Category Archives: writing

National Day on Writing . . . Why I Write

Me and my fairy tale friends

National Day on Writing . . . Why I Write

Once upon a time a little girl moved from kingdom to kingdom.
She had no time to make friends So she made up stories.
The fairy tale characters became her friends.
That little girl was me.

I write to make people smile and feel the touch of friendship.

And I’m Irish.

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My Wild Elevator Ride: Or why I shouldn’t say I write sexy novels

Writers get lonely. We need to socialize, talk. Discover there is a world beyond our computers. So I came up with this fun character who is a writer and what happens when she goes out into the world and goes on a wild elevator ride…

I hope you enjoy my short story.

~Jina

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My Wild Elevator Ride

I work in a cubicle surrounded by books, computers, and ideas.

I get lonely.

Very lonely. Hey, a girl can only fantasize so much about meeting a sexy guy who’ll knock her bunny slippers off. (I don’t wear shoes when I’m writing.)

So when I go out, which isn’t often when you’re trying to promote your work online and get through the quagmire of the first chapter in your next book, I get talkative.

Very talkative.

When my goddess gets her gab on, I can’t stop her. My therapist says it’s repressed speech syndrome ad finitum. Or something like that.

Anyway, I got in over my head when I walked into the elevator in my hotel. I was in town to speak at a writer’s group which always makes me a nervous wreck. I was going through my usual ritual to calm my nerves. A six-pack of diet soda and dark chocolate.

The only problem was, the soda was warm.

I like ice. Cold, numbing ice. Makes me forget I have to face a room of creative ladies who are probably way more talented than I am, but for some reason they think I’m cool. I just got lucky, I tell them, but yeah, I earned my stripes in this business. Writing, getting rejections for years, and working my butt off. I’m grateful to be where I am.

So what I didn’t need was a guy chatting me up about his hundred thousand dollar a year sales job and his black BMW. Nice enough, but I wasn’t looking for anything more than an ice machine that worked.

The one on my floor was broken.

Now I was stuck in an elevator with a sales guy who had obviously removed the wedding band from his left hand. His tan line blinked at me like a neon sign. Come on in, it seemed to say, the water’s fine.

I don’t swim with the sharks.

“You don’t want to drink alone,” he said, observing my ice bucket filled with chilled cubes.

“I have my laptop for company.” I smiled. “Besides, I have work to do.”

“Are you here with the software convention?” he asked warily.

“Well…” I wasn’t, but I decided to play along.

“No way…a pretty girl like you can’t be a techie.”

“Why not?” I shot back, perturbed. I hated guys who put down a girl’s ambition. “Can’t women use their brains to get ahead?”

“Not when they have natural attributes…” He eyed my chest. Mind you, I was wearing navy blue sweats and my pink bunny slippers with floppy ears. This guy was either desperate or he’d been on the road too long.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but I’m a writer.”

“You’re kidding?” He seemed genuinely surprised, which didn’t help my ego. “What do you write?”

Ooh...I couldn’t resist shooting him the punchline.

“I write sexy novels.”

“Well, you are full of surprises,” he said, edging closer to me. “We should get to know each other better.”

The air in the elevator suddenly got stuffier and I prayed my deodorant didn’t work so he’d get the message. So far, no one else had gotten on the elevator and I had two more stops before we got to my floor.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” I wiggled the ears on my rabbit slippers, hoping to shoot down this guy’s sex-o-meter. That should have stopped him right there.

It didn’t.

“How about a nightcap in my room? My bottle of bourbon and your—” He paused, wetting his lips. “Ice cubes.”

“You mean do research for my books?”

“Oh, yeah…”

“I bet,” I said.

I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but sometimes we writers just ache to act like our heroines and throw back those snappy remarks. I tried to discourage him, but when he started breathing in my face, I knew I was in over my head. I did what any romance heroine would do.

I dumped the bucket of melting ice on his pinstripe suit.

“Hey, what the—” he called out and thank God, the elevator door opened. It wasn’t my floor, but I didn’t care. One more minute with Mr. BMW and I would have ended up served on a chilled platter.

Before he could brush the ice off his shoulders, out I ran. Down the long corridor and then I jammed down the stairway to the next floor to my room.

I never looked back.

I spent the rest of the night drinking warm soda and giggling as I wrote this guy into my story. I bet he won’t forget me either.

I imagine that was the last time he tried to pick up a girl in an elevator wearing pink bunny slippers.

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