Third Sunday, Story Teller: Part One

I've decided to start an ongoing story blog the 3rd Sunday of every month. New chapters will be forth coming every 3rd Sunday. I'll try not to put to many cliffhangers. Let me know what you think?

A small, dark room with only a small table in the center. On top of the table sat a framed photo of five people, two young graduating woman with their boyfriends and an older woman in the center of them. They all looked happy.
The only light came from an almost extinguished candle next to the picture.
A beautiful brunette sat cross legged on the floor facing the photo. You can see bruises and small cuts on her body as she lets the air dry her naked body. Her eyes closed, she thinks about the life she once had. 
It's been a year since my fiance was taken from me. A year since I lost my Aunt Mags. Their absence from my life is the price I continue to pay for my vengeance. She took my life from me, and now I'm going to take hers. No matter what it takes. Even it means becoming one of them.

Chapter One A Year Ago

I enter my dorm room and breathe a sigh of relief. Finally made it. I didn't think I would ever make it through the throngs of college students and their parents. I see someone has already made herself at home when I notice suitcases sitting on the floor next to one of the beds. 

I guess there will be no haggling over who gets which bed. It doesn't really matter, I'm just glad to be here. I walk over to the other side of the room and put down my bag and my box of memories from home. 

I hear noise coming from the bathroom and I start to investigate when a pretty red head walks out, and sees me. "Oh, you must be my new roomie. Olivia." She walks up to me and gives me a hug. Oh great, a hugger. I think to myself. She notices my one suitcase and barely full box beside me. "Is this all you have?" she asks.

"I'm afraid so. You must be Heather," I say.

"I guess it isn't going to take you long to get settled in, me on the other hand...," she says as she turns to her bed and all her belongings.

We both look up as a guy who happens to be very easy on the eyes, walks by their open dorm room and waves.

"Or, we could just put it off till later. We can get acquanted with the neighbors." Heather says, with a wink.

I walk over to the door and wave her through and say, "After you."

She walks up to me and puts her arm over my shoulder and says, "You and I are definetely going to become great friends."

***

Later that night, after our "meet the neighbors" and Heather has secured herself a date for Friday night, I finish unpacking my bag and tackle the box. Well, not really tackle, I didn't bring many momentos of home. The truth be told; I don't have many. 

I look over at my new roomie as she lies on her bed listening to music. She lied. It didn't take her long to unpack her things. Once she set her mind to the goal, she doesn't stop till it's achieved. Who knew she was such a fan of stuffed animals? 

I turn back to my task and pull out a framed photo of my Aunt Mags. I really should call her. I put the photo down and pull out my cell phone. "Hey Mags. Whatcha up to," I asks.

"Olivia, my dear. I'm making dinner. How did your first day go? How is your new roommate?" she asks.

"It went well, met some new people and my roommate, Heather is great. She seems really nice and I think we will become great friends. What are you cooking?" I ask, as I lie down on my bed.

"I'm glad to hear, things are going great with you and your new roommate. I'm making dinner for a friend," Aunt Mags says.

"Friend? Is it the man from your book club? " I say. I hear the doorbell in the background.

"I have to go,that's the doorbell. Who say's it is a man. Call me tomorrow, and I will tell you all about it. Love you Liv."

"I'm gone for a few days, now look at you. I'm going to hold you to that. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you, Mags.

We disconnect and I get up to walk to the bathroom. Heather pulls out her earbuds, puts them under her pillow, and asks, "Is everything okay?"

I stick my head out, "Yes, that was my Aunt."

"Oh yeah, your Aunt Mags. I remember you mentioning her at lunch today," she says as she swings her legs and sits on the edge of the her bed.

"I call to check up on her and she has a date," I say as I shake my head, and walk over to Heather's bed and sit down.

"Well, from what you told me, I believe it. I can't wait to meet her. I'm sure she will be fine. I mean she raised you," she says as she runs into the bathroom.

"Hey, I wasn't through in there," I laughingly say.

"You snooze, you lose. I won't be long. Just a quick shower," she says as she closes the door. 

I roll my eyes and look at the time. It's late and I decide just to go to bed. We both have an early morning breakfast meet and greet. I look at the bathroom door, quickly take off my jeans, and get into my bed. I'll just to take a shower tomorrow morning. 

I reach over and turn off the lamp next to my bed and try to fall asleep as I hear Heather singing. Wait, what? Is that the Spice Girls? Who knew, stuffed animals, 90's music lover, but definitely can't hold a tune.

I smile as I close my eyes and find myself singing..."tell you what I want, what I really, really, want..." 

Transition

autumn

thick juicy green

fades to whispering wildfire

and falls

the sun shifts

spilling cold diamonds 

across slow water

a scrawny yellow bird

watches the yard

from atop the feeder

I love autumn. While many people see it as an ending, I see it as the first step toward a new beginning. The plants and animals prepare themselves for a season of dormancy. They shed the unnecessary and go deep, protecting themselves from the inevitable challenges of winter and reading themselves to welcome a new season of birth and growth. I find inspiration and courage in autumn. I, too, can gather what I need, let go of what I don't, and look forward with determination.

Color Me Green: Illness, Love, Jealousy, and Permission

I'm feeling a little green around the gills. 

Strep throat is visiting me again. When I went to the doctor the yesterday he examined my throat and said it was not too red, but he would do a swab test just in case because I am high risk--I'm around elementary kids and one of my darlings coughed right in my face the other day.

thecbombshell.blogspot.com

You know how you read all the signs, posters, and degrees on the wall in the little check up room while you wait?  All the posters were the same size, more like info-graphics than straight out 'read-me' text. They were laminated. The degrees told me this doctor finished up school in the last few years. While I waited he printed out and an organized OTC medicine guide he'd made himself. He even including herbal remedies. Somehow, it all reminded me of my classroom. He really made me chuckle when he came back in and told me my 'spidey-sense' was right--maybe because I had on a Daily Planet t-shirt and he thought it was the Daily Bugle?--and that I did indeed have strep throat.

Our love is evergreen.

My boys--son and hubby--each gave me a gift yesterday. Son came home from school to have lunch with me. We've been in a rough patch lately; he's sixteen, 'nough said. He made a cup of coffee for me, brought it to me at the kitchen table, and scooted his chair around to sit by me. I was Tweeting my pitches for #PitMad. We trolled the feed and laughed at some, wondered why some were getting likes, and he pointed out a very select few he thought were interesting. At one point I realized this was the least tense I'd felt with him in a while--it was kinda bitter sweet.

Hubby knows I love Pho and that the best in town is made by the mother of our Club member, Lan. Unable to get his hands on that, he stopped at the next best place and brought home hot soup for my poor throat.  He even asked for extra Hoisin sauce. He's my hero.

I'm controlling my green-eyed monster.

I know the literary world is competitive--at that is part of the rush of voluntarily putting myself on the chopping block by entering competitions like #PitMad or #PitchSlam. Unlike other writing competitions in which we send our pages off to some journal or organization, and then waiting to hear back in a month or two, these competitions tease the bejezzers out of us because of the Twitter feeds.

I admit I was glad for the commiseration of my son yesterday when we searched the feeds for entries similar to mine, and found one or two which got 'likes' from agents requesting pages--while mine did not.

Honestly, I don't think the pitches were any stronger than mine, nor did my green-eyed monster. So what made the difference for the agents? Did they see the other posts first? Had they met the author(s) at conferences? Is the universe sending me a message?

How the heck do I know!

I just have to remember the words of wisdom I have heard so often lately, 'it's all subjective'.

I am giving myself the green light.

My plan is to keep moving forward. The long and short of it is to use what I've learned to polish my pages--again--and then start the querying process. 

In the meantime, I have a historical romance in the planning stages and a sci-fi MS I can pick up again. A few short story competitions are on the horizon and I have a great local writing group to keep working and celebrating with! My network is spreading on-line, I have new CPs, and I am inspired by the perseverance and encouragement I find from these connections.

There is work to do.

The Rejection Letter Blues: Reading Is Subjective.

Bing Images

The other day, I received another rejection letter, but it came with some very kind words. What stuck in my head were the words 'reading is subjective'. It got me thinking about my time in culinary school.

On this particular day, the assignment was surf and turf. My shrimp and steak were cooked to perfection but the instructor didn't like the fact I sliced the corn on the cob into pin wheels, thinking it would be easier to eat. He said it would have been better if I scraped the corn off and mixed it into the rice. So, I received a 99 on the dish.

          Needless to say, I was a little upset. I was a bit of a perfectionist when it came to my dishes. (Okay, maybe more than just a bit). Not only did my food have to make your taste buds do the happy dance but it also had to be pleasing to the eye. So, I thought to myself, you're really going to knock a point off cause you would have preferred the corn mixed in the rice. From that point on, every time I brought a dish to an instructor to grade, I had to remember to cook my food my way and not worry to much if he was going to like it.

          I thought about how similar this is to sending out queries to agents. Maybe my manuscript won't make said agent's brain and heart do the happy dance, or be pleasing to his or her eyes. That's okay. Because I know, one day, I will find that one agent who will love my manuscript no matter how much I 'slice' it.

          When you get the next rejection letter and it says something like this: "I couldn't connect with the material" or "I couldn't get emotionally connected to the characters," remember it's said agent's no and someone else's yes. 

Believe in yourself and your writing, and always continue to write, write, write and read, read, read.

Who Wrote It Challenge #2

Below are our responses to a fifteen minute writing prompt: 

The old house, with its wildly overgrown garden, was silent, secretive.

Can you match the writing sample to the author?

Katie Drake bio

Solange Hommel bio 

J. Rae Moore bio

Lan H. Lee bio

A)

 The old house, with its wildly overgrown garden, was silent, secretive. Annalise 

remembered when her mother had carefully tended the garden. The trellises, now broken 

and dangling, had once dripped with glorious yellow roses. She pictured the fresh coat of 

crisp, white paint that her father had painstakingly applied over the course of a summer, 

using the limited time available each evening between bank closing and nightfall. Over the 

years, the dust and smog had left its mark, turning the siding a dingy gray. She could 

remember the days when Hart Manor regularly appeared on the covers of gardening and 

housekeeping magazines; when locals walked their out-of-town visitors past the matching 

white picket fence with vicarious pride; when her family represented all that was good and 

strong and right in the community. Annalise stood on the cracked sidewalk leading to the 

sagging front door and remembered the old house as the shining beacon it had been 

before the secrets took over.

B) 

          "I bet you five seeds he will only go 25 feet," Eddie says to me, his scavenging partner.
          "You are on, my friend," I reply.

          We both watch as this little boy of about eight takes a tentative step into the overgrown garden. One step, two steps and he stops. The patio of the old house creaks as if on cue, and the little boy turns and runs away.

          "Pay up Eddie, you owe me five seeds," I say as I wait for him to gather the seeds from the sunflower plant.

          "Yeah, yeah, I'm getting them." He hops all the way up to the top of the stem and begrudgingly throws down each seed, one by one.

          "Hey. Watch it." I dodge the seeds being thrown at me.

          "Sorry," Eddie yells down as he peeks his head over the tip of a yellow petal. But, I don't think he's sorry as I hear laughter.

          I wait for him to hop down to help me put the seeds into the cart. My little red wings are too small to carry the seeds.

          "What do you say we go over to Tully's and throw back some nectar when we're done," he say's when he finally makes it down.

          "Yeah, that's sounds great, the quicker we are done here, the sooner we can meet up with the other guys," I say as I nudge a seed his way.

          "Ah, I see what you are doing, and I get it. The first one's on you." Being a grasshopper, he makes quick of the work and we are on our way to the drop off shoot.

         On the way to there as I ignore Eddie's ever constant buzzing, I look around the overgrown garden that I call my home.

C)

Twice I'd been to the town my mother grew up in. I can still picture the endless wheat fields, and of course, my great grandfather Rudy's house. White, with a wrap-around porch and oak trees out front. Even then I new it was a bit shabby, maintained but not cared for.

One Easter I wore a frilly dress with patent leather shoes. All the cousins hunted for eggs and I got my first Easter basket. For Rudy's ninety-fifth birthday there was a parade. I was seven and thought the celebration was just for him. I didn't know it was for Oktoberfest. All the grand kids wore matching yellow outfits made by an aunt. I still have the little matching purse. We piled in the car with Rudy. I remember it was a convertible. I don't remember the actual drive. 

I can picture the table in the kitchen and mother helping make the fresh sausage. I would climb the dark, creaky stairs to the second floor and play with my mother's old barbies. The ones stored there from when she was a little girl. There were only two.

       The back yard was like a strange forest; part junk yard for old tractor and irrigation supplies, and part retreat from too many people. Sometimes there was an odd man out there. He never spoke to me and the others rarely spoke to him. But he belonged there. Once I saw him coating the picket fence with white paint. He also kept an eye on a bird feeder and would sit and watch the birds for hours while he polished little stones with a scrap of felt. I would see him slip through a small door at the back of the house that led to what I thought was the cellar. I was not allowed in. I never saw anyone follow him. They never even told me his name.

       They should have. He was my grandfather, my mother's father, son to Rudy. Now they are all gone and I've come back to the old house. The garden has run wild, covering the rusted metal of the farm equipment. The old picket fence is no longer white, but grey and leaning. The birds are gone. I found the polished rocks lined up from the bird feeder to the little cellar door.

D)

                    16 August 2016

To the Dark Forest Code Compliance Office,

I am sending this letter in reference to the numerous notices and fees I have received from your office about the overgrown condition of my yard.

Firstly, let me remind you of the past accolades my yard and home have earned.

·         The Yummiest Yard Award presented in May 2013, 2014, and 2015 by the Little Gnomes Society.

·         The Delectable Décor Honor presented in August 2013 and April 2015 by The Munchkin League of Fairytale Land

·         The Stripes are Scrumptious Medal presented in June 2013, 2014, and March 2016 by The Fairies for Equality Foundation.

·         The Editable Construction Certificate presented for the year of 2014 by King Phillip –himself!     

As you can see, I am not in the habit of letting my property fall into ruin. Maintaining a gingerbread house is a full time investment. However, because of the debilitating injuries I suffered in an unfortunate incident earlier this year, I’ve had no choice but to fall behind on the maintenance of my estate.

Surely, you read about the incident in the Princess Daily Press. Although the article was extremely one-sided, making me out to be some kind of monster, I’m sure you’ll be reassured once you hear my side of it.

It was in early May when I caught two children nibbling away at the siding on my house. Of course, I felt sorry for the poor dears. They were obviously very hungry, so I invited them inside. If only I knew what was to come.

Once inside my home, the boy, Hansel, went into a frenzy, eating and licking everything in sight. I thought the boy foolish with hunger so I placed him in an enclosure to save my home. I had his sister, Gretel, help me whip together a batch of my famous chocolate chip butter cookies. Sure, the children ate the cookies with no complaint, but when I insisted Gretel help tidy up the preparation mess, she threw a huge temper tantrum. I explained the concept of cleaning up after oneself but there was no calming the child. – I blame the parents –

Seeing I would get no help from the children, I went about cleaning the oven myself. It wasn’t until I felt the firm push that I realized my mistake. Those horrible, ungrateful, evil children had pushed me in and closed the door. Consequently, I suffered major injuries. I spent weeks in the hospital and am still in the process of returning to full health. Thus, all of this has hindered me from keeping up my home.

I should hope you understand. I am asking for the full dismissal of the accumulated warnings and fees your code compliance officer has nailed to my front door. And, compensation for the damage said officer has caused to my door with said nails. Thank you.

Awaiting Action,

The Witch in the Gingerbread House on Canetree Lane

P.S. I was sorry to hear of Hansel and Gretel’s recent disappearances in the paper. I’m sure they’ll turn up.

P.P.S. Please extend an invitation to Code Compliance Officer, Miss Priss. I invite her to come to my house for milk and cookies. She knows where I live.

_______

Thanks for reading! Please, take a second to introduce yourself in the comments below. Don't forget to make your guesses about the authorship of each sample. Even better: set a timer for 15 minutes and share what you've written! 

We'll let you know who wrote which sample next week. Good luck!

The Accident

Steve finally eased his way through the narrow entryway in the tree trunk to the nest he shared with Hilda. He had hoped that she'd be sleeping, as it was already late morning, but no such luck. He licked a paw and ran it quickly over his ears, but he knew he still looked a mess.

"And where have you been?" Hilda chittered. Lately, her voice had become sharp, like barbed wire hidden under fallen leaves. Her tail twitched in irritation.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Hilda twitched her tail some more and sucked on her front teeth. For a moment, Steve thought she was going to let it go, let him get some much needed sleep, but no. That would have been too easy.

"Sheila said that Tracy said that Millie saw you in the dog yard again." Hilda sat back on her haunches and stared at him from the other side of the nest. Sunlight streaming in through the entrance glittered off her black eyes.

Steve sighed. Knowing there was nothing he could say that wouldn't set Hilda off on a lengthy rant, he chose to say nothing. Instead he curled himself into a ball in the darkest corner of the nest, wrapping his large tail up and around his head. With another deep sigh, the tension in his muscles released slightly and he sank deeper into the cotton batting they'd collected for their bedding. He drifted off to sleep to the sound of Hilda shuffling acorns around noisily, mumbling to herself about how right her mother had been.

Hilda was gone when Steven woke up several hours later. Steve stretched his legs in all directions as far as they would go, toes spreading wide. Then, scratching his belly absently with one paw, he rolled over. He must have been sleeping on his tail funny because it filled with pins and needles as he sat up. From previous experience, Steve knew he'd have trouble with his balance until it felt completely normal again.

He had just lifted an acorn off the pile in the corner when Hilda swooped through the entrance. She deposited two more acorns on the floor of the nest and grabbed the one out of his hands.

"Absolutely not, Steve. Those are for later."

"C'mon, Hilda. I'm starving. I'll bring you two more to replace it."

"That's what you always say."

"I swear." Steve held his paws up earnestly and flicked his tail charmingly. Hilda could never resist his tail flicks.

Hilda looked at him through the deepening shadows. She held the acorn just out of reach. "Tell me what happened this morning."

Steve's tail drooped. "I told you, I don't want--"

"I guess you can go forage for yourself," Hilda said, placing the acorn on top of others and positioning herself in front of the pile.

"Fine." Steve held out his paws. "I'll tell you. Give me the acorn." Hilda handed it to him and he turned it over and over in his paws as he thought. For once in her life, Hilda sat still, waiting. Finally, he said, "It's that damn dog toy."

"Oh, Steve." He could hear the frustration in her voice.

"I know. I know." He bit into the acorn. Through a full mouth he added, "It's just not right. I see it sitting down there, all matted up and I just can't stand it."

"It's not real, Steve." Hilda rolled another acorn over to him as he finished the first.

"I know that," he snapped. Hilda sat up straighter and looked away, trying and failing to hide the injured look on her face. "Hilda. I'm sorry." She looked back at him. "It's just ... I'm not an idiot. I know it's a stupid toy for their stupid dogs to play with." He stopped, disliking the way his throat felt, tight with emotion.

Hilda stroked his tail slowly as he cried. After a while, she said, "I want to understand. I just ... I just don't."

"You can't. You didn't see him like that," Steve said.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah."

Hilda's glittery eyes softened. "Sometimes I wish I had. I wish I was out there on the road with you when it happened. Then maybe I'd be able to help you through this."

"No," Steve said. "I'm glad you weren't. I'm glad you don't understand." He took a shuddering breath. "Nobody should have to see something like that."

They sat together in silence, each remembering Eddie in their own way, until Hilda spoke, "So how can I help? What are you trying to do with that thing?"

Steve looked up in surprise. "Really?"

"Really."

"I thought maybe I could get it through the fence and send it down the embankment. If I'm lucky, it will roll all the way to the river. If not, we can put some leaves over it or stick it under a log. Anything so it isn't just laying there in plain sight all the time."

Hilda swept up some acorn crumbs with her tail and tossed them out through the entrance. "Okay, then," she said, "what are we waiting for?" She scampered through the hole and down the trunk.

Steve followed.

(Story inspired by this video, taken by me on Aug 18.)

Maybe - A dialogue practice

"Maybe it won't be a big deal." Tara nibbles her bottom lip as she folds and unfolds the ticket in her hand.

"It will be fine. They'll understand," I say.  She looks at me for a moment, hope filling her brown eyes. I've failed to convince her, though. She flops onto her back and grabs Yertle, the stuffed turtle I use as a pillow.

"My parents are going to flip. Straight up kill me." She covers her face so it looks like Yertle is talking as she continues, "This is all your fault."

"What!?"

She pulls Yertle from her face and throws him at me. "You and your stupid obsession. I wanted to leave. You were the one who couldn't drag yourself away from Sarah."

My heart falters as she drags the syllables of Sarah's name out into a school-yard taunt. Was it that obvious?

"Geez, Jess," Tara went on, oblivious to the thudding in my ears, "I know you want to get on the team, but stalking the team captain isn't the way to do it."

She doesn't know. "I'm not stalking her. I'm just making friends. My dad says things like this are all about who you know." I set Yertle at the foot of the bed as my heartbeat returns to normal. "If Sarah has a positive social association with me, she'll be more likely to look favorably on my tryouts."

Tara sits up. "That sounds just like your dad." She strokes her chin and looks dramatically toward the ceiling. She lowers the timber of her voice in an imitation of my dad, "Blah, blah ... neural networking ... blah, blah, blah ... favorable outcome ... blah, blah ... social-emotional ..."

Her eyes go big and her voice falters as my dad appears in the doorway. "Hi, girls. How was your day?"

"Fine, Dad."

"Fine, Mr. Skinner," Tara mumbles.

"Good. Glad to hear it. Are you staying for dinner, Tara?"

"If it's okay with you." She still hasn't looked up at him.

"We'd love to have the company," Dad says. He looks at me. "Set the table in half an hour, please?"

"Sure."

"Okay, well, I'll let you two get back to whatever you were doing." He turns and heads down the hall. As he walks he adds, "See you in 30. Blah, blah, blah."

Tara's eyes go wide again. She stares at me, frozen, for a beat before we both collapse on the bed, giggling.

Once we can breathe again, Tara wipes her eyes and says, "Your dad is the coolest."

"Whatever."

"No, really. I bet your dad wouldn't freak out over a stupid speeding ticket."

"Probably not." There are plenty of other things he would freak out about, though.

Tara resumes fiddling with the ticket she'd gotten the night before.

*****
inspired by Daily Post prompt for 8/10/16: Maybe.

Could You Be a Situational Procrastinator?

I might be a situational procrastinator. 

What do you think?

-I knew I was getting an ear infection, but wanted to finish The Last Kingdom on Netflix, so I put off going to the doctor until after regular hours and had to go to the urgent clinic. (I guess this is a weird king of Kuddos to the show.)

RESULT: My ear is killing me despite the meds and I wish I had gone sooner.

-My son is nearly ready for college application time. I wanted some bonding-time with him this summer, so jumped right in and planned a trip for the two us. 

RESULT: Seven days, five states and three schools later, we learned a bit about each other and it was a great experience. 

-I go back to teacher schedule on Monday. For two weeks my teacher inbox has been pinging with meeting and training announcement. There are two I am to complete from home and that I am avoiding, one for a new district wide tech program and one that comprises of six hours of online video torture followed by a repeated testing salt wash.

RESULT: TBD. Truthfully, I'm not a rule breaker and I hate to miss deadlines, so I will get these done. But you can bet I won't start the tech training until the day before it's due and the other doesn't HAVE TO be done until October, so....

-With school starting back I should not have been surprised when I got the call to go move my classroom (its a yearly ordeal). I thought I was smart by asking about this problem at the end of last year (was told I would not move and thus packed the cupboards full instead of sticking everything in easily transportable boxes), but alas...

RESULT: I got my butt up there and moved my stuff and got the basic setup of the new room done. Why? Because this work effected other people. If I did not do my part, others could not do theirs.

-Weeding. Sucks. I am way more interested in sleeping in while I can than getting up early (so not to die of heat stoke) just so I can pull weeds from a 120 ft long rock garden. Especially since hubby already bought this grass/weed killer easy pump thingy for me and I haven't use it. Yeah.

RESULT: I weeded. I sprayed. I left the pulled weeds in the grass planning to ask my son to take the mowing over them to pick them up. I didn't ask or he didn't hear and they stayed for a week. The weeds dried up nicely in the sun, got watered by the irrigation system and now I have MORE weeds.

-At the start of summer I sat down and made a spreadsheet of upcoming writing competitions. It is a great sheet, in order by date and then alphabetized with all kinds of handy columns. I then picked two I thought I was nearly ready for.

RESULT: I was overzealous. No, I could not meet the deadline for a travel article because honestly, I couldn't decide if my ideas or trips were article worthy next to the other already published articles. I did start taking notes for a short story idea but decided not to enter because the idea is too big for a short story (I'm not abandoning it, though. It's on the slow burner for now.)

-Scanning through Twitter last week, I came across the #PitchWars writing competition. I emailed my writing group buddies who have manuscripts completed, agonized over my query and synopsis, and edited my 1st chapter for the 123rd-130th times.

RESULT: I made my submission yesterday. Two days before the end of the sub window. 

Is this kind situational procrastination normal?

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Yes. We all avoid situations which we find disheartening and wind up finding our happy place instead-my ear infection being a prime example. 

It's also a matter of motivation. Looking over my list, I found I am more motivated by close deadlines and taking action when other people are counting on me.

"Chronic procrastinators have perpetual problems finishing tasks, while situational ones delay based on the task itself." (source)

I take heart in this statement. I am not a chronic procrastinator. I finish many tasks and finish them well, thank you.

But I do have this problem...

“You know what you ought to do and you’re not able to bring yourself to do it. It’s that gap between intention and action.”

This quote below seems reasonable to me. As a busy person, one must learn to prioritize. Sometimes work wins, sometimes home life, sometimes massages and pedicures win.

"...procrastinators calculate the fluctuating utility of certain activities: pleasurable ones have more value early on, and tough tasks become more important as a deadline approaches. 

The more I read of the source article, the more I believe I am not the typical procrastinator who never completes a task, or makes lists of jobs to do, does one, shuffles the list, and does one more.

Maybe I am not a procrastinator. 

I don't fit anything on the list from Psychology Today.

After reading, this article (which I plan to share with my students), I think what I need to focus on is my attitude towards tasks-make myself find the positives and just get started. Again, looking at my list above, I can see how I've done this for the items I started on right away.

How to find the positive?

Here is a compounded list of steps from the Positivity Blog which I plan to take.

1. Find the optimistic viewpoint in a negative situation.

4. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.

6. Add value and positivity to someone else’s life.

7. Exercise regularly and eat and sleep well.

11. Mindfully move through your day.