less sensual, more sexual. He took my hand and put it on his erection. What is up with this move? Do you think I can’t find it on my own? Bruh, I know exactly where it is–-it’s pushing and pulsing against me to the point of bruising, I’m pretty sure I can find it. Relax, I’ll get to it. 

But it wasn’t fast enough because now you take my hand and put it down your boxer briefs. Because I don’t know how foreplay works, and I need you to show me. Is it Thursday and this is some throwback move from my teen years where the great compliment a guy bestowed was, ‘You’re making me so hard!’

As if that’s hard to do. I’ve done it without even trying—bending over to tie my shoes, cooking dinner, trying to leave for work. Walking into the room. It’s not exactly an Olympic sport. 

Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll mistake you for one of those guys who doesn’t like to have his dick touched and sucked. 

I mumble something about not bossing me around and go take a shower. I want to feel the happy anticipation of ‘I’m going to have sex’ tonight, but something prevents me. There’s some sudsy foreshadowing going on.

Shortly after sliding into bed beside him, the “guidance” continues, now with my head. What in the world makes a man think that shoving his erection to the back of my mouth, forcing it into the top of my throat, against my gag reflex, over and over again is okay? And since that doesn’t provide enough torque for you, please put your hand on the back of my head and force it down so you can go even deeper. Block off my airway. It’s alright. You’re getting off. That’s what’s important here.

Then he goes to straddle me. Oh, hell no. I’m not letting you pin me. I rolled out, sat up, and thought for a moment before saying good night. 

[Disclaimer: I’m not anti-blow jobs. I can even get off when giving them to the right guy. This isn’t about the dick in my mouth—it’s about dick moves].

Riding the elevator down to my bike, I wonder what makes men do this. This force-feeding of their dicks. Did I shove my pussy in your face and hold your head hostage? (You probably would’ve liked that). I didn’t need to. I let her succulence and sweet nectar speak for itself. Drawing you to it, not smashing it into you.  

This was everything I was trying to say subtly before getting up, getting dressed, and getting out. I wish I would’ve said it all then, and I certainly will, should it ever happen again. If, for some wild reason, you’re reading this, Bodyguard Hottie from Room 417—the inspiration for this blog came from you.

Right On Time

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 3 Comments

A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to. ~Gandalf 

“Why’d you come at the end!?” My friend and fellow writer, Arida, exclaimed a couple days ago, at an event honoring Black History Month with readings of poems by Black poets.

I got there late but not at the end, she just hadn’t seen me. We cleared it up, and the whole interaction cued up the scene of Gandalf responding to Frodo’s similar accusation. I often get accused of being late and this quote eases my mind every time. 

I’m arriving at another event, Arida launching her own book of poetry, and I appear to be late again. She’s not reading though, so it’s all good. It’s on the rooftop terrace of the Studios of Key West.

“Going up?” I say to the guy at the elevator doors. 

He smiles a gentle smile and nods.

I quickly laugh, “I guess there’s nowhere to go but up!” trying to shrug off my awkwardness. The awkwardness I often have when half my brain is still on whatever I was writing before, as I try once again to merge back into social traffic. Adding a bit of random information pushes the gas pedal down a little more. “No one has a basement in Key West. We’re at sea level.” 

We step into the elevator. He asks how long I’ve lived here and I ask how long he’s visiting for. He’s from northern Illinois. I’m originally from Madison, Wisconsin.

His eyes light up, “I’ve been to Madison. Loved it!” Of course he did, I think, Madison is amazing. Mentally, I put up two points on the scoreboard my subconscious has suddenly erected. 

We step out onto the fourth floor: Hugh’s View. Giving a 360 degree angle of this island beloved by so many. The bar greets us to the left, “Can I get you something?” He asks. A couple more points go up.

You might be wondering, ‘Is it that easy to impress you, Jen? Been to your hometown and loved it, offers to buy you a drink.’

Yes. Yes it is. 

Turning from the bar, I see there’s a mic and a chair onstage. As we turn further, towards Arida’s table, I hope she doesn’t do her exclamation again. I’m in the bubble of pseudo-perfection that a new, chance meeting creates and I’d like it to not burst quite yet. 

“Arida, meet…” I motion to my companion, “I don’t know who this is.” Then I look in his eyes and laugh, “Who are you?” 

“Will.” He says to me. “I’m Will.” He says to her. 

He leans in, watching intently the mutual admiration flow between Arida and I. “You are such an incredible writer, Jen.” Then to Will, “This chick’s poetry is so profound, I had to read it twice.”

I praise the animated way she delivers her material. The confidence she exuded when she read at the launch for the guild’s hot off the press anthology a few days ago. “You inspire me. I took mental notes.”

His eyes are wide with engagement and he nods along, showing belief in everything we’re saying. Tipping his head down to the table, he asks,“Well then, which book should I buy?” Breaking his wallet out again.

Arida could’ve promoted one of her own books, but she directs him to the anthology. “You’ll probably like this one the best. It’s got a bit of everything.”

A warmth climbs my neck–my poem and story are both erotica. That’s a heck of a first impression. “Every poem and story inspired by and set in The Keys,” I chime in.

“That’s what I like, the slice of life kind of stuff.” And now he’s using my line. 

He asks us both to sign it. I add to mine, ‘thanks for the wine!’

He and I move over the the edge. He shares about the radio show he had in college on the campus radio station, based on the experiences he and his co-workers had delivering pizza. “To the middle of a football field. To a strip club and getting tipped in a stack of ones. Once I had to help rescue a lost cat.”  

His voice sounds sexier to me as I imagine it caressing the airwaves with his slice of life stories. Pizza slices of life. 

We point to things from the rooftop–church steeples, the haunted Artist’s House B&B, sailboats bobbing on the Gulf. He’s open, inviting. Present. Truly interested. He travels like I travel–totally immersing ourselves into someplace new, becoming intimate with the unknown. He makes some jokes and keeps putting up points.

The rooftop portion closes and we go down to the second floor where the theater is. Like many places in Key West, it’s said to be haunted. It was once a masonic lodge, the chairs with members’ names, numbers and various decals still remain. In trying to decipher their meaning, I guess the double eagle with a ‘32’ is the highest rank. “Eagles are regal,” I reason.

“Thirty-three is the highest number in Masonry, so, yeah.” He says it like he’s saying ‘The sun sets in the west.’

Seriously, who is this guy? 

Walking to my bike, the regret of missing Arida’s reading tugs at my heart. It’s followed by the replay of running into Will at the elevator. Would I still have ran into him if I’d arrived earlier? Maybe. But one little change sends out ripples. Swap out one of the puzzle pieces and the big picture won’t come together the same way.

I settle once again into the comfort of Gandalf’s quote. I had arrived precisely when I meant to. 

Following Directions

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 1 Comment

It wasn’t just that I was attracted to him. What with the thick, dark hair hitting his shoulders, one group of tendrils separating from the pack, twisting down along his temple. Or his beard with flecks of ginger glinting, also full, and above a black vintage Levi’s Strauss T-shirt taut across his chest. The calm, considerate way he listened reflected in his thoughtful nod and unwavering gaze. 

But I was, definitely, attracted.

But to more. The air of adventure rising off him, swirling around me and mixing with mine, forming a threesome with the smell of freshly frying fries. The pairing effect similar to the scent of just baked cookies wafting through a realtor’s Open House. I spotted it right away, his position by the only outlet in the dining room, his two backpacks and dirty fingernails. I know this move. This is my move. I’m a gypsy writer. And I’m always scoping for future places to plunk down, pop open my laptop, and write. 

My first words to him, full of curious exploration,“Is that the only outlet?”  

“Yeah…but, I have a double plug, if you want to share.” His answer further endears him to me. The misunderstanding makes me smile and his generosity restores my faith in humanity. 

I love people who share.  

They call my number and I excuse myself. I return to a booth not too far away. After reading and eating, I rise up to go and our eyes connect.

“I like your pants,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. Because, with their rust-colored, complementary striped bell-bottom style, I like them, too. “I think they make me look like Donna from That 70s Show,” and that’s a good look. They’re one of those things you know you’ll get compliments on when you wear it. We all have them.  

“Where did you get ‘em?”

Really? Not only a follow-up question, but the same one I was asking myself as I pulled them on this morning. 

Thus begins two hours of talking about adventure and freedom and herbs and the island. About following one’s nose, and one’s calling. And biking the Sunshine-Skyway bridge (him, not me. And not even him, because the cops stopped him at the top). “I had a song all cued up for the long coast downhill.”

I liked how I felt in his presence–comfortable. The longer I was in it, the more comfortable I became. Our initial ease was growing into a warming glow.

He motioned to the other section of his booth, “You’re welcome to join me.”

Like a flower blooming, our conversation was, and I within our conversation. We spoke of where we were from (me Wisconsin, him Michigan), how to properly sleep in a hammock (diagonally), and how old versions are better than the new and improved (countless examples). I liked what was coming out of me. All my best stuff–my words, my perspective, my suggestions (he’d only been here a few weeks) . . . even my hair looked good, judging by its reflection in the big window framing winter’s early darkness.

I was into me, and I was really into how this had all come to be.

Single moments of the evening–seemingly weird and random at the time–were now showing themselves in one fluid movie in my mind. I’d stopped at a Free Little Library to drop off a book. It wasn’t even my regular one. And I have a strict rule of only dropping off, but as I slid mine in, a spine of another caught my eye with its fiery sunset colors and title Heaven and Hurricanes. 

Just the back cover, I think because, the rule, and because I was trying to get to the seven o’clock showing of the Whitney Houston movie and had dirty laundry in my back bike basket to wash on the way. But as all good back covers make you do, I was opening the cover and reading the prologue. And then I was tucking it between dirty sheets and detergent and taking off, pushing hard to make up time. 

Everyone at the laundromat was on their phone, while I leaned against a folding table and sunk into the superb writing and intriguing plot. As quarters dropped and clanked, an idea dropped into my mind: check the rating on Rotten Tomatoes. They persuaded me to wait and catch it streaming. With clean sheets, I rode off into the night now wide open, sans plans.

Except to read more of this book. 

And I was hungry. Nothing at the cafe next to the laundromat had really grabbed me. The tartar on a Filet-O-Fish does, as the golden arches come into view. Suddenly, I can think of nothing better than my feet up in a booth, reading and eating.

Sailor’s Delight

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

We sailed for so long that second day, I felt the motion of the ocean while lying in bed–a joyous sensation.  While my body rocked, my mind rolled back over the events of the day.  The wind had been wilder this time, calling for more engagement from the crew. We began to keel and it took a lot to not fall over while filming as they rapidly trimmed the sails.  The snorkeling was better–we got the last mooring ball by the reef and visibility was clear.  Red coral, angel fish, parrot fish with pastel iridescent scales and light blue lipstick, some needle nose fish looking like a syringe with fins.  

I was also thinking about J.  He’d grabbed the check at the Happy Buddha Bar in the marina once we got back on shore–the unexpected move had evidently left an impression on me. 

Part of me thinks if he’s leaving soon, I should just throw myself at him and have a quick romp, riding it for all the good times I can–while I can. Part of me thinks I’m safe within his escape plan and I don’t need to do anything because why even start what’s got an expiration date stamped on it already?  I’m off the hook.  Besides, I’m off the market.  

The next day, my Facebook feed fills with sailboats for sale. After vetting them (okay, and picturing myself on them) I do my own little circumnavigation and text Pat about a few of my favorites.  They work together, so I figure he can tell him.  Pat tells me to friend J and tag him in it.  “He can be kind of shy.”  Feels like too big a step to take.  

I’m not sure what I’m doing when I reach out to him about coming to trivia at Waterfront Brewery the next night.  It seems pretty benign I tell myself, as I open then close Instagram.  Then open.  Then close.  

Then open. 

Pat had texted he’d be late, so I was preparing to wing it solo until he arrived.  Seeing J come around the corner of the bar truly startled me.  Since he hadn’t written back, and Pat didn’t mention him coming, I didn’t expect him and it caught me completely off guard.  

“What’s our team name?” Pat says when he arrives a little later. 

“Sailor’s Delight,” I say.

He laughs, “Leave it to the writer!”

“Actually, J came up with it, but I loved it.”

The TV screen with the questions is above us.  The scorecard on the bar below, I’m leaning over to write an answer when the next question comes on.  Fingers softly graze, then slightly rest on the inside of my arm, gently requesting my attention.  I lean back into this tender move as it withdraws.  Again I’m thrown.  It’s one of those moments you can feel getting recorded in the story of your life

J himself is a soft touch.  No big ego driven song and dance, no verbal billboard conversations.  His light teasing, when I make some comment about not minding mornings as long as no one’s telling me what to do during them, is: “Is that why I always beat you to the boat?” and a kidlike smirk.  It was more to say Hey, we have a history than, Let me use this to elevate myself.

After we come in fourth from last, Pat goes out to smoke and J and I swipe on the sailboats on my phone.  Island Woman.  Another one with a name we can’t read.  Again, I picture myself on each of them.  Again, I’m not sure what I’m doing or wanting to happen.  Left alone with him, I think I just panicked.  

Walking out into the humid locker room of a night, J makes another subtle move I find impressive. Pat’s first and we’re both in step behind him. Being closer to the door, J reaches out his arm and without missing a beat in word or step, he holds my gaze while he holds the door open for me via side arm.

I try to fall asleep for an hour, but I can’t because words keep coming, demanding to be written down. I write on three different pieces. Time with him hadn’t pinch off my muse, like I’d feared, it was doing the opposite.

Sailing, Takes Me Away. . .

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
From the boat


When I was a little girl, I loved playing with paper dolls. Wardrobes made of paper hanging onto bodies formed from cardboard with little tabs folded over shoulders and around waists and legs. It was temporary, a strong breeze could render them naked once again. Easy to change if I changed my mind. 

J stepping into my eye line was a lot like that. Hanging there, against blue skies and cotton ball clouds, a fifty shades of aqua backdrop bordered by island sand. Did I say stepped into?. . . I meant sailed. The background and my friend Pat’s boat (and Pat for that matter) were all familiar–the cardboard constant. Making J the paper outfit overlaid on top.  New. Different.

But what I was really grooving on that morning–besides my love of water, boating and snorkeling the reef–was my essay placing in the contest I’d entered.  It would be published in the next few days.  I had champagne and was planning to celebrate with mimosas. 

Earlier I’d shared the news with my close writing friend and she’d offered to build me a website.  After the toasting and enthusiastic congratulations, I floated what I thought was a crazy idea.  I wasn’t a big enough deal to warrant a website.

Pat nods and J says, “You probably should have a website.”  

His words spread on me like frosting–a nice feeling on top of the nice feeling I’m already having.

The wind picks up the farther we get out, so I man (woman?) one of the winches adjusting the sails, prompting Pat to make a compliment about my strength in relation to my gender. To which I quip, “I like to be all the Spice Girls.”  I’m sporty, at times scary, other times posh, and have been ginger.  I’ve tucked my frilly dress up into the leg band of my underwear so it didn’t get caught in my bike spokes, riding in wedges for miles. 

I  break into a really bad cover of “If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends.”

J chimes in from his winch, “I never understood that song.  Sure, I’ll get with your friends.”

I laugh into the gap extending to let this new interpretation settle in.  Clever. Sexy.  I’ll never hear the song the same way again.  

Another tab of J’s paper folds over.

I watch his back muscles roll underneath his shirt.  The way a sleeve folds into the crevice of a flexed bicep. And I watch myself watch, wondering what I’m up to.

Two weeks later I’m climbing aboard again and as we get ready to sail, I go down to link my phone with the Bluetooth speaker in the salon.  At my elbow is suddenly J asking, “Need any help?”

My knee jerk response to this question is always, no.  Because it hits me like an insult, implying I’m somehow incapable.  But in that instant, I see how it pushes others away.  I turn away in the circumference of this realization, a fighter pilot who’s just fired a missile but wishes she could take it back. It’s early and I secretly hope for another chance to play it differently.

A tab folds over.

We sail on and he says other things I like and jive with. And I notice myself watching his lips as much as I’m listening to the words coming out of them. Sometimes he does a little smirk and it makes me smile. I like his lips. I think the smirk makes him look cute.

Coming from self-awareness, he shares about needing to have his own personal space and how hard it is to have it in Key West.  How it’s all cramped living quarters for this huge chunk of change and he’s not really down with it.  Neither am I, that’s why I have a camper.  Neither is Pat, he’s on a boat tied to a mooring ball.  J couldn’t find a boat he and an insurance company could agree on so he applied for a job in Indiana.

There it is, the eroding of our island community conversation I’ve had with more people than I’d like.

“I’m so tired of saying goodbye to cool people,” I stare past him in a quiet moment of memoriam to all those who have gone before him. I feel his paper flutter in the winds of change.

I’m Off the Market Until My Book’s ON the Market

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment

“I’m off the market until my book’s ON the market.”  That’s what I said, and I meant it.  I was drawing a thou shalt not cross line in the sand. I should know better.

The last time I did that was after taking a trip with a guy I’d been dating for a few months.  We found a cheap deal to Vegas to escape winter in Wisconsin and thaw out for a while.  When we got there he invited his friends in Vegas over and they hung out pretty much the entire four days and three nights smoking pot in our hotel room while I complained about it to my sister on the lobby’s payphone. Had my car starting on fire on the way to the airport been a sign?  That’s right, on fire. The brakes locked up, causing friction to build and ignite something under the hood.  

I’ve never seen the metaphor as crystal clear as I do in this instant.

By the time we got back the relationship was also in flames. Our break-up was the final straw breaking the camel’s back–the camel’s back being my attempts at having relationships. This break-up, on top of a string of other break-ups, on top of my recent divorce had me assessing my already poor track record with men.

I said to my bestie Renee on our next girls night out, “Thirty days. I’m benching myself for thirty days. No flirting, calling, kissing, hugging or fucking for thirty days.” 

The next weekend on our next night out, a tall, dark and handsome (it may be cliche, but it’s also hella accurate) half of a twinset (which made him even more sexy)was buying me drinks and asking for my number.  Had to give him the brush off for three weeks, after which I fell madly in bed with him.  He was definitely one of the better choices I’d made.  Perhaps my brief hiatus had performed some kind of reset to the ‘my type’ presets.

And now, many years later I’m doing the same thing but for different reasons.  To continue with the sports allegory, like athletes not having sex before a big game–I doubt Lance Armstrong banged anyone the night before Tour de France–I’m not risking diffusing my energy, either.  I’m too easily distracted when I’m attracted. 

The I’m-off-the-market-until-my-book’s-on-the-market statement was made a few weeks ago, to much applause from those close to me who know this about me and support my focus.  Evidently cuing the Universe: “Let’s send Jen a nice boy.”  

Why?  I mean, Why now?  I’ve been in Key West on and off for four years, and now suddenly my good friend who rarely invites me sailing, invited me to sail with a friend of his who’s just learned how and wants some practice.  A captain.  Sure, why not.  It’s not bad enough he’s cute, funny, helpful and has great lips–he can sail and has a sense of adventure.  Am I being tested or something?  

This is bad timing.  Good guy. . . bad timing.  Feels like I’m just hitting my stride with my book writing.  

One Night Stand (part 1)

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ Leave a comment
Lost at Sea and Lost in Translation

A call to the island’s creative types went out from The Studios of Key West like a bat signal. Come together to write, rehearse and create backdrops for four brand-new 10-minute plays—in just twenty-four hours. Each writer form cast and crew by plucking names from an empty ice cream bucket and loose parameters from others. A line, a prop, a time, a place. We writers then turn in a short play at dawn, passing the baton to a cast and crew who will spend the day rehearsing and staging for two shows Saturday night.

Thus the name: One Night Stand.

After choosing “Tiki Hut Cruise” and “The Roaring 20s,” I sit down with my team and brainstorm. I don’t know any of them. None of them know me. I’ve been in Key West on and off for four years, but have only been on the periphery of the many theatrical productions here. I usually get a free ticket as a friend of the sound engineer and she takes me with her to the cast parties. It was by way of this friend’s invitation that I’ve landed here, wondering how I can possibly blend all this randomness into some sort of performance art for people to actually enjoy. I’ve never written a play, this is not my forte`

It’s my attempt at alchemy that makes me follow the stream to The Roost–a mini-version of a NYC pub around the corner. Reason would send me home to start coaxing creativity from my keyboard, but my highly social soul hates to miss any fun and wants to get to know these people a little better before telling them what to say and how to move. I’m mixing and mingling, scribbling ideas down and sipping champagne for said friend’s birthday eve. In a moment of subconscious clarity, I step outside because I think want to smoke. But what I need is the view looking back inside through the window at everyone drinking and laughing and talking–real Norman Rockwell style–it hits me that no one else hanging around is a writer. These are all the people who don’t start until what I do is finished. They’re due back at 8:00 in the morning. My clock is already ticking—I look over at the clock on the wall, it’s 10:30pm—AH! What was I thinking!!! I’d lost two hours of precious time already. A line from The Matrix blips across my mind, “Time…is always against us.” ~From the main man Morpheus.

So much can be revealed in such a quick pause. I pay my tab, grab my notes and hop on my bike, self-doubt creeping up with every push of the pedal. Halfway through the thirty minute ride home, it starts to come to me. Some lines, some costumes, a bit of a plot revealing a bit of a theme. I tap it out on my laptop, giggling and aha-ing to myself as I watch it gel. Texting others to see what they’re comfortable with, what they can bring from home. It’s a dizzying whirlwind of words and scenes–as creator and first audience member–I’m trying to capture and make stand still on a page to be shared with others.

I hit send and wonder: Would it even communicate outside of my own weirdly wired noggin? Would anyone get it?

To be continued….

An aMAYzing Month

~ Solo Chick Traveler ~ 2 Comments

I planted some seeds in the spring. I applied for a grant from the Anne McKee Artists Fund for my book Gut Instincts, to pay for editing and for the accountability to finish it so there was a book to actually edit. I submitted an essay entitled A Father By My Name to a WOW! Women On Writing contest. And I tried to quit my job by giving the following notice: “I think I’m going to go disappear into nature for awhile and write.” Key West was getting warmer and I felt the pull of literally greener pastures. As right as it felt at the time, I couldn’t sleep that night, which is unusual. The decision kept flipping around in me all unsettled like. I retracted said resignation the next morning. A few weeks later I’m offered a promotion — from my already cool job of playing games in swimming pools at resorts to regional manager. May first was my first day.

On May 12th I get to go to the awards ceremony for the Anne Mckee Fund and see the positive reaction to the name of my book and the inspiration the board of directors felt from my application. I’m handed a $500 check for half the grant award and tell myself do not spend this on a tattoo. I deposit it into its own savings account, just to make sure.

End of May I receive an email saying my essay has advanced to the top 40. The first time I submitted to this contest I didn’t advance at all. The second time, I made it to the top 40, but no further. This was my third entry and in June I see through tears of joy (bawling is more like it!) I’ve made it to the top 10 list, out of 244 entries. Regardless of where it places–first, second, third or one of the seven runner ups–my essay will be published, my bio and photo featured on their site along with an interview on their blog The Muffin. First, second and third come with cash prizes and if I’m fortunate enough to make it, I’m definitely getting a tattoo!

All these seeds sprouted–even the job one I tried to uproot and transplant–blooming in brilliance and then handed back to me, like a long-stemmed rose. The fact that I’ve touched someone with my words, took some chances and put myself out there, and went up a few steps in my resume` while trying to go a different direction are all pretty incredible gifts already.

Can’t wait to see what summer has in store. . .

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