Just Dance It Out!

Today's and every other blog post published in November has been pre-written and scheduled for upload about a month or so in advance. The less I have to blog, the more time I have to dedicate to my NaNoWriMo project! Just like last year, you can put your attention towards the progress bar on the right to see how I'm doing.

See you all in December!

~~

I feel like I get stressed really easily.

This may come as a surprise--it sure does to me. Me, who worked in a restaurant--arguably one of the most stressful jobs you can get--for four years. Me, who finds it necessary to take on a bajillion different projects at once, simply because "eh what the hell". Me, who insists on pursuing careers that require more time, effort and luck to make a decent living off of.

You'd think I'd be used to it by now. Apparently not.

I get very easily frustrated when I'm stressed. If something doesn't turn out right the first time I do it, I get upset and just want to throw in the towel right away. When I'm stressed, my mood turns sour faster, and I find it harder to be my usual perky self.

I do what I do to have fun. So what do I do when the thing that's supposed to be fun fails to improve my mood?

I dance.

Make no mistake: I suck at dancing. (And singing.) But that will not stop me from jumping around like some maniac when Shake It Off blasts through my speakers, singing all the way. I adore dancing; not because I'm good at it (again: I'm not), but because it's fun.


What do you do to relieve stress?

Until later,

- Jusyne

Just a Dream (Micro-Fiction Monday)

Every Monday, I post a piece of flash fiction--a story clocking in at around 300 words. Each story can also be found on my deviantART and Wattpad pages. Enjoy!

~~

She awoke with a start; heart pounding, sweat dabbing at her forehead, breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. It was just a dream, she thought. It’s always just a dream.

It was never just a dream.

It was 2:16 in the morning. Across town, young adults were still partying. Even if the pounding beat of the clubs died down and the bouncers kicked them out, they would carry on, the smell of alcohol following them faithfully around town. In her own neighbourhood, the streets were quiet. Filled with families and elderly couples, each house had turned in for the night. The lights were dark, the inhabitants sleeping and dreaming peacefully.

Partiers and dreamers. Neither act really appealed to her. So instead, she walked.

She walked down the stairs; past her worn mother, asleep on the couch. She walked out the door; a shiver voiced her skin’s complaints at the sudden change in temperature. She hadn’t thought to grab a coat.

She walked down the street, past her sleeping neighbours in their silent houses, past the deserted parks and darkened store windows. She walked until her skin felt tight and stiff from the cold, until her feet started to complain, until dreaming finally started to appeal to her. She walked until her legs gave out, sending her spiraling downwards. The ground was like liquid; she sunk beneath it as she fell, the cold earth swallowing her. The ground was alive; it reached up, closed itself around her neck, too eager and impatient for her to sink naturally. It had to pull her down itself.

She awoke with a start; heart pounded, sweat dabbing at her forehead, breath coming out in short gasps. It was just a dream.

It was never just a dream for her.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Me, Myself and I

When I was younger, I wanted to be busy. I wanted to be someone who had a million things going on at once, but managed to multitask it all with ease.

I got my first real taste of this hectic lifestyle during the second half of high school. I had a job that I went to about three or four times a week; I was attending Girl Guide meetings once a week; for a couple months I was had Driver's Ed, which was two or three times a week; I was volunteering at my church almost every Sunday morning; and then, of course, there was my schoolwork, which was technically top priority--but of course that didn't stop me from putting it off until the last minute.

After a few weeks of doing so much, I wanted to travel back in time and talk some sense into my elementary school-aged self. Being busy is exhausting.

The only thing worse than being busy on the outside--constantly running from school to work to commitment after commitment after commitment--is being busy on the inside. Right now, I have a dozen projects going on--but they're all more personal projects, ones that won't see the light of day until who-knows-when.

The issue with personal projects is that I'm the only one who knows that they exist. Until I'm ready to share them--or find a way to share them--they'll remain hidden from view. It's up to me to motivate myself to make time for them and finish them, because no one else is expecting me to get it done. It's just me, myself and I.

Is it appropriate to turn down plans, to say, "I'm busy" to work on something that has no deadline and no audience? I feel guilty saying no to anything when I'm just going to be holed up in my room, slaving away at yet another project, the progress of which is only affecting me. At the same time, I feel guilty after saying yes and going off to have fun, only to come home and realize that I didn't meet my daily goal.

I'm busy, constantly, but it's the kind of busy that I'm easily distracted from.


Until later,

- Justyne

They Won't Hurt Us (Micro-Fiction Monday)

Every Monday, I post a piece of flash fiction--a story clocking in at 300 words or less. Each story can also be found on my deviantART and Wattpad pages. Enjoy!

~~

"EEEEK!"

"What?! What's wrong?"

"There's a spider in the bathroom!"

"A spider?"

"YES!"

"And...?"

"Go kill it!"

"Me? YOU go kill it!"

"No way! I'm not going anywhere near it!"

"Oh, come on."

"YOU come on! I'm not setting one more foot in that room until it's dead and gone!"

"It won't hurt you."

"GO KILL IT."

"Alright, alright, fine..."

~~

"BILLY! You almost got yourself killed!"

"Did not!"

"Did too! Mom told you not to go where the humans could see you!"

"They're not ALL bad!"

"They came after you with a shoe!"

"Just these ones! The ones who USED to live here didn't care."

"That's a lie! They moved to the house next door."

"And got trampled on the way!"

"It was probably an accident. They wouldn't hurt us--we don't do anything to bother them."

"...I'm still telling Mom."

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Who Am I?

Today's and every other blog post published in November has been pre-written and scheduled for upload about a month or so in advance. The less I have to blog, the more time I have to dedicate to my NaNoWriMo project! Just like last year, you can put your attention towards the progress bar on the right to see how I'm doing.

See you all in December!

~~

One of my favourite things to do is complain about things that I dislike.

That sounds bad, doesn't it? I do enjoy looking on the bright side, in finding the positive aspects of any situations. But let's be real--I complain a lot.

One of the things I've been complaining about a bit recently are academic papers and professional e-mails. (Despite the fact that I've rarely had to write either since I left university.) These were always the bane of my existence because, although they do involve writing, the writing style I use for them is stiff. They're stiff and boring and, as I have put it many times before, "doesn't sound like me".

But sometimes, I catch myself approaching this blog with the same mindset as any of the more professional things I've had to do in the past. I start writing in the logical, automatic form that I mastered during my 14 years of schooling. Not because I feel like I have to--but because I want to. My life isn't fiction, so I don't write it like it is.

And that's what a blog post really is, is it? A form of an article, an essay. Non-fiction at its finest.

But these blog posts, do they sound like me? If I printed this off, unmarked, unnamed, untitled, and passed it anonymously to one of my friends...would they realize that I wrote it?

This is a question I find myself asking a lot. Do I have a writing style? Is there any unique quality about the way that I form my sentences that people would be able to identify, if they were familiar with my work? Not just story elements like romantic subplots and that One Sarcastic Character, but the very essence of my writing. The thing that would make two identical plots completely different, if they were placed in the hands of different writers.

It's one of my biggest insecurities as a writer.

And then we're back to this blog. This blog, that I love so very dearly, yet sometimes can't even bear to look at. This blog, that sometimes, on days like today, comes so easily to me...but tomorrow I could struggle with it all day and not write down a single word.

This blog is supposed to be me--me, in every form, every context. Every side of me, from my writing to my likes and dislikes and fears and dreams and whatever else I can come up with. It should be easy, shouldn't it?

I'm so sure of who I am, sometimes. But other times...I wonder.


Until later,

- Justyne

Perfect (Micro-Fiction Monday)

Every Monday, I post a piece of flash fiction--a story clocking in at 300 words or less. Each story can also be found on my deviantART and Wattpad pages. Enjoy!

~~

“Hold still.”

“Wait, my nose is itchy.”

“No! Don’t move!”

“But—“

“No.”

“I just—“

I flicked my paintbrush at him, making him flinch as paint droplets splattered against his face. “I said, don’t move!”

He frowned, but stayed put.

“Smile,” I ordered. He deepened his frown, undoubtedly just to spite me. “Smile,” I repeated, raising my paint brush again. “Blue isn’t exactly your colour.”

“I’m already wearing blue.”

“Which is why I told you to wear the red shirt, instead. Now shut up and smile.”

He grumbled and flashed a toothy, cheesy, definitely fake smile my way. “Happy?” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Thrilled,” I said drily. His smile loosened.

“If you were this opposed to posing,” I said, running my brush across the canvas, “then why didn’t you let me just take the photograph?”

“Because then I’d just be watching you paint,” he said. “That’s no fun.”

I peered around my work in progress to cock an eyebrow at him. “And standing still as a statue is?”

“Well, yeah. Because now I can do this—“ He waved his arms up, quickly and wildly, before returning them to their assigned positions. “—and you get mad.”

I glared at him.

“See?” he said. His smile was real now. “You’re mad. I’m giddy. Isn’t this fun?”

I rolled my eyes and sent another flick of paint at his face. “An absolute blast.”

It was another couple hours before I finished the painting. It wasn’t my best work—unsurprising, since it was a project for class that I left until the last minute—but still, it was decent.

“You missed a spot,” he said from behind me, peering over my shoulder.

“I did?” I scanned my eyes over the painting, analyzing every shade, every brushstroke. “Where?”

His arm reached around me and grabbed my thinnest brush, dipping it in the blue paint and reaching towards the canvas. Before I can stop him, he dabbed it on lightly, mimicking the paint I had splattered onto his face.

“There,” he said. He looked down at me and dabbed me lightly on the nose. “Perfect.”

~~

Until later,

- Justyne

Commuting

Today's and every other blog post published in November has been pre-written and scheduled for upload about a month or so in advance. The less I have to blog, the more time I have to dedicate to my NaNoWriMo project! Just like last year, you can put your attention towards the progress bar on the right to see how I'm doing.

See you all in December!

~~

One of the many things living in the city has introduced me to is the Wonderful World of Public Transportation.

Make no mistake: I'm no stranger to it. I used to take the bus everywhere during university. (Thank God for student bus passes.) The buses here, though....well, they're different. There are more routes, more transfers...and I don't have a bus pass anymore. (And they're pretty expensive...especially for someone who, at the time of writing this blog post, hasn't started working yet.) (Don't worry, though--by the time this goes up I'll be working. Probably.)

Aside from getting lost once (only once! And I asked for directions so it all worked out), taking the bus has gone fairly smoothly for me. And since I'm no longer staring out the window in the panicky fashion of someone not yet used to the Winnipeg transit system, I've started to let my mind wander.

Some of the commutes I take to different places of the city are long--anywhere from twenty minutes to almost a full hour. It gives me a bit of time to myself, which is nice. I like those moments when I don't have to focus on or worry about anything--I can just think about whatever, or nothing at all. It's the reason I love long car rides, plane rides, and that 36 hour train escapade I took over the summer. I'm not obligated to do anything during that time--I can just plug in my music and go.

(Or I could if I had headphones. I left my last pair in my pockets by accident and...well. Waterlogged.)

While taking the bus can be...difficult sometimes (if I find myself stranded at a grocery store for an hour again I SWEAR), I don't entirely dislike the experience.

Most of the time, I rather like it.


Until later,

- Justyne

Skyward Dance (Micro-Fiction Monday)

Every Monday, I post a piece of flash fiction--a story clocking in at 300 words or less. Each story can also be found on my deviantART and Wattpad pages. Enjoy!

~~

When you’re ready, meet me above the clouds.

The wind wrapped itself around her body, brushing her hair against her skin and rustling the feathers behind her back. She flexed the muscles protruding from her back, stretching them out as far as they would reach. Her fingers twitched, feeling the wind that embraced her.

She took a breath and ran.

Her bare feet pounded against the dirt beneath her, splashing through puddles and crushing dead leaves. It was dark, but even so she could see the end of the earth fast approaching.

She stretched out her arms, shifted her wings. Her feet pushed off the ground for a final time, the weight of her body working with gravity to push her down, down towards the earth that was now far beneath her.

But gravity had never won against her before.

Within moments she was soaring, flying, swooping with the wind. Her wings carried her up, higher and higher, the wind growing colder and pricking her skin with goose bumps. She felt the moisture of the vapor as she entered the clouds; the things she had once imagined as fluffy cotton balls nothing more than water in disguise.

                

Thousands of stars, stretching out for miles and miles in all directions. The earth was far beneath her now; the air was thin and cold, her short breaths coming out in clouds of her own creation. The moon sparkled and shone in the sky—not as bright as the sun, but easier to look at.

Then there was him.

The moonlight accented his own wings as he circled around, riding the currents of air as he waited for her. He noticed her quickly and paused, allowing gravity to drop him towards her. He took her hands in his and the two shot upward, twirling and dipping and soaring together, as they performed their own skyward dance in the starlight.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne