wee bee combats writer’s block

wee bee recently went through a spurt of phenomenal writing energy, followed by a stiff plummet into the grave that is dead writers everywhere. she became very depressed quickly, as she does whenever she battles a bout of writer’s block. one evening, she decided not to go out with boyfriend and company so that she could have some alone time to write. she figured she would be able to squeak out something if she turned everything off and sat with her stories and that she’d magically have more words popping into her brain as they usually do, bugging her even out of sleep, but nothing happened. she sat for hours staring at her computer, re-reading the ending to her first completed novel which she decided a while back to change, and instead of being able to continue the new ending, merely became enraged at a few less-perfect passages. she created nothing new. she could think of no blogs, nor any words for any projects she previously worked tirelessly on. boyfriend came home and asked what was the matter with her and she replied she was aggravated and going to take a bath. she then proceeded to sit in the bathtub with her head on her knees for three hours repeating to boyfriend that she was miserable, just miserable.

such is the course of events during writer’s block.

as the days and weeks dragged on, she tried numerous things. finally she told boyfriend to tell her his worst war stories so that she had to write to get the images out of her head. this became a turning point for wee bee. although at first, she merely had some awful images in her head, boyfriend’s stories began taking more concrete shape in her head. wee bee has wanted to write boyfriend’s stories from his OIF/OEF days for a while, but now the novel really began to form. still, forming or not, she still was not writing.

then a glorious thing happened. wee bee is not sure what it was, maybe she just needed a burst of confidence, but she had a short story she’d submitted a while back accepted for publication. that very night, she wrote from 9pm into the wee hours of the morning, working on boyfriend’s story.

a little while back, wee bee signed up for nanowrimo. although she has been lackadaisical about pursuing the 50k word goal by the end of the month, she went ahead and searched for groups in her area. she found one right away that was meeting at a barnes & noble cafe in the neighboring town and declared she wanted to go. she figured it might help her to be around other writers, even if she didn’t pursue the full nanowrimo experience. then the morning came when she was supposed to go meet the group. at first when boyfriend woke her up, she outright refused to go. but boyfriend kept at it, asking her why not and encouraging her to go. though she was extremely nervous about going and meeting new people alone for the first time since moving to the south, she finally agreed and got herself moving. it was the best thing she could have done.

since moving here, wee bee has felt largely out of place. she hasn’t found her groove. and although only two other people were able to show up for the group writing session this morning, they were writers, and she felt very at ease quickly. wee bee had forgotten that writers just get one another. it’s easy sitting down with other writers — you exchange a few details about your lives, feel awkward, and stare at your computer and get to writing, which is exactly what she did. for three full hours she sat at the b & n cafe with two other semi-socially awkward peoples and wrote out boyfriend’s war stories.

already, wee bee feels hope for humanity creeping back into her soul. already, she is beginning to come out of her writer’s block depression back into the ranks of the woman she knows herself capable of being. there really is nothing quite like a writing sprint or two to reinvigorate the soul of a writer.

Two Sides

Nostalgia strums and trickles down to the stomach like salt in the sands-of-time hourglass of the American West from which I came and
the South knows much more of blood and trickery and in the sweat beading out from laborers forearms is the painfully slow beat of minutes stretching hours and hours spanning lifetimes and

I can’t
resolve my steps with those who came before and tread this land with their leftover heritage, slaying the fields and irrigating crops with tears and sweat and the blood that drips from the whip and

where are the moose and the cattle awaiting the slaughter but they’re here in the hardened negro slums and the cars of glazy white trash women with their Roxy-addicted babies in the backseats scraping pill bottles and slinking up brick steps begging their opiate fix and offering bars of xanax from blood-caked, blister – picked hands to taste the morphine of battle emblazoned heroes and the prisons overflow the thieves of rich glasses —

Costas and Oakleys and get the fuck out with your Dolce’s this is the land of the poor man’s rich — and in

Washington they are burning, the ever-rich grasses now goldening to mulch beneath the beat of the unseen sun and the lands averse to the touch flood once rain blesses and the politicians blow politically correct kisses of policy to the orangey, flaming skies and all the while the South

laughs and bleeds and steps not a minute or a century but an eon late to the eternal human beat and the sour salts keep trickling my hourglass sands wanton and desperate and my hands tremble and reach for just one more fix of the American West while I fold sweaty and cold into pillows of southern comfort beneath a waxy confederate flag in the bane of American existence and what the North calls regression is no less than moderate progress and where is all that supremist color blindness now in face of the great divide

silly weather

a (crudely) illustrated example of the weather trade that occurred between wee bee’s home state of washington and the new home, south carolina



south carolina:

south carolina

neither state can handle the others’ weather patterns…. washington can’t handle the sun, and south carolina definitely can’t handle the rain. hope everyone else has avoided these disastrous weather conditions.

happy monday

let’s talk about rape

ever since wee bee left psychopath ex-husband, wee bee has struggled with post traumatic stress disorder. at first, it crept up on her. although she didn’t understand what was going on, she got to the point, eventually, where she was completely agoraphobic and couldn’t leave the house. she had a panic attack every time she left and had to interact with anybody else in any way. her pulse would jump to twice it’s normal rate, sometimes higher, and she’d start sweating profusely. wee bee avoided everything. she avoided shows that were too intense when she was at home. she avoided the phone. she sat in her house alone, freaking out. when dog bee died, things were only that much worse. wee bee was convinced her ex was going to track her down and kill her.

after about a year of therapy and medication and almost a year after dog bee died, wee bee was convinced into going to a shelter and there she met and adopted wolf bee. having such a large, protective, and yet fiercely loving dog helped wee bee enormously. she was finally able to go out more, have people over, and even get a job. eventually, her mental state started calming down to the point where she was, for the most part, functioning like a normal individual.

and then she was raped at a wedding.

although wee bee took solace in the fact that she didn’t remember due to being drugged, the whole thing fucked with her more than she could have predicted. not helping anything was the fact that the one person who had power to help wee bee in the situation, the maid of dishonor at the wedding, chose to cover things up, act like it was wee bee who had done something wrong, and had the nerve to demand money and answers to personal questions for *dealing* with wee bee after it all went down. wee bee’s trust of other people, finally starting to come back around, was shattered.

something else wildly unexpected also happened: wee bee was embarrassed. the only people she told were ashley bee and her therapist, and even then she felt extreme remorse as if she had facilitated the whole thing by taking that one half of a drink. the entire situation was rock-bottom soul-crushing.

wee bee’s ptsd came back fivefold. she was terrified of intimacy, she didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, and she became so afraid of everything again that she missed work whenever she was scheduled to work at a time that would have put her leaving after dark. she was a mess.

nearly a year after it all went down, wee bee knows just how severely the event effected her, even though she refused to admit it at the time. she missed work and eventually, lost her job. she spazzed out on a student who she felt was displaying stalker-ish behavior, and missed more work to avoid him. she freaked on a regular basis over things that really weren’t that big of deals, and she disintegrated into the biggest recluse as she had ever been, afraid and mistrusting even of the relationships she’d had for years. people whom wee bee could, in fact, trust with her life, became no different than strangers who wee bee struggled to talk to.

wee bee has thought a lot since that day about people who rape. she doesn’t know what causes it, but hopes it’s something fixable. if it’s a mental fixation, she believes people who have the desire to rape other individuals should seek counseling to deal with the intrusive thoughts and redirect them. wee bee doesn’t want to fall into the pit of saying that all rapists should die, even though that’s often how she feels. saying that doesn’t actually address the problem. saying that men should be raised to know that rape is wrong is a step in the right direction, but doesn’t address what underlies the decision to rape either. rape isn’t just about sex. it can’t be. people who rape other people don’t just want sex, that much should be obvious. and from all of wee bee’s many struggles with mental health, she knows a little about intrusive thoughts and how difficult they can be to ignore or shake. if rape is a similar problem, we need to allow individuals to address it as a problem that can, and very much needs to be, talked about and worked through so that rape can be understood as the life-altering, deathly, atrocious crime against humanity it is and actually prevented.

wee bee isn’t sure how other people will react to this statement. it isn’t the usual, that much is for certain. but the usual clearly isn’t working to protect women, and society needs to accept that simply having a “rapists should die” stance isn’t going to do anything to stop those who have thoughts of rape from becoming those who rape.

please, if you have any thoughts, feelings, or comments, please respond to this post. let’s open up the discussion on rape and those who rape. let’s approach the problem head on.


a flangiprop is that thing you’re always thinking about that’s on the tip of your tongue but can’t get it out. it’s contagious, virulent, when you have a flangiprop problem, the people surrounding you inevitably get a flangiprop problem. you know, that flangiprop – you know what wee bee is talking about. a flangiprop conversation is one such as this:

my flangiprop is running amuck in our besties repertoire and never will the thingy flang as much as it props but that doesn’t make it any less of a flangi thing don’t pretend you don’t know the words typed here I’ve got a flangiprop and you’ve got a flangiprop and soon we’ll ask other people to help us define the flangiprop and they, too, will have a bit of a flangiprop problem in the middle of mouth stuck like peanut butter in the brains let’s just get it out or move on because the flangiprop can’t be understood except by that which is consistently misunderstood.