With Little Left To Say

Posted in Uncategorized on September 26, 2017 by jezzywolfe

I might look back in the morning and feel foolish. Or I might look back in anger. I will know the answer to that in a few hours, I suppose.

I went to deactivate my Facebook account tonight, several times. I stopped myself the first time because I wasn’t sure what would be involved if I chose to reactivate. I stopped myself the second time, because I had notifications, and my nosiness won out. But the third time, I was ready to pull that plug. Until I reached the bottom of the page that indicated that my pages would lose publication since I was the sole admin.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. Pull the plug on them. I couldn’t find any information that detailed exactly how permanent deactivation is to a page. While I have found it hard to gather likes for my author page (which is ironic, because it’s not hard to find friends on Facebook), my ferret page continues to grow, without any attention from me at all. I don’t want to take that page down. So I cancelled deactivation. For the moment, at least.

Writing, by the way? Not a cakewalk. I know, on the outset, it seems like it would be easy. I don’t think I’ve met too many people who didn’t fancy themselves some kind of writer. But the fantasy and the reality are two very different things.

Being a writer isn’t particularly intriguing. It’s not especially romantic. Writers don’t spend all their time sitting outside quaint little coffee shops with their moleskin, sipping  their cafe au laut. They might be slumped on their couch, or laying in bed. Not in beautiful silk jammies, sipping earl grey. But likely in a t-shirt and shorts. They might be days overdue for a shower. Bent over a crumb covered laptop. And almost always stressed over a looming deadline, or waiting for a publisher to crush their dreams and spirits.

Because most of writing is rejection. If you meet a writer who isn’t struggling with rejection, then they’re likely self published. And that carries its own form of rejections. No one escapes with their pride intact.

I spend so much time on Facebook. Largely so I have a place to market myself when I do manage to achieve some modest success. But in the meantime, it’s a place rife with turmoil. I’m not the kind of gal who can sit on her hands, though I really should try to do so more often. Because having an opinion usually means upsetting people who were assuming you were someone else entirely.

And that’s perfectly fine. UNLESS your number one priority was to market yourself.

Facebook can be a sinking weight, in that case.

Few people on Facebook really know who I am, anyway.  I wouldn’t be losing too many actual friends in the process of deactivation. Would it help me as a writer? Who knows?

But, at this point, I don’t think it would hurt any more than it already has, so…




Reaching For Centaurus

Posted in Uncategorized on August 1, 2017 by jezzywolfe


Isn’t that mesmerizing? The Great Rift of the Milky Way. Mysterious, complicated, and frankly, quite terrifying. I could imagine standing on a hilltop, staring into the black of the night sky, at that deep cavern of infinity, and getting sucked into it. Hurtling through space because I stood in the one spot on earth I could fall off of.

But these days, I feel very much cemented to the ground. A good foot deep, even. An overdose of reality can go a long way in extinguishing one’s ability to fly, much less soar. I can’t even compare myself to a caged bird. Cage doors still open. Clipped wings grow back.

I knew at the year’s start that I would face a major change in 2017. I was stubborn with the belief that I’d figure out my new path quickly, and get to it. But it didn’t happen that way. I still don’t know what that path is, or how to find it. Hell, I’m not sure I’m even using the right map.

I’m standing still, staring at the sky.

The thing is, my sky? It doesn’t look like that. On any given night, you’re lucky to see any stars. An artificial fluorescence destroys the cosmic vista. That solitary persistent beacon still manages to scream its presence past the yellow wash of the city, but that aside? Cobalt black. Lightly salted.

If I want to see the dark river, I need to move. I can’t stagnate here. Spinning circles in the same spot will only drive me deeper. Further away from my goals.

For months, I’ve reached for books, and couldn’t lose myself. I’ve sat to write, and stared at a blank screen, until the throbbing behind my eyes won out. Even looking at pictures of the Milky Way failed to spark my imagination. One of the most uplifting images I can fathom…and I’m just lifeless.


People speak often of muses, and I was always reluctant to do so. To me, it was an excuse when the words didn’t come. Blame it on the muse. Even now, in this drought, I still can’t bring myself to blame an inventive device for my malfunction.

This is all on me.

I don’t know if my identity was so tied into my work, I lost myself when I had to figure out who I was without it. I have no goals at the moment. No destination. The pause in my personal growth is so pregnant, its carrying octuplets.

The ideas are still trapped in my head. The laundry list of things I want to do, it’s still there, always nagging me. But I don’t know where to start, anymore. It’s not a writer’s block. It’s more like a death row sentence.

I need a jump. A recharge. Perhaps a launch off a rocketship. Maybe, then, I can remember her. It’s been too long since I’ve felt like me.

I’m really starting to miss her.

If you happen to find her, can you please send her home?





A Sober Look at a Sobering Horizon. 

Posted in Freeze Tag, General, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 1, 2017 by jezzywolfe

I didn’t drunk blog for the new year. I could have. Maybe I should have. There was a bounty of beverages, after all. img_3735-1

But, after year upon year of suck, turmoil, and heartbreak, just maybe I need a different routine.

Am I saying it’s my fault we’ve had such a bad year? I don’t know. Depends on how superstitious you are. No, I’ve never eaten the correct foods, or made resolutions, or toasted at the stroke of midnight, or tickled a wallaby’s left armpit. So maybe the bad is on me.

Or maybe that’s just how the cards fell.

It was a hard political season. We are many who are apprehensive at the future of our society. Frustrated by what we perceive as a breakdown of ethics and morality…largely under the very false flag of returning to some kind of ‘God fearing’ nation. A nation that is greedy and tight-fisted and polluted with hate and ignorance. And people seem to think that’s godly? Um, no. Hell no. Fuck off with that noise. Please, oh please call me a liberal. Because if that’s what conservative means, I want to be NOTHING like you.

So, in light of this new chance at another orbit, I’ve decided to start it right. I ate a proper meal. I decided not to blog buzzed…heck, I’m a dork anyway, the alcohol doesn’t change that. And I am making resolutions. Not ‘actual’ resolutions, because we all know the flop that follows those. These are choices. Choices are not lofty goals we hope we can reach, but the shift of mindset that allows them to be realities.

My first choice is to be strong. We are all here together. I throw the word ‘love’ around loosely, but I am sincere. I love the people in my life. And I choose to be stronger for them, in the hope that my strength will give them encouragement. With that strength needs to be courage. We have a fight ahead of us, and we can no longer cower or bury our heads. You are all sisters and brothers to me, regardless of your race or ethnicity or religion, and it is my responsibility to stand by you when they try to tear us down. This is not a safety pin. This is my arms. This is my heart. And every one of you are safe with me.

My second choice is to be industrious. This year will likely bring about career changes, and I’m scared about what that means. But I have to move forward, for the sake of my family, my fuzzy babies, and my peace of mind. This applies to my aspirations as a writer, as well. I’ve accomplished some milestones recently. It’s time to follow them through.

My third choice is to be disciplined. I’ve fallen off track with my self care. It’s time to rectify that. I’m happier and clear headed when I’m physically active. I need to find that part of me again, and dig in. It will also allow me to remove clutter. There is so much clutter around me. So much useless material I don’t need. It overwhelmed and paralyzed me. And it’s time to make it history.

My fourth choice is to be present. Life comes and goes rather abruptly, as we have all witnessed this past year. You get one life, and one chance to carve it out. Daydreams are fun, but they’re fruitless. They keep me back from all that I could accomplish. It’s time to appreciate what’s in front of me now, as I have it. My family, my adoring ferrets, my irreplaceable friends. I don’t want to waste the moments we have here.

My fifth choice is to be optimistic. Because I’m not. I’m terrified of the unknown, and apprehensive to the point that I sabotage myself. No longer do I want to miss opportunities. No longer do I want to start my days worried about what can go wrong. When you live that way, the things that go right are barely a glimmer mired in your dustbin. I will not live in trepidation or nihilism any longer.

Who cares what is on the horizon? Lesser people interfered, and now we all face the dubious consequences.  But I am here. You are here. We are standing side by side on the same cliff. We face the same outstretch of sea. You know what’s beautiful about that?

Every. Single. Sunrise.

I am spending this year looking forward to every one that I get to spend with you.

Be kind. Be safe. Be brave. I got you.


The Face I’m Stuck With, Unapologetically.

Posted in General with tags , , , , , on May 18, 2016 by jezzywolfe

I’ve become one of those women who posts a LOT of selfies on my Facebook. Sure, I refrain from ‘ducking it up’, but still, I cringe when I think of the impression I’m making on my audience. I’d like to think I have sound rationale behind my blatant social media narcissism. Doesn’t everybody?

Up until a couple years ago, I did not post current pictures of myself. If anyone tried to take a picture of me…friends, family, you name it…I protested. Loudly. Usually with threats of bodily harm. I was absolutely terrified. I was afraid I’d have to see me as they saw me. And that what they saw no longer resembled who I used to be. Who I still see in my mind when I study my reflection. 

My weight changed. I’d gotten older. The features I used to think might be considered attractive, disappeared behind the face of a middle-aged, heavy set, completely unimpressive woman. When I went anywhere, I realized I’d become fairly invisible amidst the crowds. No one sought me out. No one noticed anymore. 

I disappeared.

Focusing on writing allowed me to forget that, sooner or later, I’d emerge from my cocoon, only to discover that I stopped paying attention to my appearance. And while that sounds perfectly acceptable, (and for most, it IS perfectly acceptable), for me, it was a heartbreaking disappointment. But before you brand me completely superficial, hear me out.

My experience in middle school was a continuous nightmare lived out over the course of two years. Pure torture. Puberty didn’t just hit- it beat me to a pulp. Imagine an entire school ripping into you day after day. Calling you cruel names. Whispering behind your back. Thrusting you into the center of all their jokes. You were THE school reject. It sounds so petty now. But after so much time spent humiliated and betrayed time and again, I entered high school completely terrified. I was crippled by insecurity. 

All I wanted was to be liked. To have friends. To not be ‘Pizza Face’ for the next four years of my education. I wanted as much distance from the girl that everyone hated as I could get. So I hid. I hid behind a curtain of heavy hair. I hid behind a desperately applied mask of makeup ANYTIME I left my house. That meant at least an hour every morning just piling that shit on. It wasn’t that I was trying to look “pretty”. It wasn’t that I enjoyed the feel of all that gunk seeping into my pores. Or the expense of carefully budgeting my money so I wouldn’t run out of makeup. As you can imagine, that would’ve been a true crisis for me.

But I just wanted to look normal. You know, normal as in ‘unexceptional, but still not freakishly plagued by bad skin’. I should have been grateful for big blue eyes, and naturally straight teeth. But I couldn’t get past my skin. And I didn’t think anyone would accept me for what I was. 

Flawed. Human. 

“So, what’s with all the stupid selfies, Jezzy?”

Even as an adult, I still don’t have perfect skin. And now, just to make it that much more fun, I have crows feet, laugh lines, those creases between my eyebrows from squinting in the sunlight. I look older. I’ll admit, I may not look quite my age, but I definitely look closer to my age than I used to. And while that shouldn’t matter, and maturity should have graced me a certian amount of self assurance, I am still that terrified woman who looks at her image and only sees the signs of time. I don’t see past the wrinkles and gray hair. I can’t see past the scars left by so many years of chronic skin troubles.

I warn people all the time, I am so far from perfect. I constantly complain about being ugly. Most times, I am told that I’m not ugly. That I should take them at their word that I’m a reasonably attractive individual. I want to be able to see that in myself. But I’m regretting too many things that are beyond my control.

I regret the loss of youth. Even though we all lose that, regardless of what we do.

I regret the loss of physical awareness. I allowed my weight to escape me, and now finding that smaller me is a serious struggle.

I regret, perhaps most of all, that I never learned to appreciate the qualities I did possess before I woke one day to realize they were long gone. And that, had I realized how fleeting it all was, I could’ve been comfortable in my own skin. I could’ve been that girl who was confident. 

Imagine how successful I could have been, if I didn’t constantly see myself as a requisite failure.

This is me today. This photo is not filtered. I wear makeup, yes, but I no longer need a mask of it. And maybe I’m no Olivia Wilde or Scarlett Johansson, but I’m not grotesque. I take the selfies to learn to accept who I am, and who I am no longer. I post the selfies to show people that I am willing to put myself out there. I’m willing to be more than just a name on a screen. I am willing to let you see that while I’m not perfect, I am real. 

And I am not a duck.


WARNING: This Post is Full of Marmosets. Pretty Cool, Right?

Posted in General, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 1, 2016 by jezzywolfe

When it is all said and done, what everyone will remember is I FORGOT TO BUY THE RIGHT BEANS!

How do you do that? Seriously? I stood in that store, thinking ‘How lucky is FullSizeRender(1)it they actually have a four pack of my lucky beans?’ In reality, that was only a lucky four pack if I was looking into some home loved version of a burrito. Don’t ask. It makes sense in my head. That’s all that matters.

I’m 15 shots in to the evening. Plus half a vodka beverage. I figure 16 shots is good. Don’t you? You figure, right? Yeah. We all do. It’s what we have in common. But you know what we don’t have in common? Leprosy. And that’s good, cause hella contagious. We’d have to start our own colony. But it’s okay, because I like you. If you want to start a colony, I’m totally down for that.

So anyway,  bought the wrong beans. I said, this year, I was taking no chances. I’d be following all the proper protocoals. The correct beans. Proper ham. Appropriate intoxication. 2016 would roll in with some big-ass approval, and I’d be making. Last year, it could have destroyed me. Sure. You’ve been through worse. But I’m a wimp, and it was bad enough. No more, please and thank you. I survived it, and ‘fuck you, universe’, for trying to wreck my train. It will take far more than you (or even you) to bring me off.

Somehow, I think that’s a bad participle.

IMG_2214Will I resolve anything? Fuck no! Do any of us, ever? We thrive on drama and pain. It’s true. Don’t be a fucknut here. Pull your head out of denial’s ass and see for yourself. We ARE Shirley Manson’s brain waves. I love her. Shoutout! But really, think about it. Life is boring when it’s good. We don’t recognize the good, even when it’s honey glazed and steaming on a fucking gold leafed platter. 24 karat perfection, and we are looking for the flawed gemstone in the crown.

But it’s not because we are emo hogs. I’m not. Neither is she. The reality is, we don’t grow when there is only light. We wither under too much warmth. Rain, pain, all that guts us, isn’t that what teaches us to grow? Not because we are smart enough to see that shit for what it is, but because, in hindsight, we get it. Rear view, bitches. We emerge the tumbled obsidian in some hippy’s hemp choker. And that’s okay. That shit’s beautiful! You go, with your shiny, black self. You’d look great on my finger. Just saying.

I looked at the end of this year with incredible dread. I hate ends. Even FullSizeRenderwhen it’s the end of a very bad thing. 2015…well, it wasn’t a great ting. But still, I didn’t look forward to ending it. And now, it’s a new year. There are no imminent apocalypses. BORING. But also, anti-climatic. I miss a good Mayan/Hopi prophesy, don’t you?! When it was one of those ‘piss or get off the pot’ scenarios? But with banderos?

Do or die. And we all did. Most of us didn’t die. Hemingway was loving it. I don’t know why, exactly. But he was. I might be loving it. I can’t tell.

Shot #16. One for every year this century has fucked me. I’m still standing. A little wobbly, sure, but alcohol. I’ll be standing when the sun comes back up. And most of you will, too. Unless you’re really hung over, in which case, HA! But not because I’m mean. I’d still give you a hug. I like you. Really. If you only liked me half as much, we’d be golden. Maybe, one day, you will.

In the meantime, I won’t resolute. I will drink responsibly. Meaning, when I drink, I’ll be serious about that shit. (And, no, I will NOT drive.) I have some goals for myself, and they will be good ones. They have to do with finishing a novel. Possibly a short story collection, too. AND ever a poetry collection. Why not? I sometimes string words in unexpectedly coherent ways.

And you thought you were the only ones.

So, here’s shot #16. My goal was not to be able to remember tonight. I’m getting close. I need relief. My heart beats too hard for this. Sometimes the palpitations leave bruises under my skin. Here’s to feeling less, at least for just a little while.

All my love to you. Stay strong. Your light always makes a difference to me.





Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on October 7, 2015 by jezzywolfe

I’ve been combing through my files again, namely files saved from my old Xanga blogs. I must have been drinking some special brew back then. I wish I could remember what it was…I could use more of it now.

So last night, I reformatted a completed story and submitted it to its first market. There’s a number of stories that need edits, some that need re-writes, some that need to be completed. I’m so distracted by everything around me, I’m afraid I’ll botch something up beyond repair. So I continue reading old files, trying to decide what is worth resurrecting, and what needs to go away for good.

For instance, this ridiculous blog post, which most likely made an appearance on TobyWillBiteYou in 2005. After too much caffeine. Or alcohol. I can’t tell now. All I know is I must have been on something…


“A Small Haiku in Honor of a Faded, Rumpled Ten Dollar Bill”

This whorish bill gives

Me a perverse little thrill

Then it says “buy-bye”.

JW 2005


Nothing like a title with as many syllables as the entire poem.

I have always loved the smell of money. Not new money, mind you, but money that has been around the block more than once or twice. Yeah… I like my dollars flimsy and easy and well-handled. And I’m not greedy; they can be all ones, as long as they have that particular ‘smell’. Sure, go ahead and try to tell me it is the mass accumulation of germs and microbes and God only knows what else contributing to that papery coppery aroma. Won’t make any difference to me. I will still fight the urge to bring each bill to my nose and breathe in that fragrant scent before I hand them off to some unappreciative cashier in exchange for goods not nearly as aromatic.

Tonight, I stared at the forlorn face of Abraham Lincoln. My bill had an identity crisis, wrinkled and creased, ink rubbed off from overuse. I loved it that much more, silently thanking it for the meager unworthy purchase of both baking powder, AND baking soda. A very powerful bill, indeed.

But our time together was brief, and passing. Imagine my child-like joyous surprise as I beheld the two bills given back to me. A five AND a one… it was my lucky day! I felt as if I had won the lottery. But I resisted the urge to spin around and plant a wet one on the complete stranger behind me, and shoved the wonderful additions carefully into my pocket. They are snuggly tucked in there, still.

I can’t part with them right away, you know. There’s a lot of sniffing to be had.


The more things change, the more they are different. But I still love the smell of used money. 

It’s Not Very Funny

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on August 12, 2015 by jezzywolfe

The suicide of Robin Williams a year ago shocked and devastated a world that revered him for his outlandish movie roles, his hyperactive stand up comedy routines, and his endearing compassion for others. No one anticipated such an announcement. We were all shaken.

People assume the funny ones are such happy folk. But we’ve lost a lot of comedians to depression and addiction. We are horrified every time such news is made, and confused. But we shouldn’t be. Truth is, creative professions have statistically higher numbers for depressive and bi-polar disorders than most others.

Writers are particularly prone to severe depression and addiction. According to Health.com, polls indicate that Writing ranks in the top 10 professions with the highest rate of depression and suicide. Researchers indicate that writers are 10 to 20 times more likely to suffer from depression and depression related illnesses. Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, Anna Sexton, Hunter S. Thompson, Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allen Poe (even though the cause of death in his case was never confirmed)… Wikipedia alone lists over 300 authors that died by suicide.

Writers are typically introverts who spend a lot of time locked in their heads. In the end, they second guess the product of all that solitude, glazing all that hard work with self-loathing and degradation. And not for the love of money, or fame. There is little of that to be found. E-books and online publishing have turned the craft into little more than an arts and crafts class in grade school. Publishers are dropping authors, and the money that used to be out there for a writer is dwindling.

Those still at it are doing it for the sake of art. Perhaps for a bit of immortality. For the need to expel their own inner demons on someone else’s unfortunate storyline.

To create something that wasn’t.

My own personal theory… achieved by no amount of research or polling… is that many artists suffer depression because they attempt to create worlds that don’t exist, in hopes to lose themselves there. And perhaps they never achieve that euphoria of escape because they were present for the creation. There is no magic for them. It’s all syntax and structure and endless editing.

As a reader, you can lose yourself in images and emotions.

As a writer, you are lost in production. Stuck in the green room. Stranded between the realms you create, and the reality that they will never exist. It’s like when you first realize there is no such thing as Santa. Disenchantment is a bitch.

I recently recognized that the depression that I’ve fought has returned. It’s a culmination of stress and dissatisfaction, and I have experienced these swings much of my life. I’m not clinically depressed, so I can still function, but it’s harder to get out of bed. It’s harder to go to bed. All changes in momentum are almost terrifying. Even slight hiccups feel like ominous pitfalls. I’m not interested in a litany of doctor’s visits or pills, so I’ll navigate this some other way. Maybe this time, I will find the right answers.

Mr. Williams did not. It took some time for his medical condition to come to light. Chances are slim anyone could have changed his mind. He was a lantern out of oil. If there is any consolation, it is that his passing will teach millions not to take anything for granted, or at face value. Don’t ever assume that person you know will be there tomorrow. Appreciate who they are now. There usually isn’t a goodbye.

I miss his smile. He had a fantastic smile.

Thanks for being here, Robin Williams.