Katie McMahon - Needy People

“And that was Kiki Dee and Elton John with ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.’ Thanks for listening to WLMNOP!”

I pressed stop on my Sony dual cassette player/recorder and ejected the cassette tape. I carefully placed it into my dual tape deck/CD player and looked on the floor for my most favorite cassette tape.

“Where is it?”

Where was it? I looked under the bed and found a red sock and what looked like a tooth and a brush full of Jenna’s golden dog hair.

“Where is it?”

I started to panic. I opened my closet door and dug through the pile of clothes. Jeans with elastic waists, striped turtle necks, oversized t-shirts, snow boots, but I couldn’t seem to find the tape. Where was it?

Where was Barbra Steisand?

The name of the album was Barbra: The Concert. The cassette was released a couple years before in 1994, with not just one cassette tape, but two, totaling 28 tracks by Barbra. Earlier that year I had read an autobiography on Barbra called Barbra: Her Life, by James Spada, a man who must have been just as obsessed with Barbra as I was because it was not only his first book about Barbra, but his third. The book was almost six hundred pages, weighing in at three pounds, but I could not put it down.

I wanted to live in a New York City flat with a bathtub in the middle of my living room. I wanted to be tormented by the rejection of auditions and coldhearted lovers. But most of all, I wanted to be a star.

Every day I would come home from school and every day I would watch Barbra on my VHS tape of Funny Girl, co-starring with her dark-haired hero, the handsome and charming, but sometimes devastatingly insensitive, Omar Sharif. When Barbra would sing, I would sing. If my family was home, I would go into the basement and throw up my arms, singing “I’m the Greatest Star” and one of Barbra’s most famous songs, “People”, which I would eventually sing in my elementary school’s talent show. While other kids sang songs from The Lion King or the theme from the 90s hit sitcom, Friends, I would wow mothers, grandmothers, and gay uncles, with my rendition of Barbra’s clingy love song, showing the world that people who are needy and overly dependent on their loved ones are the best people in the world.

I looked up at the stamped signed photo of Barbra on the shelf next to my bedroom window and my heart sank. I could hear her long fingernails click, click, clicking against the glass frame. Barbra was looking right at me. She was beckoning me. She was stage whispering, “Find me, Katie, find me.”

After ripping out the drawers of my dresser and turning the entire room upside down, I sat cross-legged on the floor and I began to weep silently to myself. Slowly, my sobs grew louder and louder until the room became an ocean of my tears. I wailed. I screamed. Not only would the radio show have to be canceled, but life itself would be canceled.

I began opening and slamming my door to let my frustration out on the world. While crying and screaming alone in my room got me nowhere with my parents, the annoying repetition of a door slamming and echoing out into the hallway always got me the attention I needed.

My dad unhurriedly rushed to my rescue.

“What is going on?” he shouted into my sniveling, chubby red face.

“I – can’t – I – it’s lost – I, I, I, she… Barbra!” I howled through hiccups and snorts, rubbing snot onto my 101 Dalmatians nightgown.

I could not stop crying. No one could console me. There was no longer any reason to go on.

I can think back on a lot of not-so-great things that my dad did when I was a kid. He had a severe drinking problem. He seldom was interested in any of the plays or choir concerts that I performed in. Sometimes he would eat all the cookies and treats in the house and blame it on me, so that my mom would take all her anger out on me and leave him alone for a day. But I will always remember that night, crying and coughing into my dad’s chest. I will remember him leaving the house and driving away in his baby blue Chevy pickup truck. And I will remember him returning, less than an hour later, with a brand new, cellophane wrapped cassette tape of Barbra Steisand’s Barbra: The Concert.

In 1999, when my brother would go off to college and I would take over his room, I would find my original Barbra Steisand two cassette, live album in the back corner of my closet. I would tell no one, especially my own personal, light-brown haired hero: my dad.

Katie McMahon - Words

I have learned that everyone else’s bed is more comfortable than my own. But you came here, choosing to sleep here with your fingers in my hair and mouth because your bed was too small. With your feet hanging off, you say you can’t sleep; you won’t sleep. I dream that parts of my hair are missing and I can see bumps on my scalp, but when I wake up, your eyes are closed and little sounds fall out of your nose. I see a bright, fiery circle in the darkness of my eyelids and it fades whenever I open and close again.

I try very hard to not say, “Please don’t leave me,” or “I am so sad when you are not here. Sometimes I wish we never met,” or “Tell me why you are here, but make it what I want to hear.”

I want to say, “I like you so much. You make me feel different than before.”

Sometimes, a lot of times, I think I’m saying the wrong thing. I’m using the wrong words and I’d like to just create new words that were easier for me to say, that made lots of sense to everybody.

Katie McMahon writes and works. And writes. And works.

200 words.

Hey everybody! I just started school and a new job this week, so I thought to myself, "Why not add on the task of persuading people to write every week for the WWW blog?" So that's what I'm here to do.

Summer is over. Kind of. Or almost. So it's time to get back into the swing of things. For us here at Writing, Writer Writest, that means... well, writing. Please send me any ideas you might have for upcoming themes. I've tried updating the blog a little bit, but if you'd like to see something else on here, I am very open to suggestions.

Due by the weekend of 9/2: "Television." I feel like this theme is self-explanatory, but if you have any questions, let me know!

Due by the weekend of 9/9: "200 Words." This is more a less similar to our 20-minute stories theme that went over so well. Sit down in front of your computer and write 200 words, no more and no less. Submissions must be exactly 200 words (I will send them back to you if they're not!). After writing your 200 words, send your essays, short stories, poems, etc. into writingwriterwritest@gmail.com.

I hope you guys are still out there and I hope you still have your hands to write/type with. If not, I'm sure there is some type of technology that can help you.

Thanks,

Katie

Katie McMahon - Oklahoma?

Katie McMahon - Letter to a Girl I Used to Know

Dear girl I used to know:

You should never put blood on paper because blood browns, and that can look pretty gross. If anyone ever saw it, they would think something was wrong with you.

It is horrifying for people to look at things written in blood. Just use a pen or a pencil. People look at that and they think it's more normal, so they go on reading. Anything you are writing in that blood is going to seem crazy and questionable.

If you like how it looks, I don't know what to say to you. I guess I will just remind you that it's not going to look like that in five years, or even five days for that matter.

Even if you don't think anyone will ever see it, someone will see it after you're dead, or you might show it to someone when you're drunk or feeling desperate. People will think that you carry disease. You could be writing, "I love sunshine. The world is so beautiful," but people won't care. They will just see the blood and some of them might even throw up in their mouths.

Why don't you just step outside? There are people and things bleeding all around you and not using their blood to write on anything. Some of these people fear bleeding too much, and they go to a hospital or use strips of elastic to stop the blood from emptying out of their bodies. This could be you, too.

I know what you're thinking: "But the sun is out there." I know you might not believe this, but scientists are saying that a little bit of sunshine is good for everyone. It may even make you want to write with things that aren't so permanent, like writing on the sand with sticks or writing in the fog on the car window. Plus, they have this lotion that you can put all over your body that will block the sun away. Just keep your eyes closed.

From,

somebody who writes with pens, pencils, and laptop keyboards

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Katie McMahon - Flirtation Device

I had a dream last night that I made out with your face.

We were laying on the ground on a blanket in the grass and we kissed. You put one hand on my hip and you wrapped your other arm around my shoulder and put your fingers in my hair.

Do you realize that I've never felt you like that? It felt good. We fit well, my arm intertwined with yours. Our lips fit together perfectly, like when you snap a lid on a container of leftover spaghetti.

"What!" you shouted over the music. "I can't hear you. You had a dream about me? What for?"

I've never felt you like that. I think once we hugged, but it was because I was crying and you didn't know what else to do.

Even though we don't touch, people at the party keep asking if I'm with you. I keep saying no. I tell them you are with someone else. An older woman I've never seen before asks me if I'm with you and I find myself saying, "Yes. Well... sort of."

I lie! I lie right to her face.

You are stuffing your face with potato chips in the corner, trying not to talk to anyone. I like this because I am often uncomfortable and very nervous at parties, but you are worse. This makes me feel like I'm okay. In a different time and place, I don't think we would ever fall in love, but I would still like to kiss you once before I am dead. Dream kisses are always better though, so I bet it would be awful.

Still.

I am always wanting to date someone fat so I can feel small and petite and feminine, but then I am also scared that they will die of a heart attack.

All of the people at the party are talking about you, since it is your party afterall. And they made your favorite foods. They keep saying how much they will miss you, but I think they may be lying. People usually just like making food and talking and eating the food they made and saying things they feel like they should be saying. Then they forget about you. I'm sorry to say this, but in between their jobs and getting married or even more simple parts of the day, like making waffles or carrying groceries to their cars, people are not always missing you like they said they would. Perhaps they feel a little twinge in that place between their chest and their stomach, but they build that up to anxiety or hunger and they don't even think about it being you.

"This music is awful," you mumble and go out onto the porch to find a cigarette from a stranger. Somebody that somebody else who knows you brought to the party, saying, "Come on, it'll be fun. It's so and so's so and so."

If this party were at your house, you'd be playing jazz. I'd be wearing a black dress with a sweater and black nylons and no shoes and I'd be smoking cigarettes out of a long cigarette holder. I know you'd take the holder from me and snap it in half. Then you'd take your hands and place them carefully on my shoulders and push me to the ground.

I know you wouldn't do that. I guess the whole idea seemed silly, so I made that last part up.

Now I feel silly.

You are outside smoking with the lady that I lied to and another lady who is not very, very skinny, but is thinner than me. You laugh and let her touch the sleeves of your coat. How does she do that? Where can I learn how to do that? I don't really want to do it, though.

I do think that everyone should touch your sleeves like that so when you go, they can say, "At least I touched so and so's sleeves," incase you never come back.

Sometimes you look at me through the window for longer than two seconds, which is a long time to look at anybody. I don't know what you're looking at. I know it's not really me.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

If you can read, you can write.

Hey everybody, I just wanted to say a quick hello. Thanks to anyone who has sent in submissions lately. It's been pretty slow the past couple months and I haven't had the time to encourage people as much as I would like to or come up with brilliant themes every week. Shocking, I know.

The funny thing is, I think we've been gaining more readers, which is totally awesome, except for the fact that we don't have many people writing. There's nothing that readers hate more than not being able to read anything. I was thinking maybe that these new readers could also become writers and then they'd have something to read.

So that's my new plan.

Readers, get writing!

What to write? Well, everyone's written a letter before, am I right? Maybe I am. I hope that this can be a fun exercise, especially since letters don't usually have any word length requirements. It can be personal, impersonal, professional, creepy, silly, whatever you'd like it to be. Letters are always helpful when I want to tell someone something, but don't know how to say the words outloud. These are letters that won't be sent, so it's not as scary, or maybe it's scarier. It can be however you want it to be.

Do you absolutely hate this theme and hate me for coming up with it? Try it out. The point of WWWritest is to get you outside of your comfort zone, to challenge your writing skills, to make you suffer (not really). Done trying? Leave me a comment with ideas on themes you'd like to write about. The other point of WWWritest is to provide an outlet for creativity.

The other other point is to make everyone happy all the time. This one is near impossible.

As always, send your submissions in to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com and keep telling your friends!

Thanks,

Katie

Katie McMahon - silverware

I want to make someone fall in love with me. Someone random. Someone just walking past me on the street or buying a coffee or sitting across from me in the library. For no reason other than that they just do.

This is not creepy. I am not asking for much. This could be any person anywhere. I am really risking a lot here by saying that. Any person really means any person. A homeless person. A married man. Someone who likes karate. Anybody.

When I was five, my grandma would take me to what she called a "dime store" and she would ask, "What do you want me to buy for you?" And I would say, "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just appreciate having the experience of being in this store with you, Grandma. I want nothing more and nothing less. Just to be alive is enough."

Then we would sit at a counter top where a man with suspenders and a mustache would serve us little glass dishes full of vanilla ice cream covered in globs of hot fudge that we would spoon into our mouths off of little silver spoons.

I could very well sit down and eat ice cream like that with someone and make them fall in love with me. It would be different because the person would not be my grandma, but just a person like me.

My parents took me once to this huge store full of silverware and cutlery. It was seriously huge; sets of forks and knives and spoons lining the walls. I didn't know why I was there, but it took us forever to drive there. It was far, far up north and we spent hours upon hours walking along the walls, staring at forks, but we weren't allowed to touch anything. How would I know if I liked a spoon if I couldn't feel the weight of it in my hand? My opinion didn't really matter because I was only six, but I disagreed with their choice. For years I used spoons and forks and knives that I didn't agree with. They felt too heavy, too shiny, too bulky, too obvious.

"You are obviously a fork. And you a knife. And you, you are a spoon."

It really felt like we were there for days.

From that point on, the things that were supposed to be exciting became boring and all the boring things in life were suddenly supposed to be exciting. I hated it. I still hate it. I want to eat off of forks that strangers owned and spoons that have little winking faces on the end. I like eating cereal with little spoons because it takes me longer to eat, but that's a different story altogether.

I don't know. I feel like after visiting that silverware store, I was supposed to limit myself to only eating off of plates and out of bowls.

When people say you stop giving a shit after you get older, they are lying. They are really caring much more. You can see it in their little gold chains around their necks and how they always want to eat foods like lobster or drink champagne. "Oh we don't care how we spend our money," but oh, they obviously do. I never drank champagne as a child, did you? I went straight for whatever I could find on the bottom shelf, whatever didn't have a label, whatever got me closer to getting older, whatever was the cheapest and roughest on my body. Older meant less caring, less talking in my brain, less feeling, and maybe a job where I would carry around a briefcase full of whatever snacks I wanted to eat.

Things have been hurting more lately. You would think it would be the opposite. I don't mean emotionally, like oh my heart is broken or oh, I can never seem to stop crying. I mean physically, pain is happening physically, like tiny little martians are inside my chest squeezing my lungs and punching my heart with their tiny fists. They leave bruises all over my arms and scratches on my shoulders.

I'm sure you see it too.

I think sometimes I made up all these stories or they all seem like they happened to me on one day, when really they make up multiple days and years. But I can only remember one day and this is the day when everything happened. And a lifetime crammed into twenty-four hours is a lot for a kid to handle.

You know, I think that humans could do a lot of great things if they weren't so lazy. If they weren't so greedy, like if they didn't do bad things to get lots of money to spend on matching silverware.

I think I could do a lot of great things if I wasn't so scared. I think then everyone would fall in love with me. I don't mean that to sound wrong. I think if everyone was doing great things all the time, everyone would be so in love with everyone else.

If someone had asked me, "What do you want?" as we were slowly walking around the dime store, I could've gotten a lot of great things if I had said, "This. And this. And this and this." I could've gotten a new camera or some candy or a string of colored lights or even a new toothbrush.

But I am always feeling a little limited. What are you feeling?

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Katie McMahon - Five o'clock

I hate when someone says they know what you mean and then they go on and on about something you don't mean at all. Like they just felt like talking about whatever they were thinking and what you meant really means nothing to them. Or they spout sayings at you, like you're just going to soak that all up.

Everything from now on feels made up, do you know what I'm saying?

On the way home, I saw Jesus walking across the street and he was wearing pants. Khaki pants. He was carrying a cross too, but it didn't look heavy at all. He seemed to have no problem, just carrying it around with him everywhere, like it was a box of crayons or a newspaper just sitting lightly in his hands. And those pants. Fuck khaki pants, seriously. Khaki pants make everyone look miserable. At my first job, when I was sixteen, we had to wear khaki pants. Mine were baggy and always wrinkled up by the end of the day, like so wrinkly I'm surprised I wasn't fired. I worked as a cashier, ringing up groceries and clothes and televisions and whatever you put in front of me, but I was always just standing there, so I don't know what was happening that made them so wrinkly, but always by the end of the day I looked like I had been wadded up and sat on. Jesus looked pretty miserable too, as he carried that cross from street corner to corner, while some middle-aged black man skipped behind him shouting, "Jesus makes me feel like singing!"

This Jesus? Or Jesus Jesus? Was he talking about the same Jesus?

No person or person pretending to be a person makes me feel like singing today. I keep having this dream about this guy I met randomly last week, which is just so strange because I really like him a whole lot in the dream. We really get along. We listen to the same music and we laugh a lot. He cooked for me last night, can you believe that? I remember nothing about what he cooked, but it was awesome. He's so much fun, but not like crazy fun where he might take off his clothes in public or steal jewelry to prove how romantic he is; you have to meet him. In the dream, he makes me feel like singing or like doing something sweet, like singing to him or singing about him or singing him to sleep or singing in the shower, cracking the door open and hoping he's just dying out there, wishing he could see me singing naked in the shower. I like myself naked a lot better in dreams than in real life. He does too. It'll be awful if I see him again for real. I think he lives with his parents and he didn't even know who Don DeLillo was. Christ, that shouldn't be a prerequisite for me, should it? Anyway, if he knew who he was, he might hate him anyway. He might hate everything I love.

But in the dream he's pretty rad.

Anyway, I might hate everything I love too. That's where I'm at right now; looking at my things and thinking, "Who is this person living in this room?" I have six books just sitting there on the ground that I haven't even picked up, but I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to sit in my room so I could look at them and whisper to myself, "I love these books."

I think, quite possibly, I just want to get enough stuff so I can go through it all in two years and say, "Why did I save this?" That's what people say when they move, all types of people, and I want to be just like them. Because they go on to save things and save more things and throw some things away, and that's how people are. That's how I want to be. Just like a regular person.

Everyone in my building is always moving. I have never seen the same person twice. Okay, that is a lie, but really I have only seen a few people twice, everyone else only once or not at all.

There is a woman living in my building that likes to have sex at five o'clock in the morning. I have never seen her in real life, that I know of. She is extremely loud. Deafening. I am sure she is on drugs. I really thought she maybe was dying, until she started using real words in her screams. Five o'clock is both too early and too late to be screaming, "Fuck me!" out into the courtyard. Even when you're wearing earplugs and you've shut the window, anybody can hear "Fuck me!" echoing through the courtyard and into their ears.

I hate when people scream, "Jesus!" when they're having sex. I really do.

Five o'clock is too late and too early for almost everything... except when you're talking quietly and you don't have to work in the morning and your eyes are only halfway open and you're halfway looking at someone you love or at least think that you love. Five o'clock is too late and too early and too lonely to be awake by yourself.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Katie McMahon - anyway

every time I buy a bag of those blue tortilla chips that I like, half of the bag sits out on the counter, stale.

I want to be with you so you'll eat the other half.

I know you don't really like those chips, so maybe we could buy something that we both like.

or you could eat them anyway, and next time we could share something that I don't really like.

and when it's your birthday, even though I kind of hate it, I'll eat chocolate cake anyway,

like on Tuesday, when you were full, but you ate dinner with me.

but right now, there's not enough for both of us.

maybe when we make more money?

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Katie McMahon - Awake

People are saying things that I can’t decipher. I have my headphones on and I keep thinking that the guy across the room is saying, “hot dogs,” when really he says, “hot sauce,” as he slams a bottle of Tabasco on the table.

Everyone is talking and talking and smiling with wide-eyes and laughing like everything is so funny.

“I can’t believe how big your salad is!”

“I can’t believe I’m eating this cookie!”

Ten people are writing screenplays. One guy is just telling a woman that he’s writing a screenplay, but he’s not actually writing it. He doesn’t know that she wouldn’t care either way.

And the red bus drives by and the sun reflects off the bus, making everything inside red and rosy. The walls are red. The chalkboard menu is red. That lady's salad is red and the tomatoes are still red too (the Tabasco from the hot dog guy is still red, maybe just redder now). Everything red. People’s faces are red. People's hands are red. Then it drives away, but his shirt is still red and your eyes are bloodshot from overexposure to the red, red, red bus.

I wonder how much coffee I can drink. I should really know by now that drinking coffee leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The best part of my day today was this chocolate chip muffin I ate. The top was all crunchy and sugary and I could taste the butter in every buttery bite. There was this boy sitting across from me outside wearing this weird hat and I kept wondering, “Why does he wear that hat? Really, why?” It was big with a flat all-around brim. All around his head there was a brim and then more brim. And he drinks water and Pepsi and even though the brim is so wide, he gets sun in his eyes as he tries to fit his straw between the clumps of ice. It sits in the cup, poking out awkwardly through the plastic lid. He looks around to see who’s watching and it’s me. So he goes away.

He walks away with that cup, but I can still see it in my head. I think about you and how you do not use straws. And then I think about you and how I always wake up first before you, and you smile with your eyes closed, pretending that you’re sleeping. I like that. The look on your face while you pretend to sleep is my second favorite look for you. I like how your hair falls when you sleep. It falls the opposite way from how it falls during the day when you’re awake. I like how you never wear glasses to bed because no one wears glasses to bed unless they’re drunk or so tired or sleeping on an airplane sitting up. They only accidentally fell asleep. You're sleeping on purpose. Fake sleeping.

I like it so much that you pretend to be sleeping because I can pretend that I’m awake, when really I’m sleeping right next to you.

I used to like listening to you talk. Very much.

But now sometimes I ask you questions, like, “Why did you leave me out here?” And you pretend like you don’t hear me or that I’m just talking to myself. What are you doing in there without me anyway? Maybe you are right.

Before, I used to take bites of you and pieces of your voice with me inside my head. I liked that very much.

The chocolate chips on the muffin form a chocolate chip mouth that laughs at me. Eat us and we’ll make you fat. It’s December and I want to be soft and fat, even though no one will love me when I’m fat. Right now I don’t want to be a lover and it feels nice to not be thought of or heard. Sometimes I think my phone is not working because no one is calling me, but nope; it is working just fine.

Sometimes I like to take baths at night and eat ice cream in the bath. The water warms me on the outside and a little in the middle, and the ice cream makes my insides cold. My teeth hard and shivering, feeling like they might fall out of my head, like cartoon teeth, onto the snowy ground, where kids can pick up the icy teeth and use them as bricks to make igloos.

Sometimes I don’t feel this way at all. I don’t want to eat ice cream in the bath or eat chocolate chips. I don’t even think about things like that at all. If I am not the person who thinks those thoughts or wants those things, why do I keep her thoughts? Why does that person stay with me?

Sometimes I think things that I would never think. When I cross the street, I talk quietly to any cars in my head, “Please do not hit me. Please do not smush me and make my bones crack into many pieces.” If I get hit by a car, I will be very angry for a minute before I die. I will be angry at that car that crushes me and angry at me for not being fast enough.

Someday, when I am crushed and dead, it will not matter how many things I ate or who I was pretending to sleep with. And we will be strangers and you will show up early in the morning to sit out in the cold with me again. Someday, you will stop looking at me like I'm someone I'm not.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Best Week Ever

This past week was probably my favorite week ever in the history of weeks.

I think the blog was really awesome too (I was trying to make a joke, but then I realized that I'm actually really serious).

I want to revisit the twenty-minute stories again in the future. We got lots and lots of interest in it, which is what I thought would happen, but honestly had no idea how great everyone's writing would turn out to be. So, thank you so much!

I'm not here to get sappy. I'm just here to tell you what's up: Submissions for this upcoming week's theme, "Favorite Things" are due and so far I only have one submission! WHAT. IS. UP. WITH. THAT. Don't you have a favorite thing? You can draw it. You can write about it. You can write about your least favorite thing to be more original than the rest of us.

I want to shout out to Scott Joel Gizicki for next week's theme, "The Kindness of Strangers." And Shannon McIntyre for the following week's theme, "Things I Oughta Know by Now." Things you should know by now? That writing is so much fun!

So there it is. 4/15 The Kindness of Strangers and 4/22 Things I Oughta Know by Now. Write something. Send it in to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com and we will love you and love you forever.

-Katie

Katie McMahon - Why we should hold hands. All the time.

6:12 pm

Aimee walked around holding people's hands. If you were walking down the street by yourself, she'd slowly come up beside you and grab your hand, as long as it was free for her to grab. She did it kindly and without being aggressive. If your hand was open and free, it would be held in her hand and you'd be walking side by side with a stranger.

Some people hated this and ripped their hand away from her, as if they were being terrorized. Some people even ran away. After all, holding hands can be the most intimate of actions for certain people. More than kissing. More than sex. Aimee knew this, but she wasn't trying to hurt anyone. She wasn't even trying to be funny. She was just trying to help.

Younger men would look at their hand in Aimee's hand and then up at Aimee's face and smirk, like it meant she was going to fuck them. Aimee walked with these men for about a block and then let go, quickly turning down a street or simply turning around and almost immediately getting lost in the crowd. These men would look for Aimee for about five minutes and then give up. Only a couple would look all day and lie in bed at night holding their right hand in their left and closing their eyes until they had a picture in their head that they could jerk off to.

Lots of people laughed when Aimee held their hand. Women would laugh and giggle and it would make their day, just to be able to tell someone else, "A stranger held my hand today."

A man named Walter didn't even feel anything when Aimee held his hand. She walked with him for blocks and blocks until they reached his apartment. He let go of her hand to take out his keys and looked at her face. First at her lips and then her nose, which was right in the middle of her face, and then he looked into her eyes for more than three seconds, which is a long time to look into a stranger's eyes. He didn't smile or say thank you or ask who she was. He just left her there in front of the apartment, where she stood for at least four minutes and then walked back the way she came from.

Tears formed in Alice's eyes when Aimee held her hand because she had always wanted to hold hands with a girl whose skin was just as soft as hers, but she had been too afraid to ask anybody. Aimee walked with Alice for what seemed like twenty-minutes and then, when Alice had stopped crying, she let go of her hand and walked away.

Aimee never asked if it was okay to hold a person's hand. She just wanted to, so she did it.

Tim had at first laughed when Aimee held his hand. He was walking home with a bag of groceries in one hand: a box of sugary cereal, two apples, two cans of soup, a loaf of crumbly bread. He gave her a look as if to say, "I think you're making a huge mistake," but when he saw her face, he could see that she clearly wasn't making a mistake. So they just walked, and as they walked, Tim began to really feel sad about Aimee leaving once they reached his door. He sat down and Aimee sat with him. He took out an apple and handed it to her empty hand. She bit into it and they sat staring at the cars passing them through the street.

And soon it felt like they were sitting right in the middle of the busy street. And it was raining. And it was snowing. And people in big cars that looked like boats were trying to parallel park around them. And it became dark outside. And Aimee held onto Tim's hand so he would know that it was okay. And he cried a little bit. And she cried a little bit too. And even though she didn't know anything about him, he felt okay being himself for a moment. And then, the sun came out. And he kept looking down at her hand to see that he wasn't alone. And that's all that Aimee wanted anyway.

6:32 pm

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Sap Attack

I'm in total acceptance of the fact that some weeks here are going to be very full and some weeks are going to be very flimsy and almost completely empty of any writing. On those weeks, we will just be starving for the full weeks of beautifully written pieces that we can consume rapidly.

Then we will just wait for more.

I was talking with a friend about how impressed (and a little jealous) I was of her ability to perform in front of crowds (she's in a band and does stand-up comedy) and how awesome she is for being able to put herself out there like that. She said she felt the same way about me with writing and this blog, and I was like... what?

Getting to the point, I wanted to thank everyone who's written anything so far. I realize it's scary to put yourself out there, even if it's just friends or other aspiring writers reading your writing. It's like standing out on a stage and trying to connect in some way with your audience. It's not always comfortable, but I really appreciate everyone's effort and I think you are all totally beautiful and inspiring. So thanks for putting yourself out there.

Wow, how sappy.

I only have a couple submissions for this week's theme, "Hollyweird," so if you still want to write something, get it in to writingwriterwritest@gmail.com.

Theme for 4/1: "Twenty minute stories." I think this will be super fun exercise for us all! And for those of you who feel like you never have any time for writing, it only takes twenty minutes. Here are the guidelines: Sit down or stand up. Write down the time with a pen or type it into whatever program you use to write your writings. Start your story or poem or lyrics or dramatic scene or whatever flows out of you. Write for twenty minutes. Put down your pen or take your fingers off the keyboard. Write down the time. Send in your submission with start and end times to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com

Theme for 4/8: "Favorite Things." Write about your favorite sweater, your favorite place to vacation, your favorite memory. You can even turn in a recipe for your favorite food. Write about Oprah's Favorite Things if you don't have any of your own.

Thanks and have a great week!

-Katie

Katie McMahon - hear me Out

what. the. fuck.

here is what it's like to feel connected.

I can find myself here with all of everybody's body.

where was this before?

why was this not an option?

I had no idea, but

I am in love with this

new, scary, fully brimming, confusing, upsetting, fucking overwhelming, saying things out loud feeling.

hear me out:

I am terrified and tousled and awake.

worried and frustrated, allowing myself to be thrown through

this new door.

nervous.

wired.

it's so freeing to find me here.

and you say, "so what? who cares?"

we are just bodies next to bodies next to bodies,

but, who would've thought that this would set me free?

so this is what it's like to allow yourself to be.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Please. Write.

Hey everybody! Today is a new week with a new theme. This week's theme "What the--?!" is turning out... not so swimmingly, I have to admit. I will not give up yet!

Not... yet.

I want to put it out there that if you haven't loved the themes we've had so far, then please go to our facebook page and suggest a theme that you'd like to write about. Share our blog with your friends, family, boyfriend, girlfriend, your dentist, therapist, and anyone else who knows how to read and write (or you can read the posts to people and/or animals who can't read). If you are not a writer, please share your other creative talents with us! We will accept drawings, cartoons, sketches, photos, essays, poems, short stories, drama, and... seriously anything at all. Seriously.

Send all submissions to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com

Theme for Friday 3/25: "Hollyweird." Send in submissions that relate to fame, fortune, misfortune, trips to Hollywood Boulevard, poems about your favorite movie star, a drawing of Kelly Clarkston, whatever you want! I'm desperate.

Theme for Friday 4/1: "Twenty minute stories." I think this will be super fun exercise for us all! And for those of you who feel like you never have any time for writing, it only takes twenty minutes. Here are the guidelines: Sit down or stand up. Write down the time with a pen or type it into whatever program you use to write your writings. Start your story or poem. Write for twenty minutes. Put down your pen or take your fingers off the keyboard. Write down the time. Send in the story* with start and end times to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com

*If you do not want to write a short story, you can also use the twenty minute guideline for a drawing, poem, lyrics, etc.

FUN!

Have a great week! Thanks to anybody who's reading this!

-Katie

Katie McMahon - You Are Not What You Eat.

I won a cake in the Easter cake raffle when I was in seventh grade. It was a coconut cake and I wanted to keep this cake for myself and hide it in my bedroom so I could eat the entire thing. But it's hard to hide a big white cake box when you walk into your house that you share with your brother and two parents who watch everything you eat.

Still, they never watch after you're done.

If I can sneak slivers that are smaller than pieces or paper thin slices that you wouldn't even bother putting on a plate, then maybe no one will even know. Maybe she won't say anything about it. And after all, it's my cake and I won it. It's not my fault they called my number. If I didn't claim the cake, who knows what they would've done with it? The thought of that coconut cake, shaped like the Easter Bunny, sitting in the back alleys of my neighborhood with melting snow surrounding it makes me ache deep, deep, deep in my stomach. Truthfully, I don't even know if we have alleys. Just the thought of it makes me... hungry. Makes me cry for no reason.

So the cake sits on the kitchen counter and everyone is happy. My mom can't eat sugar because she's diabetic, so it's between me and my brother and my dad. My brother mostly likes to eat pizza. I don't think he even likes cake. My dad eats lots of sugar and sometimes he's had so much to drink, he doesn't even know that he's eating it. This is perfect, because if I can sneak into the kitchen when everyone is asleep or watching television, I can take a knife and cut tiny pieces of coconut cake and throw them quickly into my mouth. Then I can carefully and quietly wipe down the knife and place it back into the drawer to sleep next to the other knives. Metal against metal. Please, please don't make any loud sounds. If anyone says anything about how the cake is disappearing, I can blame it on my dad. I can even blame it on him if he asks me why the cake is slowly getting smaller and he will yell or threaten to throw the cake away, but I know that he is secretly asking himself if he ate it, and when, and how sad it is that he cannot remember the taste.

While I love the coconut Easter Bunny cake so much, I also hate it and want to throw it at a wall or pick it up and drop it on the ground and smash it with my feet. The cake is all I can think about. I obsess over it. I want to eat it all and then feel sad about it being gone. I want to freeze it and eat it again in twenty years. I feel like I will never see another cake again. I know that I will never win a cake again, or anything for that matter.

I want to wake up in the morning and crack two eggs into a frying pan, in hope that two tiny little Easter Bunny cakes will fall out and I can cook them up and slide them onto my plate while everyone else is still sleeping. I grab the salt shaker and shake it over the tiny cakes and flakes of toasted coconut find their home in the frosting.

I cannot sleep because the cake is in my dreams. The cake speaks to me in my sleep. It stands upright and asks me, "Do you wish I had been a carrot cake or a chocolate cake with walnuts?" I shake my head violently back and forth and throw my hands up. "Why do you hate me so much?" Oh, cake! I don't hate you, I love you! I hug it tightly and the frosting smashes into my shirt and the coconut flakes get stuck in my hair. How will I hide this mess? I need to throw the cake away. I will tell my mom it got old or I gave it to a homeless man. I grab a handful and shove it into my mouth. Then, I take the big white flimsy box outside and place it carefully into the trash bin. I lift open the top and smudge the bunny's eyes closed.

I feel the tiny pieces weighing heavy in my stomach. I feel them turning into big, fat blobs on my stomach and my butt and my legs and my face and I scream, wishing I had never won that stupid cake. It's ruining my life. Why couldn't I have won something else like a new bicycle or a smelly candle or anything else at all?

All the other girls in my school are sitting at home eating spaghetti or doing their homework or thinking about boys and here I am with this stupid fucking cake. Congratulations, congratulations, oh how great! How miserable.

I feel sad like crying... like hugging and not kissing, like taking hot baths, like screaming into pillows, like putting on ten pairs of socks, like going to church and blowing out all the candles people have lit for dead people or sick people or people who have no problems at all and want it to remain that way.

What do you wish I had been? A girl with green eyes or a boy with curly hair and straight teeth? Why don't you hug me so hard that I smush into your body? What do you do with all the pieces and slivers of me that you cut off in the middle of the night? Put them back before I wake up. Put them back before I grow old and they don't fit anymore.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.