Working Title: Run or Bleed

Revised and added to ….


When her period started that morning Amy finally let the tears fall. She sat on the commode staring at the sticky crimson blotch on the pink cotton stretched between her knees. Her vision blurred and then the tears dripped, slowly, one after the next, over her lashes and down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. She just cussed at the evidence of her body’s betrayal, spitting the word out as her nostrils filled and she choked. A tide of tears spilled out. Elbows on her knees, face in her hands, she let the tears pour and the strangled gasps shake her frame.

Amy could count the number of times she had cried in the last three years. The anniversary of her grandmother’s death fell on Mother’s Day last year and she’d taken flowers to Nana’s grave. Another time she clicked on a must-see link in an email and watched a soldier return from war to surprise her daughter at school in a YouTube clip.

She had once spanked Anna Belle for running away from her in a parking lot then stood beside the car crying afterward. Some unexpected strength took up residence inside her the day Anna Belle was born. Amy became Mommy and crying only distracted from her primary job of caring for, comforting, and encouraging Anna Belle. Amy had quickly swallowed the parking lot tears and hadn’t spanked AB since.

Now here she was. The fourth time she had cried in three years. Sobbing over a smear in her panties. The toilet shifted a little, tilting slightly under her weight. Damn thing had been wobbly since they bought the house five years ago. She cussed again and sobbed harder, her throat thickening with grief. Now she had to keep running. Now she had to keep dieting. Now she had to keep trying to lose weight. She took a deep breath, trying to force the sobs to cease. Amy thought, “I’d just like to have one goddamned donut,” and let a small laugh escape.

Tuesdays are not the days for such complaints. Too many things queued up between her and where she needed to be to really feel sorry for herself. A run, then the morning rush to get Anna Belle ready for daycare and herself ready for work. Then a long commute to the other side of town, a hug goodbye, if she was lucky, then Anna Belle would run off to play and she would trudge back to the car and ride the quarter mile to her office. A cube, some coworkers chatting about reality TV, fluorescent lights that would wash out her complexion, pithy phrases on motivational posters hanging framed on the walls. Amy wanted to cry a little while longer just thinking about another joyless day.

Yesterday her running partner, Jamie, had announced she and Rick were expecting their second. “I’m sorry, Amy,” she’d said, rising up out of a hamstring stretch.

“What for?” Amy had forced a laugh, “babies are good things.”

“I have to quit running,” Jamie said.


“I know we’d planned to run Paris Mountain,” Jamie said.

“It’s okay,” Amy said quickly, “I can still do the half. I’m happy for you, really.”

Today the conversation came back to her in the stillness of the predawn darkness and Amy snorted. Why had Jamie apologized for being pregnant? Oh, right, Amy thought, because I’m not. That had the desired effect: a new stream of tears coursed down her cheeks.

Amy cried until she felt silly and then she stretched some toilet paper across her lap, tore it from the roll, folded it and blew her nose.  Every month was like this one: the defeat repeatedly evidenced in her panties. Bad timing. Missed connections. Interrupted intentions. Failure.

Wadding up the tissue, she dropped it into the trashcan at her side. Then she cleaned herself up, stood, and left the bathroom. The mantra was already playing: It wasn’t that they couldn’t get pregnant. She knew that. Anna Belle was proof they could. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t get pregnant. They just hadn’t.

She dressed. Snug purple sports bra, slim black spandex pants, Lycra-cotton blend socks, running shoes, a sweat-wicking top she’d purchased with a race entry, her baseball cap.

Michael slept heavily, snuggled deep in the blankets of their bed. The shape of his body beneath the blankets had grown bigger in the last year. She hadn’t minded his extra weight. Hadn’t said anything to him about his portion sizes. Hadn’t asked him to stop drinking or try exercising once or twice a week.

She pulled her reflective vest off the doorknob and slipped out of the bedroom. Amy closed the door behind her and gently released the doorknob into the latch.

In the kitchen, she removed and trashed the old coffee filter, replaced it, poured a pot of water into the tank, and set the timer to begin brewing about the same time Michael would get out of the shower. Darkness held on a little longer in the mornings this time of year and when she extinguished the kitchen light the entire house was black.

Her running shoes emitted prickled squeaks, leather shifting against itself and straining against the laces. Amy tip-toed down the hall, flipped the bright light on, and crept into Anna Belle’s room.

The little girl’s face turned from the light and relaxed in a deep state of unconsciousness. Her cheeks shone, oily from sleep and sweat. Some of her soft hair glued to her forehead where she’d pushed it from her eyes. Long, soft curls streamed out around her head. Tiny lips hung open, puffy and dry.

Amy leaned over the toddler bed to get a better look, replaced a stuffed bear Anna Belle had tossed aside, gently tucked the soft blankets a little closer to Anna Belle’s chin. Amy let her breath out slowly, pursing her lips to blow gently at Anna Belle. The girl’s face twitched in response, she turned her head away, squeezed her eyes tighter and licked her lips. Then she snuggled deeper into her pillow, and Amy smiled and snuck out of the room. She flipped the hallway light off as she left.

When Anna Belle was born, Amy had entertained fantasies of staying home. They could go to the zoo and have mommy and me playdates with homeschool moms. They could snuggle and read books and listen to classical music. They could take walks in the neighborhood and swim in the community pool while everyone else attended school and work.

It just couldn’t happen, Michael told her. They had agreed to certain financial goals and they were on pace to meet them. Their family required her income. Think of the things Anna Belle would have, her friends told her, because you work.

Amy remembered the phrases she’d used, “someone else raising my kid,” and “missing out on so much of her life,” as she begged Michael to help her find a way to make it work. He’d refused. There was no way, he said.

How had her position so dramatically changed?

Their home matched the others on the street, a carefully planned subdivision of single story patio homes mostly suited for the very old or the very young. She would normally wait for Jamie, or find Jamie standing at the end of her driveway. But not today.

Amy pressed play on her iPod and go on her GPS watch. She set out at a light jog toward the top of the neighborhood where she would follow a long route toward town. Before the McDonald’s she would double back, winding her way past the car dealerships and grocery store, before re-entering her small subdivision, running past her home, deep into the neighborhood, and finally back into her own driveway. Seven miles total. A good hour-and-a-quarter run before the sun really stretched its light over the sky. Week two of official half marathon training. Solo.

Amy had worked hard for her PR in the ½ marathon at Phoenix. She had painstakingly mapped out routes, added mileage, soaked herself in ice baths and rubbed her thighs with E-Z glide. She had counted the days, hours, minutes to race day. She had run tempo runs, hill sprints, and easy jogs to condition herself. She had devoured every issue of Runner’s World magazine. Two summers earlier she’d barely opened What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

The pace felt good and within a few minutes Amy was thinking about earlier with embarrassment. How silly she was to cry over her period. It had been coming for twenty five years without fail. Except for that brief eight months when she’d been pregnant with Anna Belle, she had never missed a month. She should be used to it. And anyway, pregnancy right now would mean a summer of being fat and uncomfortable. Better to wait for the fall.

The sadness ebbed while she ran, talking herself through the moment with each step. Yesterday, day 29, she’d felt her breasts were full and sore. She’d had trouble concentrating and took too long on silly tasks like plucking her eyebrows and re-ordering her key ring so all the barcode tags faced the same direction. She knew when she got intent on something like that and lost track of time she was PMSing. The symptoms were there.

Not like last month. Last month she had been a week late. Dizzy, nauseous, swollen breasts tender to the touch, sensitive to the smell of the morning coffee. She’d gagged when she set the pot one morning. Last month she was convinced. And then. Then the crimson in her panties.

They’d had trouble getting pregnant with Anna Belle, too. So she had not been worried after two years. But this was stretching into three years and Amy was older now and she was starting to think something might be wrong.

Michael’s concern had been limited to Amy’s stress and disappointment. For a long time the two of them had divided tasks among them. He took out the trash and mowed the lawn. She emptied the dishwasher and did the grocery shopping. Expanding their family had become hers to manage. He participated willingly but frequently responded to discussions about it with mild disinterest.

Once when they’d lost their cat Amy had papered the neighborhood with fliers and worried desperately about how to retrieve the animal. Michael had said, “good riddance.”

Anna Belle couldn’t participate in the worry, either. She had friends with sisters and dolls with sisters but it never occurred to her to ask if she might ever have a sister, too. Amy sometimes thought Anna Belle better suited to only-child status. And despite the heartbreak of having to lose her parents eventually, which Amy assumed could be softened by her life mate whomever that turned out to be, Anna Belle’s future did not seem bleak without a sibling.

“Hell,” Michael would say when his mother or sisters asked him about Anna Belle being an only child, “she’ll have way more if she doesn’t have to share.”

Amy would smile and agree. Two of them working and providing a life for Anna Belle meant lavish vacations and horseback riding lessons and rooms filled with toys. Amy imagined Anna Belle old enough to run with her, half marathon training, cross country meets and finish line photos. They would be each other’s playmate.

“Don’t all kids with siblings wish they were onlies?” Michael would say.

“And don’t all only children wish they had siblings?” Amy would say. Then they wouldn’t say anything else and she would go on managing the family expansion chore and he would file the conversation away with the lost cat.


So what do you think? Do you care about Amy? Is it boring?

Same boat, need rowers

Leigh Johnson Reed Photography Copyright 2012

You’re the only one who struggles with writer’s block. The first writer ever to crumble a page and throw it to the floor in disgust with your own ineptitude.

You’re the only writer ever to think your work is terrible. The first one to cut and paste and cut and paste and cut and paste until your new draft barely resembles your shitty first draft*.

You’re the only one. No?

What? Every writer experiences the same struggles, doubt, and frustration. Really?

Yep. Even Aristotle’s Poetics underwent about six revisions. Remember he’d never seen an iceberg so the metaphor of exposition being buried beneath the play’s action really didn’t mean anything to him.

We know writers struggle with the process of creation. They tell us. They advise us not to hang our hat on our first effort, but to learn to love revision.

What do they say?

They also tell us about the discouragement of rejection. Stephen King had a nail in the wall on which he skewered rejection letters. When the pile got so thick the pages wouldn’t stay, he pulled that stack down and began a new one. He filled the nail. Filled it. More times than he bothered to count.

We are taught to believe that writers are people of extraordinary talent like LeBron James and Adam Levine. But LeBron doesn’t tell us about the hours spent on his neighborhood basketball court just putting up layups. One right after the next. For hours.

Adam doesn’t tell us about the songs he writes that suck. What we do know is that bands like Maroon 5 usually write about 100 songs for an album they release with just 12 tracks. Just 12 that were “good enough.”

Phew! Good to know!

So let yourself off the hook. There’s no reason to think your very first effort, or even your tenth or fiftieth, or hundredth, is the best you can do.

Read the dirty secrets of successful writers and they’ll commiserate with the frustration you feel. They’ll offer strategies for overcoming it. Annie Lamott* suggests taking notes on index cards and surrounding yourself with them to help you pry out of a tight spot.

Then, after your read how the experts do it, discuss their advice with other novices in various stages of career and creation.

Join the Wordsmith Studio Goodreads book discussion.

This month we’re reading “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers” by Renni Browne & Dave King.

We’ve already read Stephen King and Annie Lamott. Interested in reading one of those? We left the discussions on the boards so you can review our thoughts on those books. We’re happy to continue the discussions there with you as you get caught up.

Connect with a great community of writers, learn the ropes from the masters, and get better at the craft you love. Are you in?

*shitty first drafts and index cards are parts of Annie Lamott’s Bird by Bird.

Other ways to engage: follow @KasieWhitener, join the #wschat on Tuesdays at 6 p.m. EST,

Group Think II — Act Locally

Leigh Johnson Reed Photography Copyright 2012

One of the best parts about having a local group with which to network is getting to see familiar, hopefully friendly, faces. Since we’ve moved to Columbia I’ve become a heckuva joiner. Sa’sha at the SC State Museum told me I was doing more in the three months since I’ve been here than she had done her whole life.

The other benefit of a local, in-person group is the overwhelming feeling that I’m not alone. People are doing, feeling, saying, and thinking the same things I am. If you’re nearby, join up! If you’re not in Cola, find groups near you. The face-to-face interaction is really, really valuable.

My local groups:

Columbia Writers’ Alliance – founded and fostered by Jerlean Noble, the CWA is a group of storytellers and inspiring authors that meets monthly to discuss, share, and promote one another’s stories. There’s a great feeling of support and genuine interest and pride in this group.

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Seeking Friends

Like many stay-at-home moms who eat bons bons and watch soap operas while their children play gently and quietly in an educated and orderly fashion without mess at their feet, stay-at-home writers are often asked “what did you do today?” Or I am asked that, at least.

Since I no longer “go” to work, I must not actually work, right?

Not exactly.

When I was pregnant I would say, “I built a lung. What did you do?”

Now I’m building a business. From scratch. Anyone wanna offer an instruction manual?

Last night in an attempt to organize this new life I’m building I began listing and categorizing all of the activities and relationships I’ve begun. The purpose of this activity was to determine how to use each of these connections to their fullest potential.

So here’s the cry-for-help: How can I get some NAIWE Friends?

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Professional Writer, Educator, Analyst

I have a master’s in English from Winthrop University and am currently writing my dissertation for completion of my PhD in Organizational Management.

I have seven years’ experience in a corporate environment as marketing copy writer, sales professional, corporate trainer, and business analyst. I have prepared presentations and documents for human resources, training, sales, product marketing, operations, and executives including a CEO and a COO.

I have eight years’ experience in higher education as an adjunct instructor in English classes both on campus and online and business classes on campus and in co-locate corporate environments.

I have developed educational content for professional job training, sales skills, business writing, and online courses in English and communications. I have created training programs for software in the medical, emergency services, and information technology markets.

NAIWE and Wordsmith Studio are my professional writing affiliations. I am also a member of LinkedIn and several groups therein as well as other networking platforms including Goodreads and Quora. I use Facebook ( and Twitter (@KasieWhitener) to promote my blog which is hosted by Blogger (