Goth Girl Gets Published

Reputations. They're pretty funny sometimes, especially when you're not really sure where they came from. Of course, I can't pretend I'm completely clueless about my own reputation for being a bit "gothic." I do have an inkling of an idea as to where my name Goth Girl originated (thanks, Brooke!). It all started over a discussion on Johnny Depp. You see, I'm a huge Johnny Depp fan. Always have been, always will be. I like him 'cause he's pretty, obviously, but more importantly, I like him for his style and attitude and for the fact that he's different. You may recall that I'm different...maybe even a little weird. So I'm drawn to people who don't fit into any particular mold.

Yummy.

My love for Johnny led to a natural assumption that I loved pirates, which obviously meant that I should love vampires, and so on and so forth. And so Goth Girl was born. Look, I do have a love for the darker things in life. I'll admit it. I'm kind of morbid that way. And, usually, so is my writing.

Which leads me to the true point of this post: I'm getting published. Again. Again, you ask? Katie, you mean to tell us that you've been published before? Well, yes and no. My story "A Shame About Mrs. James' New Colonial Blue Carpet" (long title, short story) appeared in the now defunct literary journal Southern Gothic. So, yes, for awhile, I was published, but now, since that journal no longer exists, I'm not. Because, you see, Southern Gothic was an online literary journal, so it's not like I have copies of the journal laying around at home. Nope, it's gone and so is my published story and by-line. (Here's proof that it actually existed, but if you'll notice the link to the actual journal now belongs to a psychic service (sad, sad): http://www.storysouth.com/comment/2007/01/southern_gothic_online_and_in.html

(Oh, and my short story "The Beauty of a Sno-Cone Stand" was published in a local magazine called West Georgia Living, which is also nothing to sneeze at, but I don't know if I can officially "count" that as it's for local talent, so anyway...)

Back to present, no use crying over formerly published and now no longer published stories. The thing I'm focusing on now is my current Literary Journal Journey, which has already paid off! A couple of weekends ago I submitted my short story "One Mississippi" to an online literary journal called Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, and within a few days, I had a response--

Hi Katie,


I would love to publish your story "One Mississippi" in the next issue of Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal. Thanks so much for your interest in MLASJ and best wishes with your writing!


--This led to a lot of happy dancing and squealing and scaring of cats and then some celebratory Champagne drinking (one of you once told me to celebrate the small victories, so I did :)) . Now, as far as I can tell, literary journals are kind of a first step in way of getting published. The more my name appears in print, the more my work is published and consumed, the better chances I have of having a book published. Maybe. At least that's what I'm telling myself. So, keep your fingers crossed! Goth Girl is making her dreams come true one step at a time.

If you'd like to read "A Shame About Mrs. James' New Colonial Blue Carpet," let me know. It's pretty dark, and up until recently, I've avoided showing bloggy land my dark side, but it's my blog, and it's who I am, so what the heck!

Remembe(RED): What'll Ya Have?

“What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?”

I stared blankly at the woman. Annoyance was flickering in her eyes, but there was little I could do about it but stare. I could see her lips moving, but she might as well have been speaking another language. I just didn’t understand. My friend Amanda crowded up behind me in line. “Katie,” she said, exasperation and embarrassment ringing in her voice.

I was maybe ten years old. First year at a new school, first field trip at a new school. First trip to Atlanta landmark: The Varsity. The first of what would be many. The sights, sounds, and smells of this famous hot dog joint are old hat to me now, as much a part of who I am and my history as my love for writing.

But this was my first trip ever, and I’ll admit that I was terrified.

To understand a little of what I was going through, you need to first understand The Varsity. Originally opened in 1928 smack dab in the middle of downtown Atlanta, The Varsity is a drive-in of epic proportions. The restaurant itself can accommodate over 800 customers, and on a weekday, right about at lunch time, you can believe that 800 people are crawling inside. Buses full of field-trip kids, executives on their lunch breaks, Atlanta tourists: they’re all packed inside, waiting for their chance to snatch up a chili cheese dog, onion rings, and a Frosted Orange.

And I stood amongst them, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. The lady behind the counter made a snarling sound. “What’ll ya have, kid?”

Thankfully, Amanda assessed the situation and my blank expression and took charge. “She wants an order of onion rings and a chocolate shake, and I’ll take a hot dog and fries.” The lady took our money, passed us our red trays, and then we turned around to face the lines and lines of people behind us.

I can vividly remember trying to navigate through all of those people, balancing the red tray and looking desperately for a free table to sit at. We ended up sitting in a dining room with school desks set up as tables. At ten, it struck me as incredibly funny to see grown men and women crammed into these desks, eating their greasy lunches. As I said, this was the first of many trips to The Varsity, and I eventually learned the language and attitude of the restaurant.

Field trips at my school, which was only 45 minutes from Atlanta, were typically made to Atlanta: the High Museum of Art, Six Flags, The Shakespeare Tavern, The Fabulous Fox Theatre, The World of Coke…all trips made with pit stops at The Varsity.

The ride to Atlanta was usually my least favorite part of these trips. When we would first load up on the bus, that unmistakable smell of hot rubber seats coupled with old puke and forgotten sack lunches would nearly overwhelm me. I’d spend the rest of the day trying to ignore that smell and failing miserably. Then there was the whole matter of my tendency of getting car sick, which was only amplified on a hot, smelly school bus. I don’t think I ever went on a field trip when I didn’t come home miserably sick.

And yet, I still look back fondly on those trips to Atlanta and The Varsity. I even smile when I remember that first trip, when I stood wide-eyed and scared to death in the middle of hundreds of hungry Atlantans, wondering what the heck I was supposed to do next, all because someone asked me “What’ll ya have?”


The above post was a response to the following Red Dress Club writing prompt: 


Write a memoir post about a memorable school trip. Word limit is 600.

Dear That Girl

The following is a response to The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Flicker of Inspiration prompt. This week's prompt was to write a letter to yourself at age 16.

Dear That Girl,

I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t even know who you are. If we were to meet, would you know me? I don’t think so, and I know I wouldn’t know you. You, trying to fade into the background, to go unnoticed. You, constantly worrying and dreaming for the one thing you’ll never have. Acceptance. Why do you want it so bad? From Those People, People like that? Why do you even waste a second of your time thinking of them? Wanting to be like them?

I want to tell you a story, a story of a girl a lot like you but different. Fundamentally different, and thus to you, unrecognizable.

This Girl waited to start living her life until a lot of that life had already passed her by, but she’s not into regrets, so don’t worry about that part. Many times during her misspent youth, This Girl thought that life might be over, maybe even wanted life to be over, but trust me when I say she was just being overly dramatic. This Girl was like that, and she’s still like that. It’s a big part of Who She Is.

Who She Is is something that This Girl embraces, which is something you need to learn to do. Embrace yourself and all of the things that make you different; you’ll feel better once you do. This Girl is different, too, a little weird maybe, but who the hell wants to be normal? You do, I know, but normal isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and besides that, who decides what’s normal anyway? You’ve decided, I know. You want to be blonde and big-chested and empty-headed. You think that’s normal? Well, maybe it is, but that’s all the more reason to embrace Who You Are.

Stop looking at just the surface. Stop seeing only your flaws. This Girl looks beyond her flaws. Sure, she may get caught up on them from time to time…she spends lots of time obsessing over grey hairs for instance, but This Girl realizes that this is a complete waste of time, and so should you.

Who is This Girl, you ask? Well, allow me to introduce you. This Girl is actually probably not much of a girl anymore at all, a fact she may sometimes regret. This Girl eats a lot and writes a lot and spends time with her family a lot. She’s a girl overwhelmed with happiness; she takes time to appreciate and enjoy the simple things in life, like a garden in the backyard, a yummy meal with her husband, and a glass of wine on the front porch. She loves her cats, loves her husband, and loves herself…most of the time.

This Girl still has moments of self-doubt, to be sure, but the difference between you and her is that she doesn’t let that self-doubt consume her. She overcomes her self-doubt and moves on to do amazing things.

You’d probably be surprised to know that This Girl is actually a lot like you, and even more surprising? One day you’ll grow up to be This Girl. You just have to get through a couple of more years of being That Girl. So don’t feel disheartened. Your happiness will spread its wings and fly one day, and you’ll become everything you dream of being, except now you’ll have new dreams. Dreams that don’t include Those People or silly things like Acceptance. You’ll find Acceptance for yourself and for Who You Are and that’s worth a whole lot more than the Acceptance of others.

But the thing is, That Girl: you already have the Acceptance of Those Who Matter, even now. You just have to find it within yourself.

No worries though. You will, and you’ll be This Girl, the girl you always wanted to be.

With Love,

This Girl

 

Captchouli Round Seven

Welcome back, Captchouli friends!!! Did you miss us? We decided to take a break last week, but we're back this week with our Round Six winner and Round Seven's word. We think we've picked a hard one for y'all, so be prepared to put your thinking caps on.



Round Six's word FULUNK gave us three exemplary Captchouli definitions. Three entries that were so good, we had a hard time narrowing it down to a winner. But before we announce this week's winner, let's take a look at the competition:



1) Jessica at Where is My Instruction Manual?

Fulunk

Pronunciation: fuh-lunk (long emphasis on the first syllable)

Etymology: familiar Southern American English slang

Part of Speech: transitive or intransitive verb

Definition: to fail miserably, especially due to lack of effort

Context: "Ma'am, I hate to be the one to tell you this, bless little Jimmy's heart, but he only turned in one assignment all semester. He's not just going to flunk 11th grade; he's going to fulunk."

2) Sweat Alot from Do Sweat the Small Stuff

I. FULUNK

(fool-lungkt)

a. verb.

to fail terribly, causing some jerk to wiggle his/her pointer finger right-and-left in slow-motion style.

"Tsk tsk tsk... lookie lookie here... ha! You've so FULUNKed this captchouli, man!"

b. noun.

idiot, loser of the highest degree.

"He did what?!? Jeez, what a FULUNK."

II. FULUNK

(foo-loon-kay)

noun

a badly misspelled name of Chinese origin.

"Hello? May I take your message? I'm sorry, could you repeat your name again, please? Hello??? Mr... what was that again? Ah, I see. Mr. FU LUN K."

III. FULUNK

(feh-lungk)

How my daughter would have spelled the verb flunk (she's 6 years old by the way) based on the phonics method.

Me: Miss Chatterbox, how do you write 'flunk'?

Ms. Chatterbox: uh...

Me: Feh... feh... (Ms. Chatterbox wrote 'FU')

Luh... luh... (Ms. Chatterbox wrote 'LU')

Ungk... ungk... (Ms. Chatterbox wrote 'NK')

3) Ms. Ixy at Illusion

Fulunk (Fu-LUNK) – a moment of jaw-dropping stupidity; a huge mistake. Google “the Darwin Awards” for real-life examples.

“Darren told the CEO our strategic plan was short-sighted and ineffective. Guess we won’t be seeing him on Monday after a fulunk like that.”

“Did you see Stacy’s hair? She tried to dye it platinum blonde at home and some of it fell out. You’d think a former hairstylist would know better than to make such a fulunk!”

“Well, I guess I’m on academic probation now. I didn’t realize the exam paper was double-sided – this is my worst fulunk yet.”

Guys, it was so hard to decide on a winner this time. They were all so funny, and so similar! But in the end we had to award Jessica the winner of round six. Can't you just hear Miss Paula Deen in the role of that teacher? Bless sweet Jimmy's heart!

Congratulations Jessica!

And now for ROUND Seven!

Here's how we play:

1. We give you an honest-to-Blog CAPTCHA "word" that we were forced to submit in order to leave a blog comment.

2. You define the word AND use it in a sentence, and EMAIL it, along with the name/link of your blog and HTML code for your button, to Katie at: katieross83@gmail.com

* Definitions left in the comments of either blog will be discarded*

3. We'll decide on a winning definition and post the winning response on both blogs next Saturday, along with next week's contest. In case multiple entries have the same definition, all who submit the definition will be awarded winners.

4. The winner will have his or her button posted on the sidebars of both Chicken Noodle Gravy and My 3 Little Birds for the following week. And this is big, because we both have, like, tens of followers.

5. The contest is open until 12:00 pm EST next Friday. Entries received after that time will be discarded.

We'll be your best friends if you'll grab a Captchouli button from down below!

So without further ado, your Captchouli Word of the Week is:

TORTIC

<a href="http://www.chickennoodlegravy.com" target="_blank"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IBCR84t2-BxCgylWix8255sIPYQrV_uv2BTlpeYFx7zicrJ1X6MdqxEAVaqy-HKK3ER_WIxsP6C7NB3QWVqCaf4puzAQFO3fFlrd8sq5aluYpmTuTJHNwjR1-X6JqTWJ8wv8d4ZlUI0/s1600/captchabutton2.jpg"/></a>

By the way, if you haven't already check out this week's Dare to Share link up over at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. This link up's theme is ANIMALS.

The Bar at Third and Oblivion

I haunt the bar at the corner of Third and Oblivion, or it haunts me; I can never be sure. It’s a mutually satisfying relationship that’s standing hip-deep in beer and tequila. It’s stale but alright with me, because it’s better than nothing or anything or everything that I’ve ever had.

Marianne sits in the far left corner of the room, chomping on yesterday’s mistakes. Marianne, who smiles at all the fat jerkoffs in suits-too-small and crooked hair pieces, hopes for a successful one-night stand.

Then Ryan walks in seeking moisture in this dry heat. He settles for the combustible whiskey that Harry likes to serve. Ryan, with his chipped front tooth, 2 o’clock shadow, and lip ring, smiles at Marianne as she floats by in a haze of easy ignorance and generic perfume. She’s singing Penny Lane and thinking of olive shag carpet and forgettable moments with men who enjoy easy women. What’s so easy about looking for love, acceptance, and companionship? Being called a slut, a whore, and a floozy for an honest stab at happiness?

An honest stab through Tony Portman’s ribs made him bleed. He bled easy and ruined Marianne’s favorite dress, a blue number with pit stains and now blood stains, too. She just got fed up with cheap words, hair plugs, and hands too rough. Fed up, so she showed Tony what she was good at.

As Marianne walks by, Ryan’s depthless eyes follow her, a kind of numb interest in the swinging of her bulging hips, encased in electric blue. He downs the whiskey and goes after her.

He’s doomed and doesn’t know it. Another victim done in by a victim. But life goes on. It always does, even when a little death is served on the side.