Oct 27, 2017 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Five Things Friday
TGIF!
Let’s get straight to it, yah? All y’all know I love to bake, cook, and feed people, right? I mean, I’m making some more slow cooker turkey chili tomorrow and about ten people are showing up. I think that’s what they call a correlation.
So, sure. I have my go-to favorites. But recently I’ve discovered something else: The art of cooking the unknown. Now, I’m not about to throw thirty bucks of whatever into the oven and *hope* it turns out okay. I like to investigate my recipes first. A little internet recon, if you will. I check ratings, reviews, cooks.
But wait. There’s more. Let’s talk decorating. Holiday theme ideas. Writing prompts. The need to tear a page out now and then and run a highlighter over it, or clip a few together. Remember when scrapbooking was actually done with material, not a computer?
I mean, let’s be real. What’s better for This Girl that words in print?
So guess what I’ve discovered. Okay, pretty sure y’all ain’t stupid and the post title gave it away, but just for grins and giggles, pretend it didn’t.
Go on, then. Guess. No? Okay. I’ll tell you.
Magazines.
That’s right. I have become accustomed to picking up print mags at the check out at the supermarket. But–are you ready?–Wait for it. I actually go looking for the magazine racks in stores. #truestory
And they say print is dead.
Here are my current five favorite magazines. Oh, and just ‘cuz I don’t have a lot of magazine photos, I’ve linked the magazine websites so you can check them out yourselves.
- Taste of The South. Okay, for this one I have a photo. I mean, I seriously had a mini freak out when I found it in the store. Haven’t seen it there since, so I guess I’m subscribing next pay day. #soworthit The flavors, the photos, the authenticity. It’s. Just. Perfect.
Taste of the South Magazine
- Writer’s Digest. Best magazine for writers. Period. Full of great advice, success stories, and opportunities. Don’t forget their competitions!
- Better Homes and Gardens. Now this one I admit I usually only pick up their specialty mags, like holiday cooking or Spring decor. I like it because it’s for everyday people, and it’s always overloaded with ideas to make life, well, better.
- Food Network Magazine. Sigh. Who doesn’t know this one? With my Bobby Flay table setting and recipes from so many chefs including Rachel Ray and Paula Deen, my kitchen is always my (second) favorite place to be.
- Southern Living. Oh, hullo. Doesn’t this just sweeten your tea when you need it most? Chock full of everything Southern, I couldn’t love it more unless it delivered NOLA to me in person. From recipes to home decor to travel to gardening. It’s a darn fine rag, if ya’ ask me.
And now it’s late and I have some reading to do. So, if you’ll excuse me . . .
Oh, almost forgot: What are your favorite magazines?
TWEET THIS: What are some of your favorite #magazines? @MollyJoRealy #amreading
With paperclips and a highlighter,
Happy reading.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
May 15, 2013 |
The Unemployment Cookbook, Second Edition is on its way to the Writer’s Digest 21st Annual Self-Publication Competition.
Wish Me Luck!
I only wish I didn’t have to wait until mid-October to know if I won or not. Five months of forgetting how to breathe…
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Sep 3, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is another Writer’s Digest Community Writing Prompt from last year.
SONGS: Take two of your favorite songs, and match up a line from the chorus of one with a line from the chorus of the other. Then, write a scene that starts with the first lyric, and ends with the second.
“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he asked with a smile; his smile.
“It’s too early to think about that right now.” I tried hard not to fall under his spell. I was certain, however, that my clumsy efforts to avoid his gaze made me look like a fish out of water. A giant, washed-ashore, debilitated, practically dying, fish out of water.
He chuckled as if I were a cute toddler learning to walk. Emotionally, he wasn’t too far off. But I was planets away from letting him discover my reserves. And so I played it off by opening my datebook for evidence.
Datebook. How much more oxymoronic could it be. It was a personal jab, how these bound leather-jacketed pages screamed to be opened to reveal nothing of what they promised. Grocery lists. Doctor appointments. Work assignments. Contact information. Anything and everything. Except dates.
“Here,” I poked. “See? Today’s only – ”
He refused to let me finish. He gently wrapped his strong manhand around my accusatory finger. I’m pretty sure we lit the place up all by ourselves. It was painfully enjoyable.
He sat across from me, playing with my hand atop the café table. Gently pushing and pulling information. So easily, I didn’t even realize I was giving up bits and pieces. So earnestly, I forgot to lie.
“Wait,” I breathed, gripping the table for stability. Wait, I commanded myself.
“What’s wrong?” he leaned forward in his concern.
“You’re making it worse!” I edged my chair back.
“What?” he mock-gasped; knowing full well what I meant. I looked anywhere but at him. If I let go of the table, I would certainly float beyond the neon stars above us in my bliss.
He took my hand again, tethering me to himself. I would not fly away.
“Let’s walk.” It was a gentle command; for he was already rising from his seat, taking his coat and coffee with him. I followed numbly, playing his grown-up game of Simon Says.
He led me over the concrete path, through the intermittent crowds, under the trees raining color upon us. I shivered from the all-consuming experience and he quickly pulled me to the side of the path. Under a dim yellow lamppost, he brought his coat behind me and pulled it around me. I was surrounded by the scent of him. His warm hands soothed the collar around my neck and I shivered all the more, embarrassed that such gentlemanly care could turn me to Jell-O. I knew better than to try to speak.
A red-golden leaf fell between us, startling us both into chuckles. My pent-up, heightened awareness took advantage of my fallen guard; and my body convulsed into a loud symphony of laughter, letting go of all that was in me.
He joined with me, his baritone sound in harmony with my soprano.
A tear of relief sprang to life on my cold cheeks. Still laughing, still holding me close by the collar of his own coat, he raised one hand to tenderly thumb it away. I closed my eyes to avoid showing him inside me; but I felt his presence, his touch. He was not going anywhere.
“Hey.” He whispered. I hesitantly opened my lids to see his breath on the air. He placed a gentle kiss on my lips, and the warmth flooded me, staying even after he withdrew to look at me again.
His smile was new. It was mine. “So, what does your datebook say about tonight?”
I smiled back. “It’s Autumn.” With all it’s joyously colorful experiences. “Autumn in New York.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 19, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is my response to a Writing Prompt from Writer’s Digest Community last year.
GONE SWIMMING: You and a friend break into your neighborhood swim club late one night to go for an after-hours dip. While splashing around in the pool, you go into shock when a dead body floats to the top. Worse yet – it’s someone you know.
It was perfect. I laughed a conquering laugh, having made it to the other side of the fence without getting caught. My limbs showed the light scratches of the chain-link we just scaled, landing on the damp cement with the quiet of a cat burglar. Joanie called me to wait.
Instead I ran full force, leaping into the enveloping wetness. It felt oddly warm for this time of night, this time of year. Perhaps the snow made it welcoming; 65 degrees in winter is much more appreciated than 65 degrees in summer.
Joanie beckoned me to stay in her frantic presence. I refused her again; reveling in the anti-gravity element. I climbed out only for an Olympic-sized belly flop. I welcomed the shattering pain and dove deeper into tumbles and other gymnastics I learned a lifetime ago. It was easy to drift, knowing I couldn’t get far. Until temptation began its slow tingling crawl into my determination. I kicked and pulled away from the buoyancy in a need to feel the boundaries of my surroundings.
The waters overtook me and I found myself floundering, not knowing which way was up or how much further I could sink. I was startled to feel Joanie’s grip on my arm, pulling me into a lighter darkness, away from the depths and into the moonlight. It was colder in the air above. I shivered as Joanie’s terrified eyes glazed. Without turning, I became aware of a presence following me up from the deeper dark: a body rising to the surface.
It was a wreck. Torn, bloodstained clothes. Terrible scrapes and deep, penetrating cuts on its arms and legs. As I concentrated on the ghastly wounds covering its head, Joanie’s grip released and I was sickened to be drifting closer to the mess before me. The bloodwater threatened to engulf me completely.
There was no spasm, no terrible calamity. Just a slow, methodical turn as the body brought its face to sight. I recognized the body, the face, as my own. I looked at my scrapes from the fence. Blood flowed rapidly from nearly every wound. I felt so dizzy. Was I floating? Or falling? I could feel nothing but the collision of my body becoming one with this, my body, in the cold dark waters.
The pool waters turned thick and red. Joanie fell a world away. Was she still reaching? I could no longer feel or hear her. She was quickly vanishing into a vision blurring into a dream. A very dark dream.
Joanie and I, driving in the wet cold; halfway between dinner and doorway. The flakes came at us like we were tunneling through a pillow fight; thick and unique. We celebrated in our excitement.
The fence transformed into heavy, crunching metal as I flew from its grasp into the water turned to blood, my blood. My body and I collided to welcome each other and sank into the dark tranquility. It was perfect.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 13, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is my response to a writing prompt from Writer’s Digest Community last year.
BENDING THE RULES: The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service”—but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside.
The sign said “No shirt, no shoes, no service” – but that didn’t matter. He had to get inside. He laughed at the thought of what he must look like to passers-by. No doubt, a down-on-his-luck replica of that famous you-know-who celebrity. If they only knew. Nothing is ever as it appears.
“Get a job!” someone scowled, causing him to jump back. He lost his footing on the wet sidewalk and landed, bum first, into an oily puddle. I need a stunt double, he mused to himself, then broke out into hard laughter. For it was always his choice to do the stunts himself. It gave more honesty to the scenes, he often said.
And now, with no director or script or camera crew, here he was. On the rain-soaked streets; trying desperately to reach her.
She glanced back playfully; egging him to keep after her, daring him to the chase. He rose to the challenge and started again. His stride automatically increased in large bounds but his focus turned to recall of how they met. There had been auditions and screen tests. Agents and managers. Meetings and negotiations.
She’s stubborn to work with, they warned. She has a will of her own. But he always loved a challenge. And he always got the girl. There was no need to think otherwise. Until now.
Their courtship barely started and he was in love. The tables had turned, and this strong leading man was now being led.
And so he chased. Whenever they weren’t working, and sometimes when they were, he pursued her in a manner almost ridiculous. Like now.
It had started when she greeted him in costume. She often found him half-dressed. Giving him no time to prepare, she grabbed his sandwich and ran away with a smile and “come get me” look. The chase, the game, the race. It was all on.
He gave no care to anyone or anything except pursuing her, and suddenly she was trapped. She managed to escape into the deli, out of the wet falling sky.
The irony struck him. Her beauty had always opened doors for her. Here he was. Soaked. Dirty. Determined.
He paid no attention to the sign, and strode in. With authority. She backed into a corner, almost laughing. The patrons, drying and feeding themselves, stopped to observe, whisper, and gawk. He gave no attention to his peripheral vision.
Finally, with no place to go, he backed her into the corner. She took one bite of the sandwich and dropped the remnant on the floor. She was collared, and she knew it.
He smiled his Oscar-winning smile. “Tell me you love me,” he urged as his embrace became more of a stronghold.
She looked up, licking her mouth more for his benefit than hers. Almost nodding, definitely winking, she answered.
“Woof.”
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
