Some random facts for a Monday.
1) Sandra Tyler from A Writer Weaves A Tale puts together an ezine called Woven Tale Press. She did me the honor of including my prose poem Hope Is in the second issue. I’m touched and honored by her recognition. The other pieces in the ‘zine are all excellent, and each one has a link back to the blogger’s homepage. This is not the same as reblogging , which I abhor. Sandra has edited these pieces (with the permission of and collaboration from their authors) and enhanced them with illustrations. She’s formatted pages and created an amazing publication.… Read the rest
“The mirrors are a distraction. Focus on what you feel.” MJ lay back on her mat.
I did not. “I feel a lot of things. I can’t tell which is right until I see how I look.”
My Yoga teacher tucked her ass up and hoisted her back towards the ceiling. “Try for that.”
“How will I know I look like what you look like if I can’t see what I look like?”
She sat up and pushed me into a reclining pose. “Concentrate on your Mula Bandha. Tilt your pelvis to make that flat back. Then lock it into your Uddiyana Bandha.… Read the rest
Because I’m an academic, I learned the importance of conferences the back alley way. It’s a habit I built in relationship to my job. A couple of years ago, I realized that people do this for writing, too. I was a little slow on the uptake.
Killer Nashville pretty much jumped out of my computer screen as the perfect place for me, since I was shopping a murder mystery. I signed up to talk to editors and agents, and I sent a couple of short story manuscripts for critique by published authors.
The authors were fabulous. All of the editors and agents were awesome, but one really stood out.… Read the rest
I shut down the computer twice, but the e-mail didn’t vanish. It’s been four days now, and it still hasn’t gone away. My world is aslant. The editor wrote; she wants my book.
For the voting public, that last compound sentence probably invalidates the 33 words of first person narrative. Although I am still technically writing in the first person, I have stepped slightly outside to make generic observations. Possibly, it’s still considered appropriate or close enough for country, since the two third person statements (“The editor wrote; she wants…”) are actually my observations. But it’s too esoteric. I think it’s fair game to enter, but vote for someone else, someone who isn’t blowing their own horn, K?… Read the rest
It’s the worst emotion for someone like me. It’s intricately bound up with expectations and desires, and I don’t handle disappointment well. Can I tell you something? I finished a novel two years ago. I’ve talked with a potential publisher twice. The editor at the publishing house is really interested, and yet every time I’ve gotten ready to send, I’ve stopped.
I thought for awhile that I had submission terrors. That I suffered from an internal certainty that once the piece was out there it would turn out to be shit when someone else judged it. But then I realized I’ve been sending other, less polished things out, short stories, nonfiction pieces, and some have been accepted and others rejected, and I’ve been fine with it.… Read the rest
Tutus often come in two parts, so that bodices can be separated from the skirts. Snip here, unlace there, and like magic, last month’s flower fairies are reborn as next month’s woodland sprites.
This weekend, Trifextra wants 33 words about rebirth.
And when that bright wind blows, will it call for me?
Or will I instead remain solid, true?
Do the stars truly flicker in their black firmament?
The core is in the asking.
Trifextra is all about layers this week. Come play and expose your own core.
My kids’ Christmas party was yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve been to their school since the Sandy Hook tragedy. In the lobby, one mother asked if the front desk could have a panic button installed, just in case. The secretary, whose son also attends the school, agreed it would be a good idea. I’m not typically given to worry about the grand scheme. You want small scale frets? I have them in plenty. Conspiracy theories? I’m your woman. But the big stuff doesn’t usually bother me.
My kids were with me on Friday, December 14. It was my birthday, and the opening night of the Nutcracker, in which they both performed.… Read the rest
I have to tell you something. As of this writing, I’ve singlehandedly gone through nearly a full handle of vodka in the last couple of days. The time kind of runs together. I’ve never done anything like this before. But it feels so right, the way I can hold the bottle just so before I tilt it up. The way the lid doesn’t like to stay screwed on. The fumes.
You know, they say vodka doesn’t smell like anything, but that’s not true. It’s similar to isopropyl rubbing alcohol. If I open the bottle in a stuffy room, the place takes on a faintly medicinal odor, as if what I was doing belonged in a hospital, like I might turn to the doctor next to me and ask if Nurse Green had given him a scalpel and could I borrow it for awhile.… Read the rest
“I can’t.” Caroline stared at the laces that had just landed her in a heap.
“Honey, you did it last week.”
And no, today, she can’t. I hate being the one who has to constantly remind her, “you can you can you can”. I hate sending her the mixed message that autism enhances her life while telling her to accomplish the things that autism makes damn nigh impossible. And I hate that I’m right when I do it.
Because she can tie her shoes. She can. Just not today. Only she has to do it today, on a day when she can’t, or she’ll lose the muscle memory.… Read the rest