And then. . .

A few weeks ago, I went to the screening of Pulp Fiction at the Alamo Draft House.  I was excited to see the movie in the theater. To be honest, I can't remember if I saw it in the theater the first time, but even if I did, I probably didn't get the subtleties of the film and really just thought all the shooting and fucks the movie used were amazing. Because I mean, they are amazing, but I'm older now. More mature. Yeah, that's it. On an odd but serious note, I think this was apparent in the connection I felt with Samuel L. Jackson's character Jules. I know that may sound crazy. I don't shoot people for a living. Arguably, I don't cuss as much. The N word is definitely not dropped from my lips outside of singing along to Jay-Z or Kendrick alone in my car. But what rang true for me was the end. No, not the part about the bacon. While Jules makes a point that pigs are filthy animals, I can't help but turn around and eat bacon. It's too delicious t...

I've been thinking a lot about being bilingual lately. In June, my sister-in-law visited, and at the beginning of the visit I tried to speak mostly Spanish, later it was more Spanglishy-English because I was tired. My brain got tired, and also, I'm going to be honest, I got lazy. For those of you reading this who are bilingual(ish) , you know what I'm talking about. I'm grateful that my husband lets me be lazy. (Also, it's hard to talk to someone in a different language if you're used to speaking in another. Try it. It's weird.) I have a friend who is Puerto Rican, and I while I envy the ease in with he seamlessly switches back and forth between the two, accent free, I doubt my discipline in practicing enough to get there. I want to. I really want to. I promise, but it's like going to the gym or eating better, everyone is always better in the beginning.  Last week, my editor and friend in chief sent me a text with a translation project suggestion. I ...

I was 17 when I visited my best friend in San Francisco. We'd know each other since elementary school and as a birthday gift, she got me a plane ticket to see her. I'd never been to California and everything I saw amazed me and looked better than anything we had at home. We were walking down the hilly streets of the city when a gypsy lady stopped us.  "Palm reading?" she asked.  It was the first time I'd ever seen a gypsy in person. Large hoops, a scarf purple scarf tied around her head, and a mole on her chin. I shook my head.  "I'll read yours for free," she said point her gnarled finger at me.  I looked back at my friend, up and down the street that suddenly seemed empty, and held out my hand. What the hell? It was free?               She stared and the dips and valleys of my palm and the deep dark lines that have always made my hands looked older. She looked up and said, "You have a writer's hand. It can tell gre...

Last night after a long [insert slew of obscenities here] day, I went to yoga. I almost didn't go. The warm comfort of pets, my home, and the couch seductively called to me as I sat in a sea of red lights and traffic. They were both so tempting that I almost escaped the highway three exits sooner, but I stayed strong. I gave myself a pep talk on the benefits of losing myself in my  Utkatasana's, Virabhadrasana II,   and  Savasana's.   As I sat in the car, repeating the benefits of attending, the day kept butting in and replaying itself like a short film on a loop. I spent most it angry and/or frustrated. When I was younger, anger always served as a fuel for me, but not as I've grown older it just drains me to the points of exhaustion. I am a shell of myself even as I smile and make small talk with the people around me. Today, in fact, I am shell. I am a browned husk floating around campus berating myself for losing my temper. At moments like these, I am tha...

1. I don't like ketchup or mayo. When I see people's food drowned in either, I shudder and remember an old episode from School House Rock with a song "don't drown your food!" 2. I'm impatient. Many people don't notice, but the people who know me feel the moment when I want to yell, "Get to the point!" 3. My favorite vegetable is Brussels sprouts. They are tiny cabbages of goodness. 4. I've been told I have high expectations of myself. This backfires on me because I expect the same from others. If I can do  it, why can't you? 5. My favorite color is cobalt blue. It's dark but bright at the same time. 6. I'm fiercely loyal to my friends and family and will do anything to help, support, etc. 7. Fighting has always been easier for me. I think it's the temper I inherited from my mother. 8. My closet is organized from light to dark within each color. Years of retails has left unable to just hang anything anywhere. 9....

I had to Google the word "multitasking" to double check whether it was hyphenated. At this moment I have six windows open. I will inevitably flip back to another tab to check something. I just got a text message from Sarah. Of course I will check it. A few months ago my Tio came over to help D and I with moving some things. He came in sat and started to talk to me. D sat on the other couch trying to finish some work on his Ipad. My laptop say on the coffee table. We were both facing out screens.        "So mija how is everything?" Tio asked.          "Good, Tio. Hang on. I just need to post this." I said without looking up at him.        "Man, all you guys do is stare at those screens. Why don't you put them down," he said reaching for my laptop.        Tio was demanding my attention. My work was demanding my attention. The T.V. was on in the ...

When one first begins to write, at least for me, I didn't have a sense of where the writing was going, who my audience was, and if there was a greater message of my culture, and I suppose more importantly where do I, Yasmin Ramirez fit into the literary landscape. I first started writing fiction. Short stories. I just wanted to write and I wanted it to be good. My first pieces fell toward a film noir surreal genre. Had a read any of surrealist? No. Were they good? I'm afraid to look. Later when working on my MFA I found I didn't know what to write about. I was finally simply supposed to write and my mind drew a blank, so I began to write what I knew. Stories I told many times over and made people laugh over the dinner table and now seemed to be working on paper and in workshops. These stories about my grandma, Ita, and being raised in El Paso became my thesis and now the book I'm attempting to finish by the end of this summer. Now, as I've published several (12 ...

I had never heard of the Writing Process Blog Tour until Lacy Mayberry, writer, friend, and fellow BorderSenses member tagged me in it. (She asked first.) I read the post on her blog (check it out here)  The Hurl and Gliding  about a week ago, because I wasn't certain what I was supposed to write. I read about her process and wondered, what the hell is my process? I've never put much thought into my process, so it took me a moment to consider what my habits and quirks were. So, here it goes. What am I working on? Nothing and everything. I'm trying to finish my memoir, Por Un Amor,  which consists of several short stories, poems, and flash fiction about my grandmother. My goal it to finish soon. I keep putting off the finishing date, partly because life keeps getting in the way and partly because the book has become a part of me. I have two to three pieces I want to add then I'm done. Many of the pieces have been published recently, so I think it's time. I like to...

This week I'm on spring break. I had many plans. I wanted to work on my book. I wanted to spring clean the house. I wanted to tackle the garage. I wanted to post and sell more things on Craig's List. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted. So, far I've checked my email, emptied my DVR, and slept. This week has been good though, hermit-ish, but good. There's something odd that happens when you allow yourself to just be. I let my brain stop dictating what I was going to do and let my body chose to sit on the couch, to take a nap, to go back to the couch. Usually, I have lists constantly running through my head. Imagine a computer updating, white texts filling up a black screen,  that is my brain adding more tasks to the queue. But, the last few days my brain has frozen and the cursor is just blinking waiting for me to hit enter, to restart. The best part is that this is very rare for me. I think it is very rare for everyone, but I recommend it. Especially at this time of year...

One of my favorite hobbies is people watching. I love to see how people gesture with their hands, the stride of their walks, arms swinging out, flicks of hair. There are so many messages being conveyed at once it's hard to ignore (either that or I'm creepy). Many times I use these people in my work when I write. I take interesting nervous ticks and shuffles, word choice and diction, and make them my character's. For example, today while walking around campus I saw a guy  with slunched shoulders, as if the backpack he was carrying itched. Without seeing his face I knew he was uncomfortable. It was as obvious as a girl who's had on cheap stilettos four hours past their comfort time. There was something interesting in the guy with the itchy backpack, and it wasn't until he turned that I realized why he was uncomfortable. Almost ever inch of his body was covered in tattoos. There was no order or reason to them, they weren't delicate pieces of labored artwork, th...

Today is Friday. It's felt like a Friday from the moment I pressed snooze on my alarm. I dozed for 10 more minutes with a large dog barking in the background. He, I assume a he because of the deep baritone, barked on and off all night. Internitingly in my sleep I kept wondering how his owner couldn't hear him and if it would be really bad if I could kick him. The owner, not the dog, because only a man could ignore such incessiant barking though out the night. I went to school and taught my class. Today we played a game called English 1301 Feud. I created a Power Point with common mistakes and definitions and each group competed against each other. They had fun. I had fun, and more imporatantly they learned the difference between passive and active voice. (She was killed by zombies. The zombies killed her.) The rest of my day has consisted of conversations. Conversations about writing and publishing, students and teaching, all over coffee. Conversations about Sami the dog an...