This was one of the poems that I wrote in April, during the Poetry Month Spree for Writing Heights. I produced a lot of interesting stuff that month (as one does) and I love that the space between writing the poem and going back through the deluge offers so much more reflection and perspective.
It’s that extra special time of the month….no, not that one. The other thing… Where I tell you all of the fantastically boring things happening in my life, and see if there’s a chance you want to join in. Let’s not waste time, I know we’re all excited (she said with a sarcastic shrug).
In, non-writing related news, the bathroom is done y’all. It’s pretty nice. Though the tub is tiny, and the toilet seat fell off last night. It’s mostly functioning. Here’s a little gander:
What else? The xeriscaping is complete and we’ve got a few new garden beds planted. I’m not sure how much of it will survive, but I’m crossing my fingers and hopeful. The idea is that if we can grow a few things, we’ll have to buy a little less. My oldest has been reading “Braiding Sweetgrass” and so we have a whole box devoted to the three sisters. I’m excited to see how it all turns out. Also, some berry bushes and a poor decision of climbing grapes for the trellis. I don’t know shit about grapes. Especially in Colorado, but *shrugs, let’s giver a go.
Their names are Geoff and Gerald.
So…all in all…it is less chaos, and that’s something good for a change.
Reading:
In reading news, I’m still reading “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri, and enjoying it. I’ve finished Chuck Wendig’s “The Book of Accidents”. It was a wild ride and I keep having thoughts about doors and making ways into other dimensions. Check it out. I’m also finished with “Walking the Invisible: Following the Bronte’s Footsteps.” by Michael Stewart. It was such a lovely book, interweaving the historical record, with literary insights, tied to the land they lived and walked through. It also was charming in the way Stewart made the journey personal and whimsical. (Personal favorite was using “Steven Kinged” as a verb)
Next, I think I’ll be reading “The Benevolent Society of Ill-Mannered Ladies by Allison Goodman. You have to love a dedication that begins this way:
Writing and Editing:
I’ve picked out the cover for “Heir to Time” and the release date is set for August 11th! I’ll try to work up some fun cover reveals. My problem, I’ve realized is that by the time I get done promoting and managing Writing Heights, I have very little drive to promote my personal stuff. But… I’ll work on it because I’m really excited to get this series out in total. I’ll let you know about book signings that will be coming up.
I’ve finished my first round of edits from the publisher on the 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology novella. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently doing okay, with only some minor consistency checks to make and solidifying ideas of faith. If I can do that for Isaac Engel, you think I could do it for myself *shrugs again (my god she’s shruggy today). I’ll be offering a spicy, annexed chapter from Eight Nights in Everpine, on my Substack. Follow me for more details on that.
My mythology based, contemporary fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia is on the post-it board, and I’m trying to make sure I do a better job of writing the last as good as the first. If you like demons and fairies, Valkyries and björns, witches and merfolk… you’re gonna love this one. I already do.
some of the board was cut off to preserve surprises
In addition, I’m playing around with a little apocalyptic satire that sprung up whilst I was sitting in a green park near Leeds Beckett, thinking about the formidable knowledge of birds and the equally crippling idiocy of humans. I’m not sure it will go anywhere, but it sure is fun to write in a different genre and style. So far I have four main characters that are all a little neurotic in some way, and for some reason have been deemed worthy enough to be saved from certain disaster.
I’m keeping up with my submissions, but missed last week because I honestly just completely forgot to do it. Maybe two this week? Maybe I’ll give myself grace, who knows? *again shrugs
Events
Wyoming Writers Conference:
I survived it. I met a lot of great people. I had a weird, and kind of intense existential crisis. I bought some books. I sold a few (AND kudos to Wyoming because I sold more of my Male-Male romance there then I have anywhere else). I won first place for Adult Fiction (Short Story) and Flash Fiction, which was a pleasant surprise. I’m still on the board for next year, as it’s a two-year term. But now that I know how it goes, hopefully I’ll get through it a little smoother with less crying in my hotel room.
Quid Novi Presentation.
In June (30th at 5:30pm), I’ll be presenting for Quid Novi and Writing Heights on the best ways to utilize a writing community, how to find them, what to expect, and how to get the most out of them. We’ll discuss how they can help not just network as a little-known writer, but also give you valuable insights to every part of the process. It takes place in Loveland at the Forge (next to Grimm Brothers Brewery) and there will be authors there selling their books as well. You can register for that here. Quid Novi
July Class on The Feminine Divine:
In July, I’ll be teaching a class for The Pause, a cool writing group devoted to mid-life women. The class will center on exploring the power of the Feminine Divine and the innate knowledge of body to explore expression. Its a topic I think about a lot, especially in a patriarchy where so much of what we ‘know’ is beaten down or ignored. And how so much of that knowledge would have actually saved the human race a heapful of grief, suffering and death. Anyway, we’ll be exploring how to tap into that, how to trust ourselves, and how to use what we know to help others. Here’s more about that organization: The Pause Writers
Closing:
A lot of things have come up, washed over, and receded in my life this last month. I’ve had some wounds on my old heart reopened, and it revealed a lot about the darkness of loss I’d been burying under obligation and to-do lists. (Thus the nearly-self harm crisis) I’ve had to think about what’s good for me and what I do simply because I want to please others. It’s made me think of all the things I do out of obligation, but not out of joy or love. And that’s a hard place to find yourself. I feel like I’m carrying a lot of big questions on my shoulders lately, about where to go, how to proceed, and what I know I need to give up. How to do that. How to let go. How to not worry about the disappointments of others in the face of my own spiraling mental health. It’s a lot. It always has been. But I guess seeing it and acknowledging that something needs to be done is one step closer to cleaning out those wounds, yes? (*adds shrug here).
I hope you’re taking time off to rest and be beautifully bored this summer. I’ll try to find a couple of those moments myself.
I found this title to an unwritten blog in my “Drafts” folder. I don’t know what I was thinking when I penned this, or why I never elaborated, but it was simply too interesting to not use. So, to the past me who was tickling at the depths of something, and to the future me who, I hope, someday can fully emerge from her tightening cocoon of depression to do something significant, I’m going to talk about why the world was always ending. And what a strange little, hairless, big brained, ape can really do about it.
My first suspicion is that this comes from the staggeringly beautiful and heart-rending poem by Franny Choi “The World Was Always Ending, and the World Goes On”. (Please find it HERE, it’s worth the read). In it she describes the different ways the world has ended through various apocalypses. The apocalypse of slavery, and environmental ruin, religious bombings, starvation and war, and history miswritten by the ‘conquerers’, and all the ways humans continually destroy and rebirth themselves. That we are in a constant state of not just change, but destruction. And destruction borne of greed has no end, because man will always, always want more. It reminds me, as it should all of us, that the natural state of the universe is entropy. Decay, rebirth, the fall and rise, the constant, ever-present battle between what is made and unmade. Change. Violent, insidious, chaotic, beautiful change.
Our Own Damn Fault
I’ve thought a lot lately about the current state of humans. And how freakishly dumb we are. The only species who will be responsible for it’s own extinction to be sure. AND the only one with brains and cognition large enough to actually have the understanding, and foresight, and power, to stop it. So why don’t we? Greed. Selfishness. Ego. Laziness. All things, and I hate to say it fellas, that are touted, praised and encouraged by patriarchal, colonialist, capitalist societies. Because men look for immortality in what they accrue and what histories they write of themselves. Women create immortality with life. And they’ve been trying to catch up with that for about 5-10,000 years. In their efforts, we have instead become a cyclone of endless, ceaseless destruction.
My daughter and I were having a discussion on the trail the other day, about humans’ impact on the environment particularly, and (because she’s a huge Jurassic Park fan) that she loved the quote by Dr. Malcom (the Chaos Theory guy) that we won’t destroy the earth, we’ll destroy ourselves, and the Earth will continue on, just as it has before us. And then we started talking about what would the Earth look like without us. (Also check out this book: The World Without Us)
Would I be malevolent to say it was so hopeful to think of a world without humans? That the Earth might heal so much of itself. That the animals would adapt and evolve. That the rivers would find new paths and old monuments to war-mongering men would be laid waste by creeping vines and persistent roots? I don’t wish death on any one (well- not true, I do wish death on one person and I think we all know who he is) but I sometimes wish we would all quietly slip away. Because there’s a better life force, more deserving of the world than us, the ecosystems that self correct. Or did, before we showed up and demanded than Nature listen to us. Like men to women. The natural and balanced entropy without our involvement.
I suppose this is the point. We are so concerned with comfort, so worn down by current systems, that we watch this world ending and turn away. So much of the damage has been done, and the worst of it, is the powerlessness most of us feel to stop it choke-holds us into believing no amount of our effort will change the course. As long as the masses have resolution to their instant gratification. As long as the oil execs don’t have to turn down a fifth yacht or another payment to the Epstein estate, who gives a shit about the state of the air, or the water, or the temperature, or the droughts, or the storms, or the disappearing food, and the growth of disease? The powers that be, will all be long gone before it affects them.
The world was always ending. The world is always ending. Whatever can be done? Besides massive revolution that no one has the time or energy for because we’re in a real indentured servitude situation here? I don’t know. Maybe nothing at all. Drops in the bucket. Electric cars and recycling. Growing what you can. Giving more than you take. Refusing to believe any story that seeks to keep corruption in power, because that story is a tool to keep corruption in power. Thinking for ourselves. Acting for our neighbors. And trying to think about the seven generations beyond our own. Will there even be three generations beyond ours?
From the “Dictionary of the Strange, Curious, and Lovely”:
Your word of the month is irenic: promoting peace, conciliatory, peaceful; [from the Greek eirēnē peace] or if you want the Webster’s official: favoring, conducive to, or operating toward peace, moderation, or conciliation
In Greek mythology, Eirene was one of the Horae, the goddesses of the seasons and natural order who in the Iliad are the custodians of the gates of Olympus. According to the Greek poet Hesiod, the Horae were the daughters of Zeus and a Titaness named Themis, and each had a name indicating her function and relation to human life. Eirene (in Greek Eirēnē, meaning “peace”) was the goddess of peace. Her name gave rise to irenic and other peaceable terms including irenics (a theological term for advocacy of Christian unity), and the name Irene.
What do we think of when we consider a move toward peace, or living in such a way that we are constantly striving towards moderation, conciliatory behavior, or striving for a world of working together? It seems like a Herculean task, honestly. We (or perhaps I just mean myself) can tend towards defensive and sometimes offensive behavior when our values, communities, and lives are threatened, and I am often torn between wanting to remain committed to peace, and the understanding that sometimes it is necessary to take a stronger stand to protect others (I even have “the sword doesn’t write poetry and the pen doesn’t win battles” tattooed on my body). But even in that, and thinking of the struggle to stay peaceful I think of the saying ‘fighting for peace, is like fucking for abstinence’. Is that even a saying or did I make it up?
Either way, operating towards peace feels pretty foreign right now, I’m not going to lie. With our country embroiled in a war no one asked for or wanted, and the heartless killing and destruction of another human’s land and people, unlawful imprisonment of human beings, the unchecked and unpunished sexual assault on women and children by people in positions of power, peace seems like a flimsy concept, no more concrete than an ever-changing and quickly dispersing cloud.
So how do we, as single and rather powerless individuals, artists, parents, and conscientious observers work towards a way that embodies an irenic existence?
I’m truly asking.
Because all I can come up with is by keeping our protests strong but peaceful. By not physically harming human life in our quest to find justice (but an unpersoned warehouse of a moral-less, greed-filled capitalist who doesn’t pay their workers a living wage? I didn’t see anyone strike that match, and even if I did, I didn’t). All I can think is that we protect our own, personal peace by staying informed but not being caught up in the mental barrage of over-played and cyclical horrors purposefully fed to us by social media. All I can think is that we cultivate peace, caring, and empathy in our communities and homes. We take care of others, we give our time and resources to those in need, we step away and breathe when anger and ignorance springs up from the comment section. We keep asking ourselves, what’s the good fight? What takes care of the most people? How do we keep the most vulnerable safe and live in such a way that when we step into a room or conversation, any inciting temperature lowers to calm.
How do we do that?
I’m not entirely sure. I guess, by listening, really listening, not just to the words expressed but the feelings that have driven them out into the open. By not taking it as a personal attack, even when it feels that way. (Toddlers lash out the same way a lot of people in comments sections do. If you take those repetitive, brainwashed phrases and replace them with ‘nuh uh’, or ‘my dad could beat up your dad’, you can really see through the façade of righteousness to the insecurity that drives it). By relaying back, “I see that this upsets you, that you are scared and that’s okay. It means you care and there’s something important you fear losing.” Perhaps would open enough space that we could start a conversation. One that cuts through ideologies to the core of our shared humanity. The challenge is in knowing that this proffered olive branch is not always returned by the other side. The idea of rational, thoughtful, genuine empathy is often misconstrued (and brainwashed into the masses) as ‘weakness’.
But we have to try right? I want to believe so. I want to hope that the current, boiling and murky water that we’re treading can be settled and cleared with a commitment to peace. And even if, in our best efforts towards this utopian ideal, we fail, then at least we know we tried…Before we burn it all to the ground and start over.
The moors that inspired “Wuthering Heights” Haworth, UK
Hey y’all.
May has been an infamous time for busy lives, end-of-school nonsense, the ramping up of summer plans and trying to get out of the house before the weather is unbearable. This year is no different and here at the house we’re in the midst of a new transition while our oldest kiddo is moving back in to attend Colorado State. After a quick trip over the pond to retrieve her and the 7 checked bags of her life, we’re back and trying to settle into the space in the gentlest way possible. I feel like living with one another is always a delicate balance of feeling safe and supported while also having your own space and independence enough to not drive each other insane.
I’m not sure if we’ll achieve that, but it’s a goal.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I did pretty damn good on my 10K in the first weekend of May. Even coming in 4th in my mature-lady category. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful race. I’ll probably do it again next year. I had a quick trip to the UK, as I mentioned before, but we packed it full of visiting some fun sites (the above picture is from a 7 mile hike we took from the Brontë Museum in Haworth), including a canal boat book store (more on that later)
We also took a full day to tour the home of the Bronte sisters (and their damndable brother Branwell). It was a morose but interesting trip through a family’s history that contained both flights of genius and trips into madness. Sickness, early death, and the end of a line of some of the world’s most interesting writers were some of the more sad themes of the day. My kiddo and I took the long hike out to the ruins that inspired Emily’s Wuthering Heights and sat beside the same waterfall she may have penned some of her works. It was fantastical and eerie in all the right ways and it gave my mind a lot of space in those wide-open fields of heather and wind, to think of everything and nothing at once.
What else? Hmm…We’re STILL having our bathroom remodeled. Sort of. We’re now into the sixth week. I’m beginning to lose hope of ever having my own toilet. Sometimes you have luck with a contractor, sometimes you have a Hailey’s contractor…who appears only once every seven years, after tearing up your space to unusable. Given another week, I shall start remodeling it myself at night and lend to the whimsical idea that fairies are doing his work for him.
The grass in our yard is gone and…all the rock is scraped away. The dead and dying bushes have been pulled up and the abhorrent pompous grasses are no more. I love the smell of fresh upturned earth out there and I’m looking forward to the English garden that’s on it’s way and the vegetable boxes being put in. I’m saving as many of the established plants as I can, along with my rhubarb and iris. I have every faith that it’ll get done before my fancy new shitter.
So…all in all…it’s still just fucking chaos. But, I feel like this is the way we progress and survive, by tearing down and building back up again.
Reading:
In reading news, I finished “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. I’m still reading “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri, and enjoying it. I’ve also started (and nearly finished because I can’t put his shit down) Chuck Wendig’s “The Book of Accidents”. It’s creepy and mysterious and gruesome in all the right ways.
and I did my part to keep it afloat by buying enough books that I had to leave some clothes and an old pair of running shoes behind to haul them back. Here’s some new things I’ll be (or have started) reading:
“Walking the Invisible: Following in the Brontës’ Footsteps” by Michael Stewart. His writing is impeccable and soft. It’s like a beautiful and slow flowing creek to follow his loving descriptions of the lands and moors near Haworth. It’s also a stunning and in depth tribute to the sisters (and fucking Bramwell).
“Why Doing Nothing Can Change Your Life: The Brain at Rest” by Dr. Joseph Jebelli. Once I start reading this one, expect me to start dropping out of my life obligations with wild abandon. Enjoy this newsletter, it could be the last.
“When Women Were Dragons” by Kelly Barnhill. I actually had this one recommended to me a few weeks ago by a dear friend and when I saw it on the shelves, the only copy in that beautiful little boat of books, I took it as a sign that I should bring it home. It looks whimsical with just the right amount of social commentary.
And finally “Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit” by Lyanda Lynn Haupt. I’ve been wanting this book for years. I’m really excited to get started on it soon.
Writing and Editing:
I’m done with the cover request for “Heir to Time” and am just waiting for the options to get back from the publisher. When they do I’ll get you a sneak peek. I hope it will be out in June or July. My publisher has a lot on her plate right now, so we’ll see. When I have that pub date, I’ll start getting some book signings on the calendar and you’ll be the first to know (unless of course, I decide to do nothing and change my life).
I’ve finished the 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology novella. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently sitting around 56,700 words so I’m over, but even after two rounds of edits, I’m finding it hard to cut much else. This “sweet” romance is wavering over the line to “spicy”. Because of the parameters of the project, I will have to cut some of the more ‘intimate’ scenes. But, because I don’t want a good sex scene to go to waste, I’ll be offering those annexed chapters on my Substack. Follow me for more details on that. AND if you want to check out my idea board for Eight Nights, you can find it here: 8 Nights in Everpine
After this project is complete, I’ll be taking a little time to get my next series prepped and ready for publication. In a complete 180 of historical fiction (why can’t I find a subgenre and just stick to it? Same reason I have multiple degrees and certifications in different fields, because I don’t think life should be about doing the same thing over and over again) this will be a mythology based urban fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia. If you like demons and fairies, Valkyries and björns, witches and merfolk… you’re gonna love this one. I already do.
In addition, I’m playing around with a little apocalyptic satire that sprung up whilst I was sitting in a green park near Leeds Beckett, thinking about the formidable knowledge of birds and the equally crippling idiocy of humans. I’m not sure it will go anywhere, but it sure is fun to write in a different genre and style.
I’m keeping up with my submissions (but missed one last week due to…life). Currently I’m at 22. Which has resulted in 18 rejections or no responses, but here we are. I also got a short story accepted with Beyond Words. More on that later.
Events
Wyoming Writers Conference:
I’m still helping out the Wyoming Writers Inc, as a board member. Listen, if you’re in the area, this conference is gonna be pretty damn good. It includes a craft day, and a youth writing event with Todd Fahnestock, that’s super affordable. The rest of the weekend is chocked full of lots of classes, pitches, and workshops. Writing Heights will have a booth with some fun swag and you’ll get to meet a quirky, and welcoming community of writers. I’m telling you it’s worth going. You will get your money’s worth and Casper is a fun little place to visit. Check it out here: Wyoming Writers Inc. Conference.
WHWA Classes: Parent Panel
In May I’m on a panel for writers who are parents. We’ll be talking about what it means to be a creative with limited time and energy and how to survive parenting while still taking care of your creative spirit. We have a dynamite panel with award winning and best-selling authors who have had to deal with toddlerhood, special needs, multiple sons in hockey, and more. Bring your questions and concerns and we’ll bring our honesty. Register here: Parent Panel
Write Ins: I’m hosting a Write-in at Grimm Brothers Brewery in Loveland on May from 5-7pm. It’s a fun little spot with some killer food and drinks. Bring your work and a couple of bucks to throw at a local business.
Quid Novi: In June (30th at 5:30pm), I’ll be presenting for Quid Novi and Writing Heights on the best ways to utilize a writing community, how to find them, what to expect, and how to get the most out of them. We’ll discuss how they can help not just network as a little-known writer, but also give you valuable insights to every part of the process. It takes place in Loveland at the Forge (next to Grimm Brothers Brewery) and there will be authors there selling their books as well. You can register for that here. Quid Novi
WHWA Class: Writing Series
In June, in case I don’t send out another newsletter (because I’ve committed to doing nothing–in which case, will there even be a class? Let’s assume yes), I’ll also be teaching a class on how to write an engaging, consistent series, including how to make each book unique and special and how to tie them all together with a larger over-arching theme. We’ll talk about tools to help with consistency and the dreaded running out of steam half way through. Lots of good stuff. I don’t have the registration yet, but you can visit www.writingheights.com for more info.
Closing:
Every time I look back at the massive length of the newsletter I’m reminded to give myself grace for how tired and overwhelmed I sometimes feel. Yes, packing one’s life full of challenges and experiences is a beautiful way to honor the gift we’ve been given of just existing. But it’s also important to remember that expansion requires moments of cocooning, or contraction. My morning meditation gave me a vision of my heart as this battered, ragged, bandaged thing that still continues to beat, despite its wounds and scars, and how it’s my job to take better care of it, to let it heal, to protect it, so that it can continue to be the center of my capacity for love that affects the world around me.
I hope you’re taking time for yourself and your mental health. I will if you will.
I’m not going to lie, I’ve been a busy bee of late, and I’ve got plenty on my plate to make me feel justified when I rehash an old blog, especially if it still fits with what I’d like to talk about.
This, being May and smack dab in the middle of the Writing Conference Season (I’m not sure if that should be a capitalized title, but it seems like an event so…I’m going with it) I thought it would useful to budding writers out there to go over some conference basics as well as some advice that has really helped me get the most out of them. This also being a totally new era, I’ve added some modifications to reflect our new Zoom/Teams lifestyles (not NEARLY as cool as a Rock n’ Roll lifestyle).
So, let’s get into the meaty goodness of writer’s conferences and why you should strive to attend at least one a year.
How do you choose which one to attend?
• Firstly, most conferences, at least since the pandemic, have had to switch to some type of online format or perhaps online-in person hybrid to make accommodations for safety. So, the good news is, you may not have to shell out so much for travel expenses as they can be taken from the comfort of your home. Bad news is that you’ll still be at home and all the challenges that can go along with it. I’ll touch more on that later on.
• If you are anything like me, you’re wealthy in creativity but strapped for cash. One of the biggest deciding factors, for me, is the cost of the conference, along with which classes, speakers, and agents will be there. Getting to pitch to an agent, or multiple agents for publishers specific to your genre is a boon. Classes that are not just interesting but will help expand your craft are also good factors to consider.
• Some conferences are genre specific and if you are a comfort-hugging archetype who doesn’t flirt around outside your style and subject matter, then definitely consider something specifically geared to your genre. The Romance Writers of America used to host in fun and far-off lands like…San Diego and…New York City…*le sigh* Genre specific conferences are awesome if you’re looking to polish skills or start out in a new genre that you don’t normally write in. Don’t be afraid to flirt a bit (outside of your genre, that is *wink)
• If you’re stuck deciding between two, look at the courses offered, the speakers presenting, and if they are offering pitch sessions, especially agents suited to your work. Pick the one that gives you the most opportunity for growth and stretches your creative and ambitious goals.
How do I get the most out of my conference?
• Here’s what I’ve learned. Plan ahead but be flexible.
Conferences don’t just start the minute you pin that snazzy name badge on your seldom-used dress clothes (or, via online conferences, log in with only dress clothes on your upper half). They start the year before, during writing when you self-reflect on the issues you have with your WIP, your style, your grammar, or even the steps you want to take next. If you have trouble with dialogue but are a whiz at plotting out the perfect story arc, then use your conference to build up your weak points. Even if it means stepping out of your comfort zone. Which leads me to my next point:
• Sit it on at least one session that is outside of your genre, comfort zone, or even interest.
Look, conferences can be amazing experiences but if you’ve been through sixteen hours of various takes on the query letter or trying to perfect your memoir pitches, you’re not growing as much as you could be. Why do athletes cross train? Why does an engineering major still have to take social science classes? Because learning about the realm outside yourself will make you better in all aspects of your work. Try a sci-fi world-building class or screenwriting. I guarantee, you will get something new out of it that will help your project and your craft.
• Push your limits.
Talk to people you wouldn’t normally, share your story, your success, and your pitfalls. This is an awesome opportunity (I’m talking to you little introvert) to commiserate, vent, and rejoice in the craft you love so much. Pitch your novel, article, or story. Talk to the larger-than-life keynote speaker (here’s a hint: every single one of them I’ve had the pleasure to meet has been the kindest, most down-to-Earth and supportive writer). Come away feeling like the weekend/day was an experience that has changed you in some fundamental way.
How do I not get overwhelmed?
• For goddess’ sake, take a break in the midst of it all. I’m the worst at this. I’m a classic victim of; “I paid the money and I’m going to hit every single class. I will volunteer, pitch, hit up the speakers at the dinner table, and stuff every bit of information into my head until explodes!” Then by day two, nothing makes sense in my mind, words are blurry, I’m not sure what my name is, and I’m crying into a self-made mashed-potato tower, while wearing Underoos on my head that clearly are not my own.
Take the breaks between sessions or even forgo a session and find a quiet corner or go for a walk outside. You need it to recharge, allow time to absorb the information and be refreshed for the next round. This is especially true for online conferences! Take the computer to different rooms (if they’re still quiet) or outside if available, take walks in between sessions, take eye and body breaks (look far off for a spell, or ‘rest’ your eyes away from the screen, get up and stretch as often as available). Its’ almost like interval training—the space between, the recovery is what sets you up for the next round, so take it.
• If you are pitching to an agent or editor, polish the shit out of that thing beforehand. Take your pitch to your critique group, your friends, random people on the street before the conference and learn how to deliver it with confidence and clarity. Know your story, your characters, and your plot, inside and out. That first page should sing the sweetest siren’s song anyone has ever heart and lure the tepid agent from the afternoon lunch lull into something exciting they want to read more of. The more you practice your pitch, the more it will feel like a conversation with a good friend instead of an interview.
• If you are pitching, don’t be intimidated by the agent or editor. Remember they are people. They are there, specifically, to talk to you. To hear your story. To find the next big thing. Most of them are also just like you…they may even be wearing Underoos and like mashed potatoes. The point is, it’s okay to be nervous, but don’t go in assuming they relish the idea of shooting you down. Be polite and always thank them for their time and any advice they have to give.
• Sleep before. Sleep after. Eat nutritious food, take walks outside whenever you can, and watch the caffeine and the booze. Free coffee stations are like crack for me (or conversely at home for online conferences—having my own espresso machine) and cash bars are a tempting mistress at the end of a long, people-filled day. But you’ll have things to do the next day and Underoos will stay safely tucked in if you can avoid that third cocktail.
To conclude, I’d like to share one of the best lessons I’ve learned from conferences.
For every conference I attend, I add a layer to the writer in me. That is to say, through the people I meet, the classes I take, and the lectures I attend, I learn more about the craft. How, and when, and why, and what and all the technical attributes that come along with the delicate balance of creativity and grammatical science. But more than just the sum of these limitless parts, I learn a greater whole.
The whole that is me as a writer.
And in doing so, I’ve learned how to enjoy myself more at these kinds of functions by listening to my body, my brain, and my growing years of experience.
Back in the day, I would be hand-cramping from the steady stream of notes at each session. I would be tumbling from one to the next, chugging down coffee between in hopes to keep my energy up so I wouldn’t miss a thing. I would strategically place myself at the agent’s table who I wanted to garner the literary affections of. I would, in essence, be the adult version of my grade-school brown-nosing self.
Something happened one year, while at the meet and greet “networking” event. I found myself long past my emotional and mental boundary and crossing all lines of my introvert nature, to garner the attention of at least a few more experts in the field. I was mentally exhausted, untethered and I felt like I was on emotionally shaky ground. I realized after a long day of learning and being ‘on’ that I didn’t want to be there.
I didn’t understand my limits or that honoring them was at the core to being successful at a conference (and let’s face it, in life)
I thought I could talk it all day, learn it all day, do it all day. Nerding on a pro-level is a quintessential part of who I am. I loved hearing about other projects much more than I like talking about my own and reveled in the creativity and ingenuity of my fellow conference goers.
But…the more stories I heard, the more classes I took, the more advice I tried to apply—the less sure I became of my ability. The more tired I got, the more flustered I became, the wearier my mind, the less information I could process.
Until everything was just noise and words.
Then I learned a secret.
You don’t have to throw yourself under a bus to catch it.
Knowing your limits is not just useful in this particular scene. Knowing your limits is useful for all humans. And it comes with age and the ability to let go of unrealistic expectations.
During a few of my sessions, even as I listened to the speaker, I listened to myself. If I was inspired to write; I let myself write.
If the iron was hot, I struck while in the moment, abandoning the mad scribble of notes.
Did I miss a little of the presentations? Sure, but in the midst of other brilliant minds and the energy they impart, in the middle of shutting out the rest of the world, the heart and brain start to do this funny little dance and learn to play again.
Inspiration doesn’t always happen at the opportune times. You have to write when the words are ready and when the heart is open. Conferences have given my heart a doorway, an acceptance into writing what often builds up behind all my carefully constructed walls.
In years past, I’ve forced myself to jump the hurdles of social interaction and witty conversation until late hours, when all I really wanted was to wander off to a quiet room and take a nap.
I had to make it OK for myself to listen to that want, in order to get the most out of my time at conferences. These events open pathways, but only when we’re not too busy to see them. If we are embroiled in getting the most out of every single planned moment of the time, then we may miss the real lesson.
Creativity is like a river and if you fully submerged you’ll easily drown. You’ll miss the beauty of the ride, the view, and the sounds.
So, know yourself, Writer. Do the things that you know work for you. Let the river of creativity, carry you, but always leave yourself plenty of breathing room to be inspired.
Hey y’all. I’ve been participating in National Poetry Month with a challenge through Writing Heights. And let me tell you, nothing humbles you more than being in the presence of such amazingly talented poets (especially when they all decry their lack of talent). We didn’t have any gentleman join us in the challenge, and I will say that I think the supportive structure of mature women in a safe environment really gave birth to vibrant and visceral work. It reminds me how powerful women are. How intelligent. How kind. How empathetic. Am I saying that men are not these things? No. I’m saying that for too long women in this weird patriarchal, capitalist, christian nationalist environment have been silenced, reduced to objects, and vilified for expressing themselves. It is grounding to know, despite the illusions spread to keep them subservient, women are in fact the creators.
That was a long intro to these poems. One, from a prompt this month. One I wrote as an exercise. Neither edited much. Enjoy, and if you were insulted by the previous paragraph…stop reading my blog.
I am sitting at home, on the south side of a once-small Colorado town I used to hear crickets, but now there are sirens The dog snores, unbothered, and my wristwatch patiently counts seconds I no longer own I can see the faint glow, of a nightlight down the hall
I used to hear crickets, but now there are only sirens There is a coldness where a warm love used to lie, beside me, tucked away I can see the faint glow of a nightlight down the hall Time has taken the children from the rooms, but I keep them plugged in
There is a coldness, where a warm love used to lie And I feel it, tucking away from me, lonely and quiet Time has taken the children from the rooms, but I keep them plugged in I’ll never sleep the way I used to, when I knew we were all safe
And I feel it, over and over, love tucking away from me lonely and quiet The dog snores unbothered, and the wristwatch ticks away the seconds I no longer own I’ll never sleep the way I used to, when they were down the hall I am sitting, up in bed, once a home, on the lonely side of a once-small Colorado town.
tom-boy rough and tumble the feral ruler of broken-down neighborhoods in dying mining towns knew no gender just the horsepower of my skinned-kneed legs and the unfettered mane more wild adherent to herd than human girl or boy wind-tossed and unmanageable out in sunlit days with any able-bodied child my height who could keep up invent dragons and build castles in trees uncategorized, unencumbered by expectations of bows or army men dolls or trucks why not both? why not all? aren’t our hearts really just wildings? in the beginning we were all unfettered dragons, able-bodied castles nurturing friends and fauna in trees alike we were all ‘them’
When thinking of what to write this week, I waffled between poetry and writing advice, or perhaps I could delve into philosophy. The possibilities were really endless. But then I thought, why not simplify it. Down to a word. So kids, today we’re going to learn a new word (well it was new to me, I hope its new to you) and really think about its meaning and how we can use it.
From this lovely book, I opened a random page and picked the first word my eyes landed on. (P.S. if you’re a poet, writer, or just a vocabulary aficionado please check it out: Dictionary of the Strange, Curious & Lovely)
yes, my desk really is this chaotic most of the time
Mumpsimus: A view stubbornly clung to even after shown to be wrong; one holding such a view; [from a historical blunder for Latin sumpsimus (we have received)]
I thought this was such a timely word and something that seems incredibly relevant today. But let’s break it down a little.
This word first appeared around 1520-30 when a Catholic priest accidentally used mumpsimus instead of sumpsimus (to take) and refused to admit his mistake and change the word when confronted with the correct one. This process of near-homophony has other literary variants, from mondegreen to malapropism (you’ve probably heard that one before), and earslip. But the key to this is the refusal to admit to the mistake when confronted with the correct use.
I can’t be the only one who has known a person who has done this. Made a mistake and rather than correcting themselves when prompted, did not want to risk his fragile ego. As a result the word or action becomes commonplace, although wrong and misused. All because he could not own to the mistake and correct himself. It has been a common practice in my black belt training, when a higher-ego mistakes a technique and rather than correcting himself, changes the entire technique and makes everyone relearn it to the ‘corrected’ version simply because saying “You’re right, sorry, I messed up” would, I assume he thinks, make him look stupid, rather than human.
On a grander scale, the idea of recognizing and admitting a mistake from our public officials and those launching into a useless war, practice this on the daily. Misconstruing mistakes into ‘new truths’ that, they believe, if are offered repeatedly (and loudly) will become actual truths. It’s the job of a well-informed, well-read society to catch these mistakes and make them known. If nothing else, to not adopt the false truths, just because some guy at a pulpit or podium proclaims them to be true. Keep practicing the correct technique to make sure you don’t skew or ruin the concept beneath it. You don’t want your truths or your techniques to not work when they are most needed, after all.
This word, mumpsimus, can also be applied to accepted beliefs or views that are proven wrong by scientific, socially studied, and tested facts. The world was once believed to be flat. This was proven to not be true by centuries of studies and scientific testing. To continue to believe the world is flat, because someone on a podcast theorizes it, is a mumpimus belief. And it makes you look stupid. Because believing things that have been proved to be incorrect makes you stupid. Vaccines don’t work. Gayness can be prayed away. Women are naturally nurturing and weak. Men don’t cry. All of these erroneous concepts, I believe, are kept close to heart (but loud on social media posts) when people are afraid to admit that they have been wrong. They double down on their hatred and stupidity, hoping that the fervor in their convictions will somehow make them true.
But it doesn’t.
So, now you know. Mumpsimus. Don’t be one. Don’t have beliefs based on them. Call them out when you see them. And send me some of your favorite malapropisms.
Did you know there are 5 weeks in April? So I had a little dilemma. Do I put out my hated newsletter this week or next? I decided to get it over with. That way I can bore and/or torture you in different ways for the next two weeks of this Spring-y month.
How are you? How are things? Been practicing your Nuclear War drills under the desk? Watching him unravel at press conferences and drone endlessly about golden drapes? What a fuckin’ circus, huh? I will say, there is a glimmer of hope, after the recent events in Hungary, and as small eruptions of resistance to the madness continue to grow. Any light in the dark will do, when the dark has lasted for this long.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I’ve been trying to recover from falling on my ass while simultaneously trying to train for my 10K in May. The decent news is that I didn’t break it (its already cracked…badum-bum-ching!) the sad news is it increased my mile time by three minutes. But whatever. I’m not young. I’m lucky to be able to move at all. Let’s see…it was kind of a weird heath month even before the fall. Colonoscopy, check. Pancreatic cyst MRI, check. Yearly physical, check…my hope is by doing all the preventative stuff, I won’t need to do so much later down the road.
What else? Hmm…We’re having our bathroom remodeled. Sort of. Actually it’s been torn up for about two weeks with no progress in sight. So, we’re all sharing one bathroom. And it feels cozy, and slightly annoying. But also, a lesson in how lucky we are to have a bathroom and running water, yes? Yes. In the realm of deconstruction, we’re also tearing out our grass this year in favor of something more useful. Drought resistant, pollinator friendly, vegetable garden, and the hope to conserve what little water is left in Colorado in as much as we can.
So…all in all…it’s just been fucking chaos. But, I feel like this is the way we progress and survive, by tearing down and building back up again.
Reading:
In reading news, I’m finishing up “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. I’m really getting into “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri. The philosophical reasonings she has, as well as a nod to the fact that the white-male dominated field of philosophy, for years, has been missing out on 80% of human perspective, are a breath of fresh air honestly. I am resonating with the dissonance of having a world that sets the norm as “happy and bright” alienating and missing the importance of these darker, more morose periods we all encounter.
For a bit of something light, I’m reading my good friend Megan Crawford’s book “Dozen Dates“. It’s pretty good and a nice escape. Though I will say, it doesn’t make me want to ever date again. Single folks, seriously, how do you even begin, and once you do, how do you still want to continue. Maybe I’m too old for ‘young people’ romance. All that aside, it’s a great book and I’ll be reviewing it as I’m done.
Writing and Editing:
I’m done with my final round of edits for “Heir to Time”, and thank the great mystery of the universe for that. Now all that remains is the cover design, proofreading and it will be out. Due to the unforeseen and difficult Fall, I’m planning to have a larger book signing (or a couple) for the entire series sometime this summer. I’m in talks with some local bookstores and our local tea house here in Fort Collins. It was a fun series to write, but I’d be lying if I said I wish it would have lasted longer.
Onward and upward.
I’m chugging away at 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently sitting around 48,000 words so I’m on track to finish it on time with a few weeks of editing to spare. I thought I’d have a hard time even hitting 50,000, but per usual, I have overwritten this little novella. I can’t help it, shennanegans, banter, and spicy scenes in wood shops just manifested and now this “sweet” romance is wavering over the line to “spicy”. Because of the parameters of the project, I will have to cut some of the more ‘intimate’ scenes. But, because I don’t want a good sex scene to got to waste, I’ll be offering those annexed chapters on my Substack. Follow me for more details on that. AND if you want to check out my idea board for Eight Nights, you can find it here: 8 Nights in Everpine
After this project is complete, I’ll be taking a little time to get my next series prepped and ready for publication. In a complete 180 of historical fiction (why can’t I find a subgenre and just stick to it? Same reason I have multiple degrees and certifications in different fields, because I don’t think life should be about doing the same thing over and over again) this will be a mythology based urban fantasy, set in the Ornkey Islands north of Scotland and south of Scandinavia. If you like demons and fairies, valkyries and björns, witches and merfolk… you’re gonna love this one. I already do.
I’m keeping up with my submissions. Currently I’m at 19. Which has resulted in 17 rejections or no responses, but here we are.
I’m also keeping up with Writing Heights’ Poetry Month Challenge, with a poem a day. Some of them are pretty good. Some of them are defiantly bad. But at the end of the 30 days at least I will have some new material and maybe even a better understanding of my soul.
Events
I had such a lovely time participating in the Fort Collins BookFest last weekend. I had a great panel on Romance with two other amazing authors (check them out here: Jenny Elder Moke and Chelsea Pennington) And the fun continues this next weekend with readings by local authors, poets, and pros in the field. Please take the time to support this wonderful event so that it can continue on for years to come. You can find the full schedule here: FoCo Book Fest.
Finally, if you’re in the area on Friday, April 24th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be at DC Oakes Brewhouse in Fort Collins, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.
Well, that’s about all I have. I’m still helping out the Wyoming Writers Inc, as a board member to put together a killer conference in Casper Wyoming in June. There are so many classes and pitches, and workshops happening in this weekend, I’m telling you it’s worth going. You will get your money’s worth and Casper is a fun little place to visit. Some great hiking trails, and a warm and welcoming community. Check it out here: Wyoming Writers Inc. Conference.
Crying out loud. That was a lot. Life’s a lot. I hope you’re taking time for yourself and your mental health. I will if you will.
I’ve been thinking a lot about pain lately. I fell, earlier this week. Hard. Like too hard for a 46 year old who already had problems with her lower back. Hard like my soul left my body for a few seconds and I had to reorient my brain to the five foot change in altitude I took within seconds. Like I immediately wondered if my dog would know to go home and get help or if she’d just cross the street to the goose-poop strewn park to get her fill of the foul treats. Like I knew my 10k race plans were blown to hell within seconds, after months of training.
I made it home. I iced my tailbone. I wrote the doctor to tell them I’d been an unusually brutal dumbass and should I be concerned. Not peeing blood and nothing was numb so… it was a wait and squirm day of trying to manage pain and try not to think too much about what this damage will feel like in the next twenty years. But being in pain, less now than yesterday has also made me think about discomfort. And how we, as humans, seem to do anything in the world we can to avoid it. We live in a culture that fears death and pain and hides from it. But it doesn’t stop us from experiencing it. It can be the loss of a loved one. It can be in the form of disappointment or rejection. It can simply be in the form of everything, in our lives and around us being subjected to inevitable change.
And my how things are changing these days, aren’t they? The advent of technology that is quickly superseding our ability to control it. Threats of nuclear and world wide warfare, on the daily. The rise and fall of our stock market, admittedly a irrational and imaginary play of numbers that dictates the cost of our continued living. Never knowing what next ridiculous, volatile, dementia-riddled thing will come out of his mouth next. Not knowing if our kid’s meningitis vaccine will be covered or trying to combine your pancreatic shadow MRI with your possible coccyx breakage scan so you won’t risk angering the insurance gods… We’re in a constant state of discomfort. And the prevailing consensus is this is not normal.
I had a lovely breakfast with one of my only favorite humans (one of maybe 7 in my life) and we could only shake our heads over greasy-spoon diner coffee at what the solution could be. What do we DO in these upheaved states of matter? What CAN we do? The answer was as nebulous and unshaped as the over-easy eggs on our plates. Where does an artist, a philosopher, an intellectual, an absurdist do when the world becomes a dark, stupid, unthoughtful, ridiculous mass of chaos? No one is listening. No one is reading. No one is thinking. That’s how we ended up here. No one was paying attention. They were face down in screens and algorithms, creating universes out of their own system-fed narcissistic tendencies to equate worth and purpose and meaning with views and likes… and the resulting discomfort begs for relief. For us to DO something.
So, what actions can we cling to, to not be lost in the madness ourselves? I could only offer the lame simplicity; we keep writing. We keep loving each other. We keep finding reasons to laugh. We keep telling our unread truths. We adopt street dogs and write bad poetry. We postulate dreams of buying a cabin in the woods and fly the bird at the world on our way out of society. But ultimately? We learn to sit in the discomfort, and rather than be embittered by it, let it make us softer. More artistic, more loving, more silly. We embrace fully the stupid human condition that is both finite and extinguishable. We embrace the mess we are. We embrace each other. Because what else can be done? The end will come, pain and discomfort will find us. We will lose the ones we love. We’ll be lost ourselves. Our words may never find pages or readers. Our thoughts might die on our aging laptops. But for now, in this breath, across this table, in this ever-present radiating pain from my backside, we’re alive. And being consciously alive, especially in pain and discomfort centers us in the beautiful now. That’s all we really have. Warts and all, the beautiful, irreplaceable now is an unprecedented cosmic accident that may never happen again.
So breathe it in. Have one more cup of coffee, and linger a little while. Be in the moment, with who you love. I can’t predict what the coming months will bring. But I do know, I have enough heart to live in all of its discomfort, and still embrace the wonder of it all.
Disappointed I can’t find an image of the scene when John Gavin shouts this line while fumbling with a live chicken and coming out of a tranquilized haze.Apparently, the internet DOES NOT have everything.
I’m not immune to the fact that this blog has tripped around in the dark a bit lately. Let’s be honest, all of us are probably tripping in the dark. We’re in unprecedented times, facing stresses and noise that we’ve never dealt with before. It’s easy, in the dissonance, to lose our path.
So for the next three to four months, the first week of the month, I’ll be getting organized and coming back to a series I ran a few years back called the Beautiful Writer’s Workshop. I’ll probably skip around a bit, everything from how to submit your work to how to organize your series. No, I’m not going to make you deconstruct your sentences into diagrams, circling your subject, double scoring your gerunds, slashing through your adverbs (or will I? Could be a fun practice in the lost art of sentence diagramming AND tortuous. I’m a girl who likes it a little rough).
For the love of all that is good and holy…
I’ll be re-blogging in line with issues I’m seeing my students face, and those I’m facing myself. For as many classes as I’ve taken on any number of writing related topics, I always seem to glean something new. Hopefully these little once-a-month writing lessons can help you too. If you have specific issue you’ve been fighting with, contact me and I’ll try to run a post about it.
That’s not to say I won’t occasionally throw in a “stop being assholes to each other” rant. I like to keep it exciting after all.
It’s been a while since we dabbled in the lighter word count and heavier hand of poetry so I thought…why not start there? Especially since this is the first week of National Poetry Month.
(Hold on to your asses, she’s about to ADULT over here!)
Poetry used to be the sole conveyer of great stories, epic tales, and the meat and potatoes of religious creed. The first believed poem, author unknown, was called The Epic of Gilgamesh. Besides this epic, there was Rig Vedas of Hinduism, and The Song of The Harper from Egypt. Centuries before we first heard a Greek throw down an ode to an urn, people were writing poems.
Poetry was borne in the heart of burgeoning cultures and empires. As we move west across the world, we have The Iliad, Beowulf, 154 shout outs to Will Shakespeare’s best girl(s) (and possibly boys?), and eventually, on to the new world with works like The Song of Hiawatha.
From these epic and structured beginnings, poetry has evolved and moved, like a river around obstacles, constant but ever-changing. One of the reasons I love poetry is its ability to capture the heartbeat of time-periods through the use of its language and form, as well as the ideas that it holds.
Poetry records history. From the simplest nursery rhymes (“Mary, Mary Quite Contrary” was actually based on Queen Mary I, aka Bloody Mary, who tortured and killed hundreds of protestants. Silver Bells and Cockle Shells aren’t perennials, they’re torture devices.) to Walt Whitman’s descriptions of the horror and decimation from America’s Civil War (“O Captain, My Captain” was written about the assassination of Lincoln just before the close of the ‘storm’ of war) poetry is a powerful conveyer of humankind’s journey through time.
Poetry connects. It’s visceral and often uncomfortable. It paints pictures with the deepest hues of language. Poetry is vital to song writing, memory retention, and a host of other deep-seated neural mechanisms humans use to survive. (the ABC song, “Thirty days hath September…”, “I before E except after C–and about a dozen other exceptions because the English language is a bastardized torture device for anyone learning it”)
So how do you write a poem?
Well, that’s the beautiful thing. We are no longer shackled to the 15 line iambic pentameter, nor are we beholden to ends that rhyme. Poetry can be written in just about any form you can conceive. You can write it, you can rap it (rap=rhythm and poetry), you can sing it, you can paint it across a street in bold letters. There are no rules but one.
Poetry should be true to your soul.
It should never be half-way. It should fling open the shutters of your close-held heart and expose it to the light. Poetry should reflect the thoughts and the feelings, the commiseration and worry, the anger and peace, the joy or the sadness that fills your head and your community. The simplicity of a world rarely observed in detail. The shadows of what lingers in the memory of scents and phrases. The ignored, buried, and burned histories of forgotten and enslaved peoples.
When I think of poetry, I think of catharsis and a means to work through big and hard emotions (a girl’s favorite kind?) I think of finding meaning and perspective, shrinking down the large imposing impossibilities to moments I can do something with. To feelings I can direct towards change. I think of telling the truth, especially when it’s hard. I think of informing the world of a voice and perspective that once was silenced.
To write a poem is to be truthful about what hurts most in that moment. And what survives through the grit of human spirit.
I’m sure you can guess this week’s exercise. Write some poetry. In any form you want. Send it to me, let me know if you want it to have a little spot here on The Beautiful Stuff, or if you rather just share it with another soul. I don’t have a preference for form or length. Just get to the darkness, poke around in there, tickle the tender underbelly of what drives your biggest emotions and tug it out into the light.
If you’re looking for a group to join and a community to support you through the month with a light-hearted challenge, check out Writing Heights Writers Association Poetry Challenge (30 prompts, 30 days, Discord server check in, and a month free membership with WHWA: email newsletter@writingheights.com for more info, it’s okay to get a late start)
The week has been a full one with meetings and interviews, all manner of busy-making to keep myself…accountable? Distracted? In a false sense of purpose? Sometimes, in eras of encroaching depression, I find that making myself go through the motions is akin to treading water in the middle of the ocean. I’m not really getting anywhere, but I’m not sinking under either. All that to say, here’s some poetry. About quietness. And how loud it really can be.
In Quiet
the world is less complicated without the obligation of you
it is simple now in droning waves of sunshine and isn't that better?
no need to perk my ears to your words
no longer worrying my lips over where yours are residing
life is simpler here it's quiet like a ragged street in a forgotten city
trash caught in dead weeds and chainlink
its quiet like burnt olive carpet in funeral homes
ghosts of lilies blooming to fade in grief it's quiet
like a room with no children and a meadow with no breeze
silent like a catacomb stale and cold communion with death
Welcome to my monthly update about what’s going on, what’s not, and how I’m navigating the current horrors. Surprise! There are a lot more horrors than last month. I’m really not sure how this current administration continually jumps the fucking shark every week, but… I guess when you lack morals and have the full use of 342 million people’s taxes, you can do some righteously awful fuckery. So here’s a couple of pictures that helped me remember that the world isn’t all ugly and it will be a lot more beautiful when we’re all gone, (crosses fingers for an asteroid). But first, the only thing more constant than the sun rising, is that if you open a cookie package within a mile of her, River will know and demand her rightful percentage.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I spent a little time in my old stomping grounds. Not my home-home, and not somewhere I think I still could live, but San Diego has always been a little part of me. Particularly OB, PB, and some of the more quieter shores. I’m a mountain girl at heart, but if I had to pick a close second, it would be the ocean. Nothing calms me quite like that sound, and the way every wave keeps coming, even if just a little different than the last. I got a few words in (3000 or so) and worked on my editing. Discovered a few new artists at the Museum of Art in Balboa Park and slept in for a couple of days.
Now back to work.
Reading:
In reading news, I started “taking a look” at another book by one of my writer friends. (He swears he’s not a writer, not really. He also swears he’s not very good at it. To both points he’s miserably wrong). One day, he was just pondering the philosophical significance of theater, and theater life and decided to just sit down and bang out 34,000 words on the topic. Then asked me to take a look, like I wasn’t already fawning over the man’s talent about a book he’s currently shopping around. Friends, I try not to be angry at an author who just gets progressively better at his craft, and he didn’t start out nearly as badly as I did. I’m not angry, it’s brilliant. Comparing the life and worries of the stage to the philosophical questions and perspectives of life, is turning out to be a damn fine book and I hope he lets the rest of the world see it.
Still working on “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. Still learning to be brave. Instead of overwhelmed. I’ve also started to dabble in “Night Vision: Seeing Ourselves Through Dark Moods” by Mariana Alessandri, because that seems really on point right about now.
I finished “Nettle and Bone” by T. Kingfisher, and it only made me want to read more by them. Also, I realized I need a genre book mixed in with all of the non-fic stuff (or not if I want to finish the non-fic stuff…hahahahah)
Writing and Editing:
I’m working through the second hard round of edits of “Heir to Time”, the last book in the Timekeeper series, after a miscommunication with my editor that made me worry it was so awful she’d trashed the whole thing and burned my contact info. Turns out, no. I still have to work on it. But it’s going better and we’re getting it cleaned up. There’s an unfortunate “surprise” in the first two books where I’ve mistyped the hero’s last name. I’m sure some readers have already noticed. I guess that’s how you know it was written by a human. This sucker won’t be out until May probably. But it will get done. If you liked “The Mummy” and Jane Austen, you’re gonna love this little book with a nod to sapphic romance and all the hours I spent obsessed over Egyptology in middle school.
I’m chugging away at 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. My little derelict of a Hallmark failure is currently sitting around 28,000 words so I’m on track to finish it on time with a few weeks of editing to spare. If you want to check out my idea board for shits and giggles, you can find it here: 8 Nights in Everpine
I had a poem accepted by Levitate, so I’m stoked about that and I was brutally rejected by two more small presses. (I say brutal, but it was more like a toe-stub)
AWP (the Association of Writers and Writing Programs) was a thing. I learned some cool stuff and met some cool people. I also met some jerks, such is the way of life. I took some cool classes on how to move your writing workshops out doors, how to use your art and your writing as protest and in defense of human rights, and how to more effectively use silence in poetry. I’m not sure if I’ll go back, but I did get some good info on some independent presses and made a few contacts with some like minded people. Next year its in Chicago. A town I love, but that was a lot of damn people and I’m not really interested in posturing. I’d rather just go for the museums, the architecture, and the food, and skip the hullabaloo. I did get to see Poe’s grave, so that part was pretty cool.
I’m super excited to be able to participate in the Fort Collins BookFest in April! Yay! This event is one of my favorite and if you’ve never been, you should go. There are several different readings, panels, book signings, and other fun literary events to satisfy the bibliophile in you. I’ll be on a panel for romance authors on April 11th. But you can find the full schedule here: FoCo Book Fest.
Finally, if you’re in the area tomorrow (Friday, March 20th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be at Grimm Brothers Brewery in Loveland, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.
Well, that’s about all I have. I’m currently helping out the Wyoming Writers Inc, as a board member to put together a killer conference in Casper Wyoming in June, but I’ll put more out about that next month. I have to save some of what little news I have so it’s actually a ‘news’ letter and not just…a letter.
Listen, I’m coming off of AWP, with notes to still type up, meetings to catch up on, emails waiting, a submission not yet done, new edits, word counts, laundry that’s been through about four dryer cycles (IYKYK) and had to come back in straight away to give a presentation on “Burnout” (*maniacal laughter*) for a lovely little local conference Founded in Fort Collins. So when I sat down to a blog post, blank screen and cursor blinking, I literally had nothing. But I do have my latest work. If you read Book One (Time to Byrne) and Book Two (Courting the Lion) then you are a beautiful human and I would thank you for a review.
Book Three takes a little turn, and a lot more adventure, bringing together both of the couples and an ancient Sapphic mystery in need of solving. Instead of the cool, green fields of Britain, our team of adventurers find themselves in 1920’s Egypt (camel milk lattes?) and the tomb of an unknown physician who started the whole bloody mess. So, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the book for this post. I’m currently in my third round of edits, with probably one more to go. I had hoped for March, but it might be more like early May.
Enjoy!
(oh! And if you read Courting the Lion, I would seriously love a review on it. If it’s not your type–i.e. Heated Rivalry but Regency and without the Hockey–pass it along to someone who might like it. It truly is a lovely story)
Heir to Time: An Excerpt
“What are you even doing here?” Matthew staggered back a few steps before coming back to stand straight in front of her. He gestured back at her. “What am I doing here? You are my wife, you disappeared! Did you not think I wouldn’t come and find you? Did you think I would just leave you to time?” “It isn’t safe for—” “We talked about this and I thought we’d agreed. This mission was too dangerous for both of us! We said that we would not go! Despite the very reasonable and rational things we discussed, and seemingly in agreement, you loved me into oblivion only to leave me the next morning.” Lillian stopped for a moment, her eyes went soft, remembering that night. Her body responded with such a force that she had to step away. “We did not agree! You had your reasons and your rationalizations and once settled in your own head, you stopped listening to me. You would not come with me, so had to do it on my own.” “And in your efforts to prove me wrong, something happened to you. You did not return!” Lillian’s face turned white. “Matthew,” she whispered. “I was imprisoned for your death, Lillian.” “But that’s impossible—” “I wish it were. I spent a month in a cell. All the while knowing that you were probably dead. Or lost to time,” he paused to frown. “Or that you simply did not want to come back to me.” She threw her hands up into her hair in frustration. “Why would you even say such a thing. Of course I want to be with you.” “Then why did you leave?” Lillian turned silent. She had left to find adventure. To prove herself. To flaunt her independence in the face of Matthew’s desire to settle down. “I,” she stuttered. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do.” Matthew stalked closer to her. “Did you not think for one moment what leaving would mean to me, to all of us who care for you? When Richard discovered the altered history, that I was accused of your murder and hanged for the crime, he and Thomas used a map to come and rescue me.” “Matthew, I’m sorry,” she paused but he continued on. “Did you not think what you leaving would do to my heart?” Matthew said, his voice breaking. Lillian’s lips trembled and she looked at him with wide eyes. “I did not know! How could I have known?” “Do you think I care for living at all without you? Do you think I would not follow you to the ends of the earth, or to the ends of time? I love you. You are my wife and I will always come for you.” Lillian crossed the distance between them quickly and silenced Matthew with a kiss. Hard and biting, she knocked him back two steps and pressed her body into his. He returned the kiss just as hungrily, forcing her back and up against the wall, where he held her against his hard and straining muscles. She gasped into his lips, her whole body burning to feel his touch. “Lily, my angel,” he whispered against her cheek, caressing her curves with hungry and needy hands. The taste of him, his warm breath, the delicious pressure of his fingers against her back, her waist, her bottom, drove her mad with the desire to have every inch of him touching every inch of her. His hot, wet tongue delved into her mouth and she moaned, her breasts heaving against the strong beat of his heart. Lillian’s hands ran up Matthew’s chest and she brought them around his neck even as he lifted her into his arms and her legs spread wide to wrap around his waist. The pressure of him between her legs caused a delicious shiver to run up her spine. “I missed you,” she cried against his lips as he broke away and bit and licked his way down her neck, causing her body to pulse in waves, closer to his. He paused in their fervent play and shook his head against her collarbone, as if he still had a weight on his mind. “What is it?” “You did not find solace in Alistair’s arms?” Matthew asked lowly. At the mere thought of Alistair, her whole body stiffened and she pushed herself away from him. She landed on her feet and shoved him backwards. Matthew backed away with his hands up, lips red and breath panting. “Lillian, I only—” “Did you find solace in Amelie’s bed? She implied that you were her boyfriend, and that you were smitten with her. That you were having discussions about your deceased wife in her bedroom. You told her I was dead!” “She made the inference herself and I did no such thing. It was in her apartment with Natalie as chaperone.” “Natalie?” “Richard and Thomas’s daughter.” “The little girl. In the car?” she said, breathless, and her heart softened. “She’s their daughter?” She had not had time in their hasty retreat to even ask, or meet the girl. The wild ride back to their hotel had not allowed time for introductions. “She is. And she is incredible, but that’s not what I want to talk about.” Matthew said. “We must work through this. I cannot spend another night without my wife.” Lillian narrowed her gaze. “Fine, spill it then.” Matthew took a big breath. “Amelie plucked us out of a market while I was babysitting her so her fathers could… have some intimate time.” “Matthew Blackwell, doctor turned au pair,” Lillian smiled. Matthew scowled. “In any case, Amelie had said that she knew Alistair and even hinted that you might be with him. So, I agreed to dinner at the Golden Dial with her to get more information and hopefully see you. Which I did. I did see you. When you kissed Alistair!” “He kissed me! I was upset and worried and thought I was going mad with missing you because I thought I’d seen you in the arms of that cheeky little harlot. I was confused and he pulled me in before I knew what he was doing. You mean to tell me you did not kiss her?” Matthew swallowed and backed away. “There can be no lies between us. I am afraid I did indeed use Miss Sheldon to get closer to you. We were at a loss and I needed any information I could get concerning you. She kissed me, yes, under quite some duress on my part. She said it was payment for getting us into The Golden Dial.” “Under some duress? What does that even—” “It was not as though I was staying in her hotel room!” “I’ve been sleeping in a maid’s closet! Every night since we parted, amongst the rats and the dirty laundry! Thinking of nothing but getting back to you. Doing nothing but missing you!” Her eyes filled with tears and she rushed past him into the bedroom and slammed the door. Matthew watched with his heart breaking and wondering how they would ever survive this mess. Richard and Thomas came through the door of the suite. Thomas poured both himself and his daughter water from the pitcher and took Natalie out to the patio to watch the procession of merchants packing up their wares below. When they were outside, Richard stared at Matthew who was breathing heavily and staring at the closed door. “We both heard the last of that. You idiot,” Richard said. “Yes, quite.” “Well?” “What am I supposed to do? She left me, to find adventure.” “Upon the faulty assumption that she would be back before you even noticed.” “But I was right! It was too dangerous, something did happen to her, and she should at least admit to that!” “What did the Timekeeper promise you two, exactly?” Richard asked. Matthew paused as his brain went through the verbal contract of their ‘supposed’ last assignment. “That we would be able to choose the time we lived in. And,” he swallowed and stopped. Richard lowered his gaze. “And?” “That we would be safe. That you and Thomas would be safe to live your lives as you pleased. With no further intervention from the Timekeepers. She promised that…that they would find her father and return him safely to her.” “So she saw a future for all of the people she loved, safe and happy?” Matthew was quiet at first. “Yes.” “And you are angry that she wanted to risk that? For you? For her own father who risked so much to keep her from dying? For Thomas and I, and our child? You are angry that she would secure a future for all of us?” he motioned out the door to the laughing girl and his beloved husband. Matthew’s face blanched. “I—” “I’ve only known Lillian for a short while,” Richard’s voice was thick with emotion. “But I have loved her in every moment. She is bumbling and often crass. She is misguided, yes, at times. But when she came to me, crying in the library of Oxford, so heartbroken over losing you, she made me, a hardened and cynical lion, believe that a love strong enough to survive any fire could exist. She would not give up. She would not give in. She threw herself into the ether, risking death, just to find you again. And she was right,” Richard wiped a tear away and looked back to his beloved Thomas. “Love is all there really is.” Natalie’s laughter filled the space of their rooms and the distant sound of Lillian, still sobbing in the bedroom, filtered in. “What do I do?” Matthew said, his voice cracking with emotion. “What indeed?” Richard scowled. “Surely nothing out here in the hall will help.” Matthew took a deep breath in. There was nothing he loved more in this world than Lillian. They had been through the worst of things. Danger, forced parting, murder, fire and unfair propriety. She had stayed by his side, protected him and kept him safe. She had done it all for him. For the people she loved. He had only selfishly thought what his life would be without her. If he had gone with her, if he had only agreed to do this together, they would not be suffering so. What would her beautiful heart be, if not filled and committed to the ones she loved? It was all his fault. He let out the breath and stepped quietly into the bedroom. She had not locked it. He hoped that meant she wanted him to follow her. He closed it quietly and locked the door behind him.
Well, there you have it. The novel that has been a bit of a Moby Dick to my Ishmel. Really though. If I survive this one, I may just call myself a writer. Stay tuned, next week, for my ever-popular, always appreciate (she said, rolling her eyes) newsletter.
Yep. I said that. But in my defense…I don’t have a defense. I’m childish and immature. Please don’t go around “flashing people”. It’s not fun for anyone involved and you don’t make a good profit. In fact I hear bail is not cheap.
When I say “Flashing” I’m talking about our next topic of discussion which is, of course, Flash Fiction.
If you like the brevity of poetry and quick, hard words that nail emotion to the theoretical wall with brute force, you’ll probably enjoy practicing flash fiction.
Let’s get started with a little introduction.
Ahem, Flash Fiction, these are my beautiful writers *gestures wildly out into the far reaches of the internet* They’re kind, amazing, and talented.
Writers this is Flash Fiction.
Flash fiction sprung up in the 1990s and has become a formidable form of storytelling that appeals to newer generations with ever-shortening attention spans and busy lives. Flash Fiction condenses a tapestry of story into a few short sentences/words/paragraphs. It also serves as a method to condense big ideas into concise writing, especially in terms of reporting (flash non-fiction?) and conveying information.
Ugh, that was dry. Talk about an awkward introduction.
Here are the basics. Flash Fiction is a form of short story that relies on brevity. Specifically, a word count between 5 and 1,00. If you’re wondering how you can tell a story in under in under 1,000 words, or even in under ten, allow me to give you one of the most famous examples:
“For sale, baby shoes, never worn.”
This very simple sentence/story has two commas, one period and a myriad of images that can affect the reader.
Flash Fiction is further divided into micro-fiction, sudden fiction (Wham! Suddenly there was Fiction! Out of nowhere and sudden!), postcard fiction, short story, and the short short story. Believe it or not, there are even sub-categories called drabble which refers to stories that come in at 100 words and dribble that come in at 50 words.
Why Flash Fiction, Sarah?
Well, I’m glad you asked. And…if you didn’t know, that’s what the S in S.E. stands for. The E stands for Enigmatic. Or maybe Exciting. Earnest. Edward. Eggo-(not to be confused with Ego). Who knows? Only my mom and she’d never tell because she’s as loyal as the day is long.
Back on point:
The advantages of Flash Fiction are as follows:
Several websites, literary journals, anthology collections, and magazines are interested in these bite sizes of life.
They are relatively quick to write from an artist’s perspective, which makes them more versatile and easier to explore different genres with.
I personally find flash fiction refreshing to write. For one, when you’re embroiled in a 120,000-word novel, bogged down in outlines and character sheets, plagued with plot holes and tense issues (aren’t all issues a little tense?), it feels pretty damn good to step out with a 250-word taster of a completely unrelated character’s flash-in-the-pan dilemma.
Don’t misread. Flash Fiction may have fewer words, but it doesn’t mean that it’s ‘easy’. (She’s fast but she ain’t cheap). Writing more with less is difficult, especially if you’re accustomed to novel length work.
So, to start this little experiment, I’m going to make your first time (or maybe I’m not your first…it’s completely okay, I’m not judging what relationships you had before me) nice and gentle.
Take a current work in progress, a novel you’ve published, a poem you’ve written, and write a flash piece based on the characters or subject in a strange and new situation. Or, maybe six months after the novel ended. Or six months before. Show them in the parking lot with a new baby, or thrown into jail at sixteen, or sunk unexpectedly into the third World War (too close for comfort?)
Then…and this is the trick; don’t go on and on.
Think snap shot, not photo album.
One picture will tell us a lot about a person, without needing to see the whole photo album. (have you ever had to sit through someone else’s photo album? No, Sarah, because we’re not three-hundred years old, we have Instagram like normal people…what century are you from?)
Flash fiction is a novel if a novel were poetry. Condensed, potent, memorable.
For sale, baby shoes, never used.
Here’s a little flash piece (a drabble to boot) I submitted that won honorable mention, if you’re looking for an example.
She hadn’t meant to set it on fire, exactly. But now that the heat burgeoned from its windows, charring the leather seats and crackling up through the retrofitted steering wheel, she was glad for the warmth.
It was a shame he’d never get to see the way the flames jumped and swayed in the clear night turning cloudy. It was a shame he’d left it unlocked, parked outside the strip club. A shame he’d said he was at a meeting. What. A. Beautiful. Shame.
She pirouetted against the star-filled sky, and danced along the edges of erupting metal and smoke.
Try it out, have fun, and let me know how it goes. Share or don’t. I look forward to hearing how it goes!
I was trying to think up a topic today, within the sphere of writing, that might be new and interesting. It was then that I realized I like to fall back on my favorites. Character writing, dynamics of character interactions, emotion on the page, building tension. Or perhaps turn the microscope on myself and talk about burn out and creativity, progress without production, heart without hustle. But I feel a little bored with those topics and if you read my blog enough, you’ve probably read more than you wanted to.
So what do you write about when you’re toolkit feels a little… empty?
Well, maybe just that. I’ve long been at war with myself over the worthiness of a higher degree in the Literary Arts. Let me preface by saying in no uncertain terms: Every Degree You Get is Meaningful. Education is never a waste. And time spent learning and perfecting your art and voice and style is a worthy pursuit. But I have to add, that economically speaking, it doesn’t always give you an advantage. And…if you are at an economic disadvantage due to student loans, it can be harder to pursue a writing career.
So, what does a financially unstable writer do, when faced with the knowledge that she could certainly use a little more education and a freshening up of her skillset? Well, honestly, I could just rest on my laurels. I’ve published books and had work in different literary magazines. I’ve won some awards. I could argue I know enough.
But that would be short sighted and frankly pretty fucking egotistical. I don’t know everything. I could know more. I could experiment more. I could find a new mountain to climb, and shouldn’t we all? After all, what are we doing with this life if not learning? So, I’ll be looking for some affordable alternatives and, for any other writer who might be, like me, looking for a new challenge in their skills department, share some interesting options from down below.
Research new or unknown forms of poetry. This is my new favorite. I’m working on pantoums and cinquinta, and all kinds of weird little funness
Try an online course like MasterClass or a YouTube channel: Currently I’m taking Aaron Sorkin’s Screenwriting, and Roxanne Gay’s Writing for Social Change
Take a class or invest in a book, outside of your genre: I’m currently reading both a Screenplay book, and one called “Howdunit” all about how crimes are committed and solved.
Consider switching over to Fiction or Non-Fiction: whichever you don’t normally do
Attend a conference or workshop in your area: Despite the recent hubbub, (and it’s not in my area) I will be attending AWP with the hopes of taking some classes that can broaden both my poetic skill and my writing organization’s offerings.
Well, I hope those ideas have given you a little goose to the behind to get started on reclaiming your lifelong love of learning (or inspiring one if you lacked it).
Welcome to my monthly update about what’s going on, what’s not, and how I’m navigating the current horrors. First, look at my damn cat. Every damn day, this is what I put up with. If she’s not yelling at me to let her on my shoulders, she’s taking up space on whatever project I’m trying to work on. Pray for me.
Random Shit:
In, non-writing related news, I spent the weekend going outside more for the Great Backyard Bird Count. I think in times which are particularly trying to one’s heart and soul, it’s important to spend more time in nature. Away from the screens, and ground ourselves in something that’s real. It’s a strange sort of joy to sit still in a field, stand next to a marsh, breath quietly beneath the canopy of evergreens and just listen. Not for the loudest, most painful rhetoric, but the simple song of birds in conversation with one another. It resets our nervous system and tells our lizard brain that we are safe. A predator-less moment is much welcome.
Reading:
In reading news, here’s what I’m currently working on. My book club is reading “The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell”. I put it down somewhere around 20%. Why? Well, I don’t know. But I think it’s because I’m really not interested in reading something from the white male perspective right now. Because within a couple of chapters between his youth and adulthood, he both vilified men who were making derogatory comments about his mother’s body, and made similar comments about an assistant in his office. I don’t think I used to notice those things. But they’re glaring now. And I’ve already spent over half of my life being bombarded by this particular viewpoint and I’m bored with it.
So I put it down in favor of: “How We Learn to Be Brave” by Mariann Edgar Budde. While I was raised in a Christian faith, I no longer practice, and I have some deep and justified rifts with the church. However, this book is written by the Episcopalian Bishop who spoke out against Trump’s horrific public policy. It’s a pretty engaging book about how various people throughout our country’s history have been on the precipice of great and difficult choices and chose to be brave, stand for what they believed was right, and up against tyrannical forces. Budde includes examples of her own life and how we, as ordinary individuals can utilize our own inner strength to act when it counts. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I’m also lightly reading “Nettle and Bone” by T. Kingfisher. I’m only about a chapter and a half in, but I like it so far. Beautiful fantasy, and it’s fun to get back into a genre I haven’t read in a while.
Writing and Editing:
I finished up my first deep-dive edits of “Heir to Time”, the last book in the Timekeeper series, and sent them off to my astounding editor. I’ll still have a couple more rounds to go, but I feel like the major issues have been addressed and with any luck, it’ll be ready to go on to cover and publishing in March sometime. I’ll keep you posted and next week I’ll include a blurb. If you liked “The Mummy” and Jane Austen, you’re gonna love this little book with a nod to sapphic romance and all the hours I spent obsessed over Egyptology in middle school.
I’m also participating in 5 Prince Publishing’s first shared-town anthology due out in the 2026 holiday season. 9 authors, of the several, from 5 Prince will all submit a short novella (30-50000 words) based in the same small town over the holidays. It should be an interesting group, from across a wide spectrum. Mine will be, as usual, a little subversive, and a little dark, but it will be a beautiful nod to finding the light on the darkest days, and having someone to share it all with.
I’m participating in a “Postcards for Peace” project where I write a thought, hope or poem on peace and send one out a day to a stranger who has signed up. That’s going well and it’s nice to get some good thoughts in the mail for once.
I recently got a short story accepted at a small press (Rat Bag Lit). It’s a bit horrific and dark, but also strangely romantic. More on that as it gets closer.
Before you think I’m too high up on my horse, also know that I’ve received 4 glorious rejections so far this year as well. Well on my way to the 52 for the year I’m aiming for.
I’ll be attending AWP in March and I’ve never been to a conference this big for any reason. The Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual meeting is chocked full of classes, not just on craft but on how to teach and encourage other writers and inspire your community through your organization. I’m hopeful it will help me be a better organizer and community resource for Writing Heights and the expansive group of writers in the Colorado and Wyoming areas.
Finally, if you’re in the area tomorrow (Friday, February 20th) from 5-7pm, I’ll be a the Loveland Ale Works, hosting a write in with some folks from WHWA. You don’t have to be a member to stop on by and work on your writing, poetry, or anything that needs a little focused time.
Well, that’s about all the news that’s fit to print. I wish you luck on your projects this week, even if all that means is getting out of bed and brushing your teeth. Even the little stuff matters in a world overrun with big stuff.
I’ve been writing a lot of rage poetry and journal entries lately. It’s a method of processing, a safe space where my feelings won’t be chastised or be cautioned to calm down. To be told, with shrugs, that this is just the way it is. To be hounded with others’ convictions that I’m being the irrational one (or worse, the powerlessness, of ‘nothing can be done’). No wonder women go mad. No wonder we quit our jobs and our relationships in droves. I think someday we’ll all probably wander of the grid and go feral. I hope that someday our leaving destroys the grid completely. I hope ‘feral’ is a return to what we were always supposed to be. In ownership of our own bodies, part of an egalitarian community, taking care of the Earth that sustains us, protecting one another. I hope for this.
Today’s poem is part of a project I’m working on, tracing philosophically through the roots of my own rage, and the collective anger of my generation of women. Raised to believe we could be equal from a generation that was slowly learning it themselves. As such, this poem is an exploration and an ode to one of the most influential albums (and songs) of my teenage years. And to the seeds that she planted in my soul, that have found a fearsome bloom in current times.
The Jagged Little Pill (I can No Longer Swallow) (lyrical exploration of "All I Really Want" by Alanis Morissette)
All I really want is deliverance
from the maddening hold of the lesser sex’s self inflation
Do I stress you out?
to remind you that you came from a womb and still she chose to keep you even after all the repulsions she knew you would own and call power?
I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land
when faced with pedophilic horrors and the butchering of innocence as if it were any other expendable resource men rape the land, why not us too? why not our daughters? our sons? we are fresh streams and teeming oceans gold mines and diamond fields all for the taking all for the discarding
Reel them in and spit them out
calm down there is nothing to be done let the broader shoulders shrug to end the matter
I am frustrated by your apathy
while you drink your martini and cast sunshine, between sips, that at least the stock market is finally up and I sit still, as prey praying in bushes might, cheap wine I feel guilty for and watch blood run in the gutters and remember my own, horrible 8-year-old truths while the news blares of babies being eaten or burned or buried by the ninth hole water hazard and sand trap thank fucking god the stock market is okay
the sound of pretenses falling
is louder to me but you were never listening anyway, were you? just for the sound of panties dropping be a good little girl for daddy sit on my lap and reassure me, I’m still a ‘nice guy’ right?
No.
I won't speak these lies any longer my lips have been sewn shut needles in and out the thread of anger trapping unsettled bees in my throat and handcuffed wrists bleeding as I fight against the radiator of the American Dream
why are you so petrified of silence?
does it make you hear the echoes of your own dissonance? A good man who still sometimes objectifies his high school students and calls it ‘American Beauty’
And all I really want is some peace a place to find a common ground
but we aren’t standing on even ground never was there equal footing from the day I spilled out of my mother my knees have been broken by the bat of masculine ‘protection’ my voice scalded with the shame this system gave me for a body that nature knew and named as more divine
Trust me, I’m going somewhere with this. It will all come together when I explain that the topic of today’s blog is about trends, “expert advice” and why writing (and often parenting and absolutely eggs) should be taken with an entire salt-shaker on the side.
What on earth could these three things have in common, you might ask. Well, when we look at a generational trend (ie 20 year increments) we see the advice, recommendations, and expectations of these three things swing from one end of the spectrum to another. Each time we have gotten used to one way of doing things, or our delicious morning egg and toast, or compassionate parenting, and then some talking head pops onto the screen (or a writing guru pens a blog) and tells us to scrap what we know and start doing it the opposite.
I have watched the constant wave of good vs bad hit eggs about three different times in my life. They’re bad, they’ll raise your cholesterol. They’re good, maybe nature’s perfect balance of protein, fat, and nutrients. You shouldn’t have more than 7 a week. They’re the power-move for non-meat eating humans.
Listen, my grandpa, who had his faculties and his strength into his eighties, typically had two to three eggs a day. Now, granted, he was a rancher and spent a lot of time outside and physically working, so I’m not saying that his lifestyle didn’t contribute to the balance of how many oves he was ingesting, but it worked for him beautifully. I love eggs. I don’t eat pork and not even beef if I can help it, so eggs are one of my favorite ways to keep a balance in my breakfasts. Do I have six a day? No. Would I? Maybe, if you let me.
In the wide and dumb world of parenting advice every idiot who ever sat in a room with a child, (or studied them in books) will freely give you advice on the best way to raise the most: compassionate, successful, independent, co-dependant, non-attached, attached, rocket scientist, artistic savant. Depending on what the latest fad is. None of them have had to sit in the middle of a minefield of legos for eight hours and continually be responsible for not only the little tike’s safety and life, but also making up story upon story to keep their brains busy all while bribing them with M&M’s to use the potty. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, someone will come along with a different bit of advice and assure you that you have, unfortunately up until now, been doing it all wrong. *sigh*
What’s the writerly point of this longer-than-necessary intro? Oddly, let’s apply it all to dialogue tags.
When I was first learning to write in the 8th grade, I was taught that constantly using ‘said’ all the time was boring and it was also a bit of a waste. A more descriptive tag would help the reader to picture how something was said or the mood of your character. So… I seasoned the shit out of those early novellas. People sighed, and bit, and growled. They laughed, and smirked, and carried adverbs along with them, gently and fervently. Then, as I was finishing up my first novel and had a few editors look at it, I thought they would need a fainting couch. What was I doing using all of these descriptive tags? They were cumbersome and distracting. And perhaps the hardest bit of advice, of all was that it was lazy writing. That if I were a better writer, the reader would know automatically how each line was delivered by the magic of…creating a character so known and predictable in a situation so well understood? I do get the idea. I understand what they were saying. I worked hard to take out the flourish in my tags and be more visceral in my narration. But it felt clunky and I found that my first drafts were always a mix of both ‘said’ and something more fun. Because that’s how my voice sounds in my head. And I liked writing that way better.
Fast forward and I’m pursuing a writing article last week, when I nearly had to stop and find a fainting couch (I must be feeling dramatic today) because *gasp* the all-powerful ‘they’ of the writing industry (trends) have decided that a little spice of interested dialogue tags might help break up the monotonous lines of ‘said’ and bring a little more color to your characters. For the love of all that’s holy.
What’s next? Are we’re not giving out participation trophies to our kids anymore to boost their self confidence? That we need to let them fail so they can learn? (for the record, that was always my stance, along with my two eggs a day breakfast.)
The point I’m trying to make is that in all things, you know yourself best. I like to believe you’ve had a healthy dose of introspection (hopefully some therapy and a few writing classes) and have learned as a parent and a writer, where your faults lie and how you like to move in your creative and parental endeavors. That not every book, article, poem, breakfast, or child is the same, in any given moment, and that learning to trust that you’ll do the best you can with what you have, and honor your own ‘style’ in the process is the better route than following a trend. That you can enjoy a moderation of eggs regardless of what the latest health article is decrying currently.
So–I will keep my fancy dialogue tags, thank you very much, when they serve the scene and the character. But I promise not to use them at the end of every line being delivered (just like I won’t, probably suck down six eggs a day). I’ll constantly work towards the balance of support and love, while stepping far enough away to let my kids struggle, fall, and get back up. And I’ll keep my two soft-boiled eggs and toast breakfast as a loving nod to my grandfather and the nourishment that sustains.
I’ve been reading a lot of writing and life advice for the past few years (few, meaning 18 years?) As we’re approaching February and another Writing Heights Writing Challenge, I feel a little edgy in my gut. Knowing there’s an accountability is part of it. Knowing that a lot of the writers I follow have been recently talking about their writing habits and writing every day. Knowing that the last two to three years I’ve been in an editing whirlpool (stacks of books written that are now under contract means back-to-back edits and very little new content.) And I think the edginess is resting somewhere in the knowledge, that I haven’t written anything new lately.
Okay, back up a tick. Yes, I finished the last novel for the Timekeeper Series in October. But that book was bit of a possessed demon to both my process and my love of writing. I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, it did not feel like the beautiful, flowing, creative river that writing often is for me. It was more like I had to manufacture a kayak run by diverting a real river into a human-made one. Anyway, what was my point? Ah yes, I haven’t written anything lately.
I could just as easily use the February challenge to work on edits and it would count. I could even more easily, not participate at all. But I’m starting to feel (admittedly with the unneeded pressure of listening to other writers’ processes) like I’m not much of a writer anymore. I have a hard time nowadays, sitting down and just writing. And it kind of breaks my heart because I always feared that this might happen. That I’d get to a point when I was out of ideas for story. When I had no one left I wanted to follow in their journey. That I would be resigned to teaching instead of doing and reliving glory days behind book jackets of years-ago published work.
But maybe it’s not that I lack story. Maybe there are still characters still locked away in there. And maybe I’ve just thrown curtains over them in my constant state of editing. Maybe what my writing really needs, is a challenge to sit down and recommit to it again. So…I’m looking ahead and spending some quiet time to myself, to think about what a good, but not overwhelming challenge might bring me back to the essential core of who I am as a writer. How can I be present again with the creative process?
It will need time. It will require me to let go of some other things that have siphoned off minutes and hours in my day. It will need consistency, and the letting go of perfectionism. It will need a dash of whimsy and a whole shake of bravery. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll let you know who I find beneath the curtain. And if my edits take a little longer. If my house is a little dustier. If the email responses lag and I don’t make every meeting…perhaps that is a better thing for my overall existence. I’ll even schedule some write-ins through Discord, at some local coffee shops and the occasional brewery. Keep an eye on my social for when and where.
If you want to be a part of my bumbling reset, it’s free to join the challenge. I’d love to meet you there. We can figure this thing out (once more, again) together.
I rarely post them. I, honestly, rarely read them unless they’re really entertaining. I know that as an author I’m supposed to tell everyone about my books, and what I’m working on, and where they can find me, and what great and wonderful things are happening in my life. It’s to froth up my base or some such nonsense. Provide a giveaway or prize to feed into the corporate machine?
The truth is, I’ve just never been a newsletter kind of person. One, I don’t have a lot to say about my books until I’m nearly done or have just finished them, at any other stage I’m too busy writing them to talk about them.
Two, I don’t want to be found. Seriously, I like my solitude and my peace. I would happily hermit for the rest of my days. I do occasionally crawl out of my little cavernous hole, hiss at the sunlight, put on pants and grunt my thanks to book buyers as I sign their copies. And I am grateful for those that come and support me. It means a lot. But as my schedule is still pretty mom and business heavy, I don’t occasion out much. And honestly, the selling of books was never the reason I began writing in the first place. Here’s a little secret, any one of you could write me and ask for a book and I’d probably just send it to you, free. No exchange of money. We all need stories. You can have mine.
Three…I’ve always had mixed feelings about telling others about the great and wonderful. I’m not sure how interested anyone would really be in my life, and I understand that there is so much ‘great and wonderful’ on social that it can often feel false. Truth be told, I often feel guilty when there is great and wonderful. Because even when you work hard, so much of that is dumb luck. Or systemic advantage. So I prefer to not say much, because I understand the sting. I also understand that nobody wants to hear about the doldrums of my actual life. Unless it inspires them by making them feel not so alone in their hermitage, general dislike of capitalism, and hatred of not-pajamas. I feel like anyone who follows my weekly blog, probably knows enough about me. Probably more than they wanted to.
But…this year, I’m going to be doing a few new things. Like hosting write-ins for Writing Heights Writers Association regularly, and supporting local businesses with poetry readings, supporting other local authors and events, and looking into good causes for our community to collaborate on. I’m going to be making myself get out more in an effort to balance the horrors on this new scale our country is holding. Because as much as I hate pants, as much as I hate noise, and parking, and crowded rooms…I hate fascism more. I hate people being censored, abused, wrongfully imprisoned, and killed more. I hate to see the arts and artist organizations fold and crater. And if my existence in the outside world makes a difference, then I will put on pants and make that difference.
So, every third week of my blog will be my Newsletter. I will try to promote my site and get a few more people to sign up. Not to sell books, not to make a name for myself or garner more ‘follows’ (imagine loving solitude and still being told you need more followers—gag me with a spoon) but to make friends. Because one of the best ways to build community is to create friendships, to find common ground, to make the fight personal. The more we know one another, the more we protect each other. And we all need protecting right about now.
I promise it will be short. I promise it will be honest. I promise it will attempt to be funny. I promise it will have at least one thing in it that should make your day better. That’s all I can promise. Technically, this is my first one, and you’ve just now read what I intend to do.
If you need more details, I’ll be hosting a write-in, in February (I’ll post date and time on social), and my writing group is organizing at writing challenge next month (February). You don’t have to be a member to participate but you can win some membership benefits for participating (message me and I’ll get you those details). I’m teaching a class in February called “Your Novel in A Year” and I’ll be giving you all the good tricks and tips to finish that book, and next steps. You can register for that here: Your Novel. I’m currently working through massive edits on a terrible novel that I hope will not be so terrible once I finish. I am also up to 5 submissions and 2 rejections for the year. Uh, what else? I’m on the board for Wyoming Writers and registration for their June conference (4th-7th) is now open: Wyoming Writers Conference 2026 I’ll be there, selling books and directing traffic and whatever else they need me to do. In May I’ll be giving a fun little talk in Saratoga, Wyoming about writing romance, and I’ll have more details on that later. I think that’s it. See, imagine that paragraph as my entire post, and you have my newsletter (plus or minus a few pictures of my cats). Thanks for sticking with me.
I’d tell you to like and follow…but, well you know.
Why do they look like they’re being directed by a Glamor Shots photographer?
A bit more Hallow’s Eve than New Year’s Eve…but this came from a poetry challenge a few years ago and I thought it was interesting.
Corvidae
Black oiled beauty needle claws to grip solid to my eye sockets no longer needed by me
I'd rather be your throne
and you can be my new eyes and continue on in this dark world light glinting and soul exposed in the off feather sheen and firelight behind your beaded eyes
ever higher, above the madness that ended me you will be my wings and I will be your resting stone your peaceful, calcified nest of respite
you will be my freedom from the fog of earth the stains of so many moments now rested in the dry and brittle grass
we are a pair dark wanderer above the grief of an impermanent world together in easy camaraderie until your bones rest atop mine
the world will go on, in wreck and ruin growing up through our silent jawed beaks until we are stones in the grass nothing and everything more
Nobody likes being rejected. Yet one of the fundamental truths of life is that we will not be accepted by everyone, every time, and that includes our work. Admittedly, throughout nearly two decades of being a writer, I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been accepted. In recent years I’ve put aside submitting to pursue work with my publisher in the craft of novel writing, but I’ve come to realize that it’s stunted my growth as a writer.
The years I spent submitting weekly (mostly in an effort to gain experience and get some publication credits, as well as harden my tender, little writer heart against rejection) were the years when my writing grew the most. Submitting to whatever contests and journals I could meant I was always pushing outside of my comfort zone. Feminist horror? Sure, why not? SciFi Flash fiction? I can do that. Memoir? Creative nonfiction? Humor? Let’s try it out. Whatever was calling for a submission, I would fumble my way through it, and that led me to explore genres and forms I might not have otherwise attempted. I learned I do have a little dark streak that likes to come out and play.
I learned that a thread of justice and the unsettled walking of moral lines often shadowed my flash fiction. I wrote poetry about lawnmowers and tricycles. I threw paint at the wall in so many colors that my writing house became a mural of unexplored and emerging thought. All of it wouldn’t have happened if I had focused on a ‘rejection’ goal instead of an ‘acceptance’ goal.
Now, in a certain stage of stagnation, I’m returning again to a rejection goal for 2026. Not so lofty as 100 this year (I do have important things at home to still attend to and novels coming out) I am just aiming to submit once a week and garner 50 rejections in the year. I’m looking into playwriting contests, and speculative fiction, memoir and essay. I’ll probably revisit my favorite literary magazines and quirky publication to see what they’re up to. All of it, a practice that I hope you try too. A practice in being brave, in being curious, and in being untethered to the ideas of publication as success.
What can you learn about yourself as a writer? Not just what genres you might unknowingly enjoy, but also in sticking to a schedule, brushing up your cover letters, and learning how to concisely formulate a story (or poem) that feels like your voice and your soul. Knowing that you’ll be rejected. Knowing that not everything (maybe even none of it) will be published or given a place in the public sphere, can you reorganize you brain around the idea that it is the practice itself that’s the prize to be won?
That’s the goal for me. To rediscover the boundlessness of my creativity. To get uncomfortable. To learn things about myself and what the world looks like through my words. I hope you can find something similar that challenges you, humbles you, and eventually strengthens your love of writing.
“Like the lotus flower that is born out of mud, we must honor the darkest parts of ourselves and the most painful of our life’s experiences, because they are what allow us to birth our most beautiful self.”
– Debbie Ford
If we are to know growth, compassion, and peace, we must first understand and embrace suffering. It is only through accepting and living with burdens, sorrows, and disappointments, that we can let go expectations and learn to live in the skin and environment we’re in. The mud. The muck. The lessons and trials that come to us all. They teach us about patience, about failure, about acceptance and resilience. They teach us about our pain, and through it, others’ pain. And when we feel this suffering, we can better understand the suffering of others.
This is a New Year, and last year put me through some of the deepest, darkest, muddiest waters I’ve ever had to traverse. It gave me months of anxiety and pressure. Worry and loss of time and opportunity. It, in some ways, took both of my daughters away from me. But in other ways, it taught me how to keep them close even in the darkest of storms. It taught me who to trust, and who I could love better at a distance. It taught me that my heart is tender and that it should be. That it has been one of my biggest faults, in the past, to harden it every time it was broken. It taught me that a compassionate heart knowingly takes in pain, and breathes out hope.
So with all of the muck and mud I have sat in, the darkness that has surrounded me, I am in so many ways, seeing the first rays of sunlight bouncing on the surface above me. I am feeling my petals arching towards it, strengthened and supported by the loam of life that has taught me that all things along my journey have mattered, have fed me, have taught me…have shown me, just how beautiful and unpredictable and precious this life really is.
What are my plans in this dawning new year? Well, first I’ll happily tell you that I have no expectations. Because holding expectations is a sure-fire way to get the universe to prove them wrong. So I’ll just say this. I’m going to be kind. To myself and to others. I’m going to be conscious. Where I spend my time and my energy. What I allow into my life, and what I close the door on. I am going to be honest. About what I want, and what no longer serves me. I’m going to be quiet and listen more. I’m going to go outside more. I’m going to be alone more. I’m going to write more and email less.
I’m going to look for ways to hand over the obligations I took on out of ego, to someone who can carry them instead, with heart. I’m going to let go the trappings of the ‘hustle’ and embrace the comfort of the ‘nestle’ instead.
This last year was hard on my heart, my body, and my soul. So this year, in as much as I can and the universe allows, I will be softer to myself. I will remember my roots, and what has built them. And I will reach, always, and upward, towards the light.
On this day you shouldn’t be checking your email. I hope, instead, you are watching holiday movies, and still in your pajamas, and drinking coffee, and finding joy, and calling your loved ones, and eating one more cinnamon roll, and picking up pieces of taped wrapping paper, stuck to the floor, and feeling…feeling…feeling, the light and warmth of the season. Feeling that you can finally settle down. Feeling that this is the day to rest and think about nothing in particular. I’m here with you.
On this day you might also be mourning, and seeped in a kind of loneliness that feel worse than on any other day. You may be trying to keep hurtful memories at bay, or separated and far from the people you love. You loved. Maybe this day you are begging for it to be swift and end quickly, because you cannot bear to be told to carry joy when pain is taking up all the space inside your chest. I’m here with you too.
And so, here’s a little poem, nothing your brain needs to work too hard at. Nothing as important as honoring where you are at, and being gentle to whatever is filling your heart. I am here with you.
Flight
a fallen feather is a piece of grounded soul aimless without a body to lift a reminder of once great heights no longer attainable
she is a sign from the gods that even the most perfect designs lose elemental fragments along the bumpy ride and every fragment shed is an updraft not caught
still, I think they’re pretty and I tuck them into books and pin them to walls and read in them messages in the timing of their arrival along my path on my right means yes, left is no even when a question hasn’t formed yet
maybe if I collect enough I can build my own wings someday maybe leave this place, a curtain of elemental fragments lost pieces of soul, to lift
It’s that time of year again, and wherein I repost one of my favorite blogs. This isn’t about religion per se. It’s not about what you believe or who you ascribe your faith to. It’s about how you choose to treat others. Because it is always a choice. And we can make it every moment. We aren’t held to our past. We can be better. In this particularly dark time, I would urge you to remember your capacity to spread and give light. We may not be able to control everything, or combat large and fascist forces, but we do have a choice to spread our own joy. To illuminate the shortened days. We also have the choice to be a petty and divisive jerk and shit on other people’s beliefs… different beliefs that rarely have a negative impact on you.
So here’s your yearly reminder: Don’t be petty and shitty, not any time, but especially not this time of year.
The world is dark enough as it is.
Be good to each other.
Psst… if you’re looking for a way to be good, especially after you read this tear-jerking post then click on this link and spread some joy:
For a list of where to get the most out of what you have to give check this link out.
For something closer to home: This is a great place to start.
And now, grab a tissue and enjoy…
Dear Madelyn and Delaney…
I hear there have been some questions at school and amongst your friends, about if Santa Claus is real.
There comes a time, in most kids lives, when they are taught to grow up and out of what some adults call “silly, fanciful, daydreams.” And so adults and peers will go about destroying everything that even whiffs of magic, and work hard to wipe away every ounce of stardust from the eyes of children who believe.
To this I say…Shut your mean-hearted pieholes, you wankers. (And anyone who hasn’t, at some point in their existence, called a middle schooler a wanker is probably lying. Let’s face it, middle school is not our finest hour as humans.)
These are the people who will say it’s obviously impossible for a generous old guy to deliver presents to kids one night of the year, while simultaneously cherishing and accepting the “fact” that a deity impregnated a virgin and their child wiped away the entirety of sin in the world…
…uh…
If they can suspend reality and base their lives around the idea of (albeit a cool), hippy/demigod, is it such a stretch to believe in a jolly old elf that spreads the ideals of generosity and selfless giving for just one day?
I won’t touch your hippy demigod if you don’t touch my jolly old elf in a red suit.
I bet Jesus calls him St. Bro-cholas.
I refuse to lose my stardust. (Or as Anne Shirley would say; I refuse to be poisoned by their bitterness.)
You want to know if there is magic? If Santa is real?
Here’s what I know…
Santa is real and magic exists.
How can I be sure?
I’m here aren’t I? You’re here, yes? We’re all here.
We were sprung from the unlikely combination of a evolutionary, chemical lottery and dumb, cosmic luck. Our bodies’ chemical and mineral components are the same as stardust floating around and comprising distant galaxies. We are made of the Universe and the Universe is in us. We’re naked, funny-looking, bipedal apes, and we’ve survived hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary death traps.
If all of that’s not magical, what is?
Here’s what I also know.
There are two types of people in the world.
Those that destroy joy, and those that spread it.
I DO KNOW that it does no harm to believe in something better, more beautiful, and magical in our lives (Hippy Demigod or Santa Claus).
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to fill our eyes with wonder and joy in the midst of the darkest days of the year.
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to hope and anticipate.
I DO KNOW, it does no harm to walk into these short cold days with elation in our hearts.
And I KNOW this:
That it must be a horrible, dark and sad world for those that seek to take away such light; how bitterly awful to be those who disbelieve and ridicule others who hold magic in their heart.
It does harm, to take someone’s joy.
It does harm, to smother the fire of giving and generosity.
It does harm, when we seek to oppress the light of selflessness in a world so dark.
I also know this; each one of us chooses what we believe.
We choose what we fill our hearts withand in a world that can be so gloomy and wretched, why would you want to fill your heart with anything that would make it even more so?
I choose to believe.
I believe in Santa Claus and I believe in magic.
I believe that there is light in the darkest of times. And I believe that the joy radiating from hearts that hope, and love, and give, is more real than any hot air getting blown around by a bunch of self-conscious, hormonal, dying-to-fit-in middle schoolers (or cynical, angry, self-conscious adults)
Now listen: I can’t decide for you what you believe,
but neither can they.
So you choose.
Embrace the joy, be the magic, and light up the dark… or reject the lot of it and wipe the stardust from your eyes.
No one is harder on me than me. And so, when I realized that I’d missed not one, but TWO blog posts in a row, I was at first righteously disappointed in myself. After all, I’ve been doing this blog for a long time. Every week, on Thursday, a little something about life, writing, or just to enrich the world (via poetry). But if you read this blog, you know that my life has been on the rocks for the last 8 weeks or so (before that really on our way leading up to inpatient) and so the disappointment quickly faded.
You see, I’ve learned to treat myself with the same grace I would extend to those whom I love. And it’s a kindness I’ve been looking for my whole life.
Like it or not, my blog is not the miracle of physics that keeps the world spinning ’round. There aren’t lives dependent upon my poetry or massive crowds hanging on my every word. When it comes down to it, the blog is a lot about me shouting out into the void, to remember that I still have a voice to use. That it occasionally resonates with someone else is wonderful. That it exists helps me feel purposeful. And so to hit and miss it a few times while my daughter and I are staying far from home and undergoing treatment for one of the deadliest mental illnesses that exists, is a drop in the bucket of my existence. I’m doing other things.
Fun fact I learned in one of the classes we take here as parents; the stress of parenting child suffering from an eating disorder is THREE TIMES the stress of parenting a child with schizophrenia.
I believe it. I feel it. The constant worry and triggering of what they eat, if they’re eating, if they’re eating enough, if they’re getting up to exercise in the middle of the night while you’re passed out from exhaustion from being “on duty” all of the time. If they’re only pretending to get better and it will reemerge as soon as you get home. If they will relapse later. If this will be the thing that takes their life, if not now, then sometime down the road. There’s no magical medicine to help soothe the savage beast of an eating disorder, and the only thing that truly is their medicine (food) is the one thing they fear most to take. It is physical and mental. And the mental leads to worsening physical, and so the cycle goes.
When I remember the characteristics of this villain we’re currently fighting, my blog post doesn’t feel quite so important. But it kind of is too. Because in the midst of this battle, I realized, I’ve become nothing but the General. Nothing but one-woman army, constantly fighting. Not a writer, not a wife, not a sister, not a friend, not a community organizer, or a poet. Not a human. Just the facilitator of a hard-to-come-by cure. And it has worn me thin. Too thin. So thin that the dark thoughts I’d shelved for the last few months are beginning to seep through the cracks in this armor that has already taken too many blows. And the thoughts that seep in…
Well…they aren’t life sustaining, I’ll tell you that much.
So today, I’m making a conscious effort to sit down and write. To do more than research and fret, and meal plan. To remember that attending to the foundation of who I am matters, to the house that still needs to stand in this storm.
I’ve watched a lot of events and occasions pass by in the last two months, as an outsider. From holidays, to birthdays, to fun events and friend gatherings. Even the release of two of my own books. And I could not be a part, fully, of any of them. But we are coming back into the light, and with every day she grows stronger, I need to also commit to coming out of the dark too. It wouldn’t do much good to help her survive only to loose my own will to in the process.
So I’ll keep writing. Keep shouting into the void. And I’m thankful for you, bearing with me while I come back to myself.
A child of the late 80’s and 90’s will remember the daring and billed crime fighter and his catchphrase of “Expect the Unexpected.” I’m pretty sure that phrase has since been taken over by an insurance company, or pregnancy tests, or police searches; but once, it was the mantra that a hero lived by to always be on the ready.
Adults live by it in more boring ways (insurance, family planning measures, radar alert gear on the dashboard of our cars). We’re taught to prepare for the unexpected. At least, in all of the adult ways we live by. But to expect the unexpected isn’t just about saving for a rainy day or assuring ourselves, in the most pessimistic of ways, that something bad will inevitably happen and we must be prepared for it, it’s also about preparing for opportunities.
How do we prepare for something that can’t be predicted? In a similar way as with expecting the worst; by keep open in our mindset that anything can happen and allow for flexibility in our plans.
Now, I’m a big believer in the fact that the only constant in our lives is inconsistency. Change. We can always count on things to change. The world turns, human’s doot around in their peculiar and quirky little ways and the tides of life fluctuate. Sometimes they recede, sometimes they tsunami. The more rigid we are, the harder we are pushed against by the ever-changing, chaos-driven shift of time that swirls around us. Or the more disappointed we become when that tide draws ever farther away from us.
But if we can shift our mindset to accommodate this certainty of the quirky dance of life around us, then we will be prepared to deal with the challenges and also find opportunities in them. Because when you open your mind, you can look past the immediate hurdles of a change, to the bigger picture beyond. This is the important part. Remember how I italicized that “anything” up there? Pay attention to that.
I like to call this the “Anything Can Happen” moment. Here’s the caveat; shhhh…come closer and I’ll tell you…little closer…little closer… okay that’s too close, did you have onions at lunch? Back up a bit, here’s it is:
You have to look at what’s beyond the obvious challenge, with a positive lens.
UGH! Positivity! No! I’m a bitter and jaded, starving artist! I don’t DO positivity! It’s sooooo naive!
Yep. Sometimes it can be. Trust me, I’m a former, card-carrying member of the Pessimistic Society of Debbie Downers. I still get stuck in that rut too. But, it always leads me to nothing but dead-ends because I’m limiting myself by the perceived constraints change seems to bring.
I’m not asking you to be all zipidy-do-dah-Disney-slap-happy-blind to reality. I’m asking that you take a step back and be a realist with an eye for what good can come from the situation. There’s always something good.
Expecting the unexpected means being at the ready. Not just for danger and doom, but for the possibility of something better. To always be in a position where you can slip through the crack of those opening doors and explore new paths, different ideas, an unobstructed view. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but this can lead to an ever-increasing sense of well-being and a little more calm when faced with upheaval.
Stagnation may seem safer, but it will leave you treading water eventually and you’ll look back on the things you should have, could have, done but didn’t have the open mind and the faith to try.
In your writing life, which can often seem to err on the side of challenging rather than rewarding, I urge you to keep your mind open. To throw yourself into opportunity and be willing to accept with a sense of curiosity and humor the outcome. Life is chaos and beauty; destruction and creation. Remain flexible and willing to see the challenges in your life as opportunities to grow, to learn, and thereby succeed.
Good morning. Wednesdays are what I affectionately call “Therapy Thunder Dome” (would have a better ring if it were “Therapy Thunder Dome Thursdays” but we work with what we have). So since my little peabrain will be too tired to blog well (as if my rested brain does it ‘well’) I’m recycling an old poem from a supposed former contributor. Here’s what I what once wrote:
“Today’s poetry comes to us from a former and continuing contributor to The Beautiful Stuff’s Poetry Anthology. Ms. Byrne has a knack for gripping the guts with her poetry and, as an almost graduated student at the University of Boulder, she is finding her way with a powerful voice in the world.
Elliana spends her days reading (sometimes for fun…most times for class), daydreaming, and writing. She studies English Lit and dabbles in short stories and poetry when possible. She enjoys life best curled up with a good book and her cat, Gil. You can read her work in last year’s anthology “No Small Things” (https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1692331558/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1“
The truth is that I am Elliana Byrne. And I used the pen name because some of the poems I had written felt too visceral to put out into the world. But after having gone through this last year, I’ve realize life is nothing but visceral and I don’t have a problem trying to hide the gory truth of what it sometimes means to be human in all of our messy failings. So…please enjoy, and think about what masks you’ve worn, and if maybe, in light of these lives of ours being unbelievably short, if it’s time to take them off, and just be unapologetically you.
And now this:
Clean Slate
I want to wipe away the grievances of your skin and its heated strokes against mine and darken the unforgiving universes of your eyes that know and do not know me
But the treasonous mind casts wayward glances, over shoulders turned cold and the love and ache of wounds that should be healed over still echo in weakening heart beats
this disloyal heart casting out lines into currents that have battered the boards of my ship and sunk it deep, where it now lies desolate and quiet a tomb on the ocean floor waiting, in vain, for a tug of interest
treacherous and dissonant soul vibrating in time to the sound of yours even when the harmonic waves shake my teeth and dislodge my brain and seize my nerve endings
I will sit in this heavy deep and wait for reason or worse divinity to tell me how to clean you off by needle or by blade I will close my eyes, turn my back and huddle in to the shipwreck of me and cut lines until i bleed clean again
I’ve been thinking a lot about Viktor Frankl the last couple of days, and in particular “Man’s Search for Meaning” as well as Logotherapy. Front and center in my life is the battle with a disorder that eats away at the brain’s ability to rationalize, be introspective, and self-calm. So I’ve been returning to this book and to this theory about our ability to shape our own lives through the perspective that we approach even the worst situations.
Listen, I can swing between a jaded-hard ass cynic to a calm-enlightened Buddhist as well as the next half-baked philosopher. But if it’s anything that tough situations will do, is force you to look at your own behavior and perspective, and how they can make things better or worse in the particular storm you’re in. In these dark and torrential seas it’s easy to let go of any idea you have control and just let the deluge overwhelm you. It’s easy to be tugged down to the bottom. It’s the easy path to let the worst parts of every journey define your day. But despite common belief, I’m not easy. (ha, Frankl also believed in humor as an excellent way to untether from the weight of heavy situations)
I believe that we are given mountains to strengthen us. I believe that we are handed hardships because that’s kind of the point of life. To see how we flow, learn, or falter in the face of trials. We are not meant to sail on smooth seas, or calm seas make for bad sailors…some metaphor with boats, you get the point. These things will come to us all. And the difference between surviving them and coming out with a better understanding of life, and coming out battered to the point we succumb to sadness and depression, lies in how we react to the circumstances.
This is where I finally get back to the title. Gratitude. I’m no Suzy Sunshine. And I’ll happily admit that there are days I struggle to find a single thing worth being thankful for. But I have this dumb little bright yellow notebook and I make myself take it out every dumb day, and I open it up and I stare at the dumb blank page, pen hovering and I MAKE myself think of three things that I am grateful for.
Why is it hard? Well, sometimes I think the world makes us believe that gratitude is only earned by big things. I’m grateful for my six-figure job, or I’m grateful for my unfailing health, etc. I think it’s a great disservice to gratitude and the inherent beauty of life to discount it if it’s not grand. Little things can be found everywhere. Little things add up. The smallest things are what we should be paying attention to. Because they’re more abundant than you realize, and, like tiny little life preservers, if you find enough of them, they can actually help you pull yourself out of that dark, enough to breathe.
So my dumb little book is filled with dumb little sentences. Warm coffee. The fox I saw on my walk. Fall leaves. Cat spit on my elbow. Dumb ass Blue Jays landing on too tiny a feeder. And from those little drips, sometimes the faucet gets turned on… Such good friends with big, open hearts that lift me up when I’m down. My parents’ laughter. My daughters. My daughters. My daughters. That we have a plan to help her. That I understand my own power. That I can cultivate my own peace. Breath.
The point is that reminding ourselves that life has light as well as dark and we have access to it at any time we choose, is inherent in shaping and creating a better life for ourselves. We get to choose how we react, and if we are reacting from a place of gratitude, and finding all of those tiny floatation devices around us, we can remain above water, and ultimately ride any wave that comes our way.
So, part of my daily routine (right after I write this blog) is to find those three things. And part of the new routine, is to share them with my daughter. Who will roll her eyes, and probably think I’m nuts for finding any happiness in such a dark time. But seeds are little things too. The tiniest ones can grow the strongest, tallest tree. So I plant them in her mind every morning, despite her reluctance. Because someday soon, her mind is going to be nourished enough, that those seeds will take root.
Be good out there today. Be grateful, even reluctantly.
Hey kids. Today’s blog won’t be long or detailed. For the last three months, I’ve been engaged in trying to support and treat my youngest’s eating disorder on my own. Taking her to multiple appointments a week, doctors and therapists and dietitians. Monitoring every meal with her, coercing and begging her to eat. Lab work, consults, admissions to programs that turned out to be abusive…
I’m in the middle of it.
On Tuesday we admitted her to a better program. But it requires that I be here, in Denver, with her. Monitoring a few meals, learning better techniques, taking her in at 7 and not leaving the facility again until 7. They are long, hard days, filled with meetings and often a lot of tears over grilled cheese sandwiches. We’re lucky to have a space at the Ronald McDonald Charity house and it’s honestly been the biggest blessing. It isn’t home but they provide a safe place to be in the times we’re not in treatment.
This blog is just a reminder…that even on our hardest days and maybe especially on them, I want you, as a writer or poet, to remember the comfort and the break that your craft can be. Even a sentence a day counts. One stanza. A paragraph, a dialogue. Hell, a journal entry (man…I’ve never journaled so much in my life) can work wonders. These things can switch the tracks in your brain for just a few moments, bring you out of the chaos, and into a world you can control, into something brighter. Or make space to hold all of the hard thoughts you can’t put out into the world in the moment.
So that’s it, that’s the blog. Write. A little. Everyday. Use a hospital napkin, or the edge of that overpacked therapy schedule…doesn’t matter. Just stay connected to who you are, and that there are stories still to tell.
I don’t have much to say about this one. Today we’ll be in the hospital. Next week, a new world. In a month? Who knows. Every season feels like fall these day, minus the comfort of repose.
Confetti
Fall afternoon where asphalt splits the glory of some reticent nature apart and the contrived quaintness of our street twenty years-lived sits picturesque and soft
our voices are silent and our thoughts are loud and we are so alone, next to one another each a leaf fallen even as the confetti of mountain ash dances down like glitter the aftermath some big show we've just missed the end of a celebration we held no part in
Tomorrow we run more tests, tomorrow they measure you again to see the failure to thrive and the insistence of dying thin rather than living with anything over your bones but shivering skin
and the dark bark of trees reaches up to claw the blue skies and I hear you giggling from your stroller at the leaves of confetti just somewhere down our street
it echoes, this joy even as you stare sullen beside me, alone
This particular phrase came to me me during a few years ago post, on the subject of home. This week, I’m on limited mental and emotional bandwidth due to stuff and things, so I decided to dust off this still-timely look at what home means, where home is, and all the hats we wear when we go ‘outside’ of it.
I’m from Wyoming, born and raised, with some detours along the way.
Wyoming has some pretty awesome colloquialisms (for more on that, please check out my Sweet Valley Series, set in Wyoming—very romantic-west) and “Home is Where You Hang Your Hat” is no exception. (Some other, unrelated, favorites; “wouldn’t mind if his boots were under my bed,” and “wish I had a swing like that on my back porch.”)
I could go into the history of hats, cowboy and otherwise, what they meant, where they came from, who wore them, the political and pop cultural significance each one carried, but you didn’t come here to listen to the historical social scientist in my back pocket, you came here for an expansion on home.
Hanging your hat up was something you used to do when you came in from a long day of work. I’m looking at you…slack-jawed twerker, with your suuuuper cool trucker’s hat turned sideways at the dinner table…you realize that it’s the same ‘model’ my 97 year-old grandfather would get free from NAPA (that’s the part store, not the wine country) and wear until the brim fell off… And, he wore it better but never at the table… sorry where were we?
Yes, gentlemen used to take off their hats inside and, in the case of coming home, would hang them on a hook or rack by the door.
A simple move that signified something so much more profound.
Hanging your hat, coming home, dropping the world at the door and breathing. Breathing in the place of your own, the space you occupy, the people who wait for you; who love you, who have seen your head without hat, your hair going gray. Coming home meant escaping the life’s demands and the outside world’s burdens and just be.
Why is it important, that we take off our ‘hats’ in today’s world? Why does it matter?
I’m glad you asked. It’s kinda why I’m here.
Humans these days are so connected by technology and the speed-of-light information bursts, that there’s really no such thing as a safe space anymore. Now your home has multiple outlets for this information to stream in, constant and blaring.
And the ‘hats’ have changed too, haven’t they? We used to wear one, maybe two. Now, we’ve got them stacked one on top of the other until they tilt in the breeze and wobble when we try to move forward. We’re doctors, and scientists, social activists and martyrs. Writers and poets, librarians and board members. We’re frienemies and friends, lovers and exes. We’re husbands and mothers, daughters, sons adopted or otherwise. Victim and accuser, the pious and the demon. We are presidents of PTAs and the one mom that always forgets cups. We’re the one to takes the dog to the vet and the kids to the dentist and forgets to pick up their dry cleaning. We’re the ones who need more sleep, but don’t get it. The ones to work long hours, for little recognition. The ones who scoff and say ‘its fine’ when it isn’t.
Caps For Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys, and Their Monkey Business. Esphyr Slobodkina (how is it I never knew that was the full title?)
We’re chained to the images that we build on our social media pages and constantly feel the need to live up to the happy smiling selfie that the world thinks we are. It’s getting so one can’t even close the door and drop what’s not real for a few minutes.
And if you can’t ever drop it, how do you even know who you really are?
It’s no wonder we’re overmedicated, depressed, anxious and stressed. People constantly shoving hats into our hands, telling us what we should be, what we could be, showing off how beautifully they’re balancing their own stack with perfect pictures of perfect lives through perfect filters that they post fresh every day.
It can leave a person feeling that if they aren’t getting enough ‘likes’ that no one actually likes them. That the measure of being loved is dependent on some superficial and meaningless emoji.
Listen, kid, ain’t nobody that happy. Ain’t nobody that perfect.
And the brilliance of those images, I guarantee, is hiding the same nasty, visceral darkness that resides in each of us, fed on self-doubt and anger. Jealousy, dis-ease with the person in our skin, and the pressures squeezing through our walls each day.
I just want to go home.
Let’s go back to that place.
The place where you put your phone on the shelf by the door and kick off your shoes. Leave your meal un-Instagramed. Your run un-shared. Write down the cute thing your two-year-old said, and then tell your mom face-to-face over a cup of un-tagged, un-pinned coffee.
Wait for your meal in silence and anticipation. Look up something– in a book. When you feel the need, the itch to pick up that screen, or turn that television on, or otherwise disconnect from real life, don’t. Over half of our lives are spent looking at the world through our screens and its becoming a new, cold, disconnected home where we find no respite.
The ball is in your court, the stack of hats in your arms. Drop them all, for just a moment and pick up only the ones that satisfy your soul. Even those, hang up once in a while and sort through how they make you feel when you wear them.
Find your home by letting go of the things that are outside of who you feel you need to be. Find the home in the center of your chest, your truest self, and come back to that. Hang your hat there. That’s your home.
Shhh…can you hear that? It’s something rustling through the back shelves of the library to the north. Up there in Wyoming, my home state. I can here it, in those churches of knowledge that helped educate me when I was cut off from the rest of the world. In that god-like place of words and stories, something foul is afoot.
Idaho did it. Wyoming is following suit…but with even more extreme regulations. The governments in these fine, god-fearing states, are trying to ban books in libraries that might be ‘sexually explicit’ for children. These hellfire books would certainly condemn these innocent youths to a life of sin for the knowledge of such things as… ‘masturbation’ and ‘menstruation’. Yes, parents cannot simply be asked to pay attention to which books are on shelves and might get pulled off by their sheltered (and not-at-all-on-the-internet-where-FUCK ALL EVERYTHING-can-be-found) children. The almighty hand of the government must step in to ‘save the children’. Not from actual death by gunfire from an assault rifle easily bought by anyone breathing mind you, that would be silly, but from the immoral leanings of condemnable ideas that maybe gender doesn’t really exist, periods are actually pretty normal, sometimes people touch themselves, poop jokes are funny, and that women can actually have orgasms. So much worse than a bullet to the brain of a 6 year old right?
It’s really god’s work. And I know I’m speaking, sort of, in jest, but the really NOT FUNNY thing about this situation is that should these bills pass, it would mean a cut in funding, fines, and an overstretching of already overstretched resources for local libraries. Some of which, are the only ones in the county for multiple towns. And the beginning of what can only be described as the Fahrenheit 1984 Syndrome (trademark by me) Wherein they burn what they don’t like, brainwash the masses into believing they didn’t like it either, and then spoon-feed the applesauce of Christian extremism down everyone’s throats until ours souls are so worn down that we don’t remember a time when we could have fought back.
Like today. As in, this is still the time we can fight back. It starts with a rustling. It starts with one book that seems suspect. But the machine of this fascist regime taking power is never satiated by one. It wants all of the books. It wants all of the thoughts. Because words are thoughts. Books are thoughts. These books in turn create thoughts. Thoughts create more thoughts. Thoughts support and connect other thoughts. Thoughts make us curious and wondrous and compassionate. Thoughts free us from man-made systems that are only real because someone has gotten hold of all the funding and weapons. Thoughts cause anarchy against systems that are no longer ethically or morally right.
So… if you live in Wyoming I urge you to get involved. Call your representatives. Go to the hearings, the meetings, the protests. Be vigilant. Fuck, be a vigilante for books. Be aware. Our country is at stake yes, but so is the future of our humanity. First they came for the books containing even the slightest whiff of sexuality. And maybe you did not speak because you do not write or read them. But then, they will come for the mysteries, the horror, the coming of age, the fantasy, and magical realism. The newspapers and magazines that don’t tow the line… The science (in and out of fiction), the christian that was not christian enough, the cookbooks for vegetarians…and on and on…until soon there will be no one else left to speak out for you…or your book.
Hey kids. My life has been a bit of a shipwreck these last couple of weeks. Transitions, seemingly impossible battles, lost luggage, and forgotten obligations. I am not feeling my best self, though I know I ought allow myself more grace for the days that are in a constant state of upheaval. So my grace today is in recycling an old poem. Because my mind is too on fire, and yet still disconnected, and I do not have the space for much else today.
My River
My river runs deep and walks shallow into the porous nature of bed-rocked layers the clay and sand and above to deer-perked ears silent hoof prints on banks sunk in
My river is the tumble of rock into sand and foamy puffs in swirling whirls quick eddies of frantic joy released and the unforgiving relentless call to keep moving
My river begs spotted trout slip through the icy fingers of its burbling caress wet swells against the willow banks and plays below the soft wings of mayflies dancing round poles of half-sunken timber
My river is the mirror a night of stars the giving dark splashed with milk and splattered with a forgiveness of perspective in light years of still thoughts and letting go things too far away, too long gone to be mine
My river is the blood hushing through veins the secrets in history the timeless genomes and photographs carrying ghosts with no remembered names but they have my eyes, the rise of cheekbone the propensity to carry all this grief in the generous swell of my hips
Approximately three days ago, my daughter Madelyn was a boisterous and fancy-dress-loving two year old. She would wore through not one but two (in growing sizes) Tigger costumes, bringing light and bounciness to her preschool, the grocery store, the library story hour, and daily walks. She would sing and dance (usually in her underwear and draped in all the scarves she could find in my drawers), splash in puddles, cuddle up to me for hours a day, and she taught me everything I know about patience and the importance of staying present in the moment you’re in.
Today we’re getting the keys to her apartment, in Leeds, UK, where she’ll be attending University. Thousands of miles away from home.
Away from me.
And I knew this day would eventually come. I just didn’t think it would seem like three days worth of time, squished into 18 years. Getting to be next to her as she grew up through her boisterous youth, to her unsure and difficult middle school era, to the renaissance of her bloom where she came into her own thoughts, and opinions, and power in the last few years has been, hands down, the best adventure of my life.
Honestly, I don’t know how I managed to steer her little boat down this great big life river to where we’re at today. She’s such a sturdy and reliable vessel, that I often wonder if someone else raised her. Because on this day, and for the past few months really, I’ve been a wreck of a dingy.
Her resilience and perseverance are the only reasons I didn’t lock her in her room and tell her she could pick a nice online program to attend instead. For someone who has worked so hard to be self sufficient, patient, kind, hard working, and just in an unjust world…it would be a grave disservice to not let her spread her wings into this world that so desperately needs her. As my grandparents and parents have always said. We don’t raise them to stay at home and need us. We raise them to go out into the world and be good humans. So I’m learning to let go, I am leaning into embracing this time of her. Because it is. It’s her time now. And how amazing that she gets to spend it, invest in it, experience it, with me still as her mom?
There will be, inevitably, a lot of letting go and holding on in our lives. Family, jobs, relationships, loved ones, hopes, dreams…change and flow with the actions and inactions of the world. Learning when to loosen your grip and when to hold tighter is a difficult dance and the choreography is always changing. So this week I encourage you, as a writer, a human, and a soul…to think about what you’re holding on to. And ask you if it serves you…If not, why are your fingers so tight? What would happen, if you let go of something meant to fly? Not everything is ours to keep, after all.
For me, and Madelyn, letting go is an act of love that tells her I trust her, and I believe in her. It tells her that I’m excited for her life and for what she’ll do out there in the world. It tells her that I know she has brighter (and probably darker) days ahead and that both with teach her about life and finding her purpose. It tells her that I know she’s got this. But it also tells her that I am here and I will hold on to her in my heart, where she’ll always have a home. A big old oak tree to sit beneath when the world gets too loud and too busy. My roots will be there to sit within. My branches always here to give shelter. I will hold on to the bright memories and the endless giggles and curiosities, to remind myself that we are all borne as stardust into this universe and we are all born knowing. We are all, always, undeniably connected. Only the world makes us doubt these undeniable truths. I will hold onto this knowledge for her, in case the world makes her doubt it.
Hug your kiddos, hug your loved ones, hug yourself. (I’d caution against hugging strangers…best not to unless invited and both consenting) Remember you are stardust, glowing and bright. And that means, in terms of the vastness of the universe, that we’re never, really, very far away from each other even when we’re miles away.
Hey there. I see you. Staring, blank eyed, into your screen. Just a thousand more words. Just get this poem revised. Just submit to one more journal. Post one more eye-catching reel. Just call three more bookstores. Just, just, just, just…
It isn’t hard to get caught up in the loop of hustling for your art. And I don’t mean that’s always a bad thing. We care about our work. We love our work. We want to share and celebrate our work. This world has a variety of pathways to do that (an overwhelming and convoluted sphere in itself), but it often amounts to at least a part time job in itself. Beyond the writing, the poem-ing, the editing, the revision, our creativity is in constant competition for the pesky day-to-day of living.
Psh. Family. Day jobs. Grocery shopping. Cleaning. Taxes. PTA meetings. Board meetings. Bake sales. Yard work. Caregiving. That contest you said you’d judge. Simultaneous vaccinations for every furry thing in the house… everything competing for space in your brain and on your schedule. I get burnt out just thinking about it all. So this week, we’re going to take a step back, put down the balls I’m juggling (I can’t type balls without giggling a little–Jesus Christ Sarah, pull it together) and talk about some things we can do as creatives/writers to keep ourselves sane, calm, and focused, in these over productive lives. I think you guys deserve a bullet list. It’s been awhile.
Sleep. Protect your goddamn sleep at all costs. Seriously. Priding yourself on four hours a night is only super cool to tech bros and cocaine addicts (or do I repeat myself?) Create a bedtime routine like you were a toddler. We turn off our phones, we brush our teeth, we stretch and meditate, we read something calming, we shut off the light and we settle in. (or whatever combination works for you) Every night. Limit your caffeine and your booze.
Find time to write for fun. I get it, all of us write and it’s all ‘supposed’ to be fun. But sometimes there are projects and deadlines. You should always have some outlet that isn’t related to your bigger goals. Journaling every day counts. I have a tiny notebook and every day I sit down to write one poem in only the space of two tiny pages. Only have 5 minutes? Do that. That’s enough. Have 20? Take it and make it your downtime.
Exercise. Listen you don’t have to run marathons. You could to chair yoga or mobility stretches. You could go for a walk or a bike ride. You could Jazzercise for all I care, Richard Simmons your heart out. Power lift or join a Cross-Fit cult. The brain works better when the blood is flowing. Not only that, but it will kick up your endorphins and hopefully help your sleep, posture, and overall sense of well-being. Movement matters
Read. Holy shit, I used to be terrible about this! I’d only pick up a book at the end of the day, maybe make it through a page, and fall asleep. I told myself I didn’t have time. I was a big dumb liar. There is time in the day. I read in the morning now, and a little at lunch, and again in the afternoon. A variety, some philosophy, some writing books, some fiction. A healthy diet of words help me to have fuel for my own.
Don’t take it so seriously. I’m not talking about just your writing. I’m talking about your life. Here’s a secret that capitalism and social media doesn’t want you to know. The statuses, the Amazon ratings, the likes and comments–none of it really matters. It’s an alternate plane of information that really doesn’t mean anything. Have you ever sat in your own skin consciously for a minute. Felt the reality of being? Known that if a giant EMP took out all technology suddenly, you would still exist in the world. We only get this one time, we only get the moment and the breath we’re in. If you never published another book, the world would still keep spinning. If you were rejected 600 times, the sun would still rise the next day. Silly human, stop obsessing about the trivial and just be present. Find your joy in the here and now.
Well, there you go. Take care of yourself. Get sunshine, good food, movement, and water. Treat yourself like your favorite houseplant. Talk gently to yourself. Forgive yourself. Take lots of big, deep belly breaths, and trust that whatever you have to give for today, is more than enough.
A large part of human nature’s beauty lies in our failures and follies. Perfect people are rarely very interesting. As a writer, creating ‘perfect’ characters is a sure-fire way to distance your readers and lose their interest. Why? Because no one wants to read about someone who always gets it right. Who can share commonality with that? And yet…our reality is often ruled by what we, as actual humans, fail at.
When thinking about human frailty and my own failings I stumbled across the largest stone in my path of late; Self-Worth.
I know I’m not alone. I see you out there.
It’s more than fair to say that we are comparative beings. The media propagates it, competitive constructs in work and school demand it, and long-standing cultural threads tie our successes (and our failures) to what we’re worth in the eyes of the rest of the world.
Its the single most destructive lie we’ve ever been told.
And its easy to say that it doesn’t affect us. That we don’t care how we stand in relation to other people, that we don’t have a competitive nature, that we don’t feel the need to be anything else than what we are. I say those things all the time. And they rarely do more than offer a feeble disguise over the surface of self-doubt.
If we didn’t care, we’d cease to try. We’d stop looking for ways to improve. But something that should drive our greatness often tears us apart and we are left with shreds of the human we used to be, torn apart in an effort to create something more inspirational in the eyes of the world.
I was recently told, by a very generous soul, that my self-worth shouldn’t come from anyone but myself. That I couldn’t let the berating, criticism, or comparisons of the world let me feel any less than what I was worth. That it wasn’t the outside that should decide, but what was inside of me.
So it made me wonder; What am I worth?
In terms of chemistry, my physical make-up is probably no more than about $3.00 worth of material.
If you broke down my daily tasks and how much you’d have to pay someone else to do them, some would say I’d be worth about $140,000 a year. If you based my worth on what I contribute to the world with my writing we’re looking at a solid $50 a year. Monetarily, its not very impressive. And again, I’m basing my worth on what other’s consider useful tasks/materials.
So what am I worth? What are you worth? Sit still with yourself and ask the question:
“What do I do, what am I, that matters to me? That impacts the world? That brings me contentment?”
Deep…yes. Sometimes we gotta get past the cloak of simple thought to really understand why we matter. We have to, for the sake of our own self-preservation. After all; if you don’t see worth in yourself, you start to feel like a burden to the people you love. And all sorts of ugly outcomes arise from that train of thought…trust me, I’ve been building a scary set of tracks in that direction myself of late.
So I sat down, prompted by my friend’s words and suffering through a trough of depression, and asked myself what I was worth.
I came to the conclusion that for a long time I’ve let the words and actions of other people (in their own beautiful human imperfection) determine my self worth. If they were mad at something in our shared existence, I took it on as a fault of mine. As a problem that I didn’t fix or prevent. If comments were made about appearance, I took the darkest path of focusing on my imperfections and felt the need to correct them by any strange and unhealthy way possible.
It left me wanting and sick.
Why do I let my brain do that?
Because we’re taught to improve. To impress. To be better. To strive for more. Instead of just being what and who we are and understanding that we aren’t responsible for other people’s happiness or conforming to ideas of perfection. We must set boundaries to the information we let affect us. Even my friend’s well intentioned advice was still someone on the outside telling me what to think about my self worth. It’s not about letting someone tell me I am worth-while. Its about knowing my own worth and not letting the outside world sway that knowledge either negatively or positively.
Now there are times, when someone who loves us may come to us with good intention, and full hearts and offer us a viewpoint about something destructive they see in us. There are times when someone has honest praise to offer. With careful appreciation of the information we’re given we can chose to look at it with neutrality and see if there is helpful advice within it, and take it as an opportunity for self-reflection.
I love you guys, for all you are. Just as you are. Have a beautiful week and stretch your brains and hearts to fit the worth inside of you. It’s there.
“My dear,
In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.
So…this was written on a train (if the title doesn’t somehow give that way). Somewhere in the wilds of Norway, which still feels like the beating heart of my home. Some yearnings remain. After years, after miles, after all the weights we carry and let go. We still remain. Remember your wild heart. Yearn a bit more. Worry a bit less.
Thoughts from a Train
the gnarled and yet not-aching-to-be-straight aspens, forever reaching up while tethered to their roots below the largest organism, still seems so alone, standing on the draping hills and keeping a respectable distance from one another
a rushing river teases between trees and gives the snowy foam of passion a rise and climax as it dances across unforgiving rocks on the edge of a desire fluid against hard surfaces rutting in season and calm placation when the urgency subsides
I’m still trying to see through the trees to find the rushing sound
hard rock faces, lining the tracks to dark tunnels where the rush of entry changes the pressure of my body and eyes flutter close the dark and light dappling through my eyelids and I feel the butterfly brush of lashes to cheeks you’re lying there in the sun, now shade, now sun beside me
I am sitting with all my desire, laying in warm beds faraway from here and the ways it will never reach me, never catch up to me through windows along miles in this cold space next to strangers known and unknown
I am heavy in obligation weighed, like black holes contracting around the reality they consume
but in my heart still beats the wilderness and still grows in brambles, and still peeks through evergreen thick to remind me that a river always rushes cold and powerful ever cyclical and returning between my crevasses and to the lowest points of all the lovely roots of this, my human desire
So yesterday I was invited to this really cool space in north Fort Collins, called Kestrel Fields Studio and Art Residency. The owner, Heather Matthews, is a delightful human who has created this space to help support not just artists in need of a space to work and focus their attention on their craft, but also as a gathering space for artists from all around. Last night, she invited a lively and varied crowd of Arts Administrators from the area to mingle, talk, and answer some important questions about what art means in our community, how we can work together, and what the future of art in our community could look like.
I won’t go into great detail but I did notice a few things that were brought up time and time again. First, that even in communities where the art scene (I’m covering it all; music, visual arts, performing arts, literary arts, etc) is vibrant, there is often a disconnect between artists sharing their work and the public being connected to it. We all know that funding for the arts has taken a hit under the current federal administration. When we couple that with an economy that’s currently circling the toilet bowl, private funds are also being withheld as the whole country braces for these depressive futures. In itself, this creates a depression and repression of a different kind. Creation of art is not free nor easy. It costs time, and material and effort.
Artists in America (with the exception of those billion dollar stars out there) are not paid well, if at all. Art is not considered worthy of compensation to a capitalist system. Why? Because it defies all the markers of capitalism. It is not meant to be consumed and thrown out in an never-ending wasteful cycle. It is not massed produced, or homogenized for easier consumption. Art is unique, and personal, and deep-rooted. It asks the observer to think and to feel, and to step outside of their own perceptions. Art is uncomfortable and often questions power. It is dangerous in all the right ways. Because people who think and ask you to question our societal confines are often discredited. After all, why would a system promote someone trying to shake us out of a stupor to acknowledge our humanity above powerful, greed-driven systems? Art does not serve systemic oppression.
The point is that art and artists in America are more often seen as quaint, quirky and starving, rather than being hard-working harbingers of change and progress. Unfortunately, the marker of respect in our society is tied with monetary compensation, and we do not give that to artists, no matter how they may improve our lives or move our souls. So…something to think about is how you interact, support, and uplift the artists in your community. First, by going to their shows, reading their books, reviewing them and spreading the word. Paying a cover designer when you can. Paying for someone who edits or writes copy for you. Paying a musician to preform at your event. That money goes directly back to the artists and therefor the community. And it speaks a louder truth that Art Is Worthwhile.
Along those lines, let’s talk about cross-support. A big issue that came up was the “siloing” (I feel like that’s a hot-topic word of late) of artists. Painters stay in gallaries, musicians only go to music festivals, writers stay home in their pajamas and turn their ringer off. Yes. It’s hard to step outside of our own comfort zones within our art. But the beautiful thing about art, in any sphere, is just what I mentioned above. Art makes you think. Makes you question. Gets you outside of your world and asks you to see something new. To question. To feel. And those questions and feelings, especially when planted in the seed of another artistic mind, will lead to a garden of beautiful, unique and expansive ideas. If you’re familiar with ekphrastic work, you know that a painting can inspire a poem. A poem can become a song lyric. A song can drive the hand of a painter. We are not siloed, we are an expansive field of fertile and ready soil. And at the risk of sounding sensual, we should start cross-pollinating. Not only for the health and vitality of our own art, but to support the minds and hearts of people who share in our struggle and joy of being translators of the soul into art.
I am proud of the community of writers and poets I work with. I am overjoyed to meet the artists who paint, and draw, and sing, and perform. I love to know how art and passion move through their bodies, and to feel kindred in their drive to create something that feels like touching the deep truths of humanity and shared experience. My ask of you today, whether you write or not, is to find out more about the artists in your community. Go to their shows, follow them on line, support them with words and presence if you don’t have the funds. But let them know they’re important. That they are seen. Because artists see you. They work and create to bring us all closer to understanding each other. And that’s something worth leaving my pajamas for.
I know it’s been a pretty poetry-heavy blog of late and I’m honestly not apologetic about that. Poetry is a grace that fits into my life better these days. It’s more accessible to write, to slip my fingers into it’s lines, and to distill so many of the big and difficult feelings I’m currently holding. If you don’t poetry, you should. (Yes, it’s a verb, and a noun). But for today, I wanted to write about something I think is a skill whose value is immeasurable for writers.
The power to listen. Now, I’ve always been kind of a quiet kid (until I know you better, then good luck getting me to shut up) and was subjected to all kinds of comments. “Doesn’t she know how to talk?”, “I guess she’s just not much of a joiner, huh?”, “She’s so quiet.” All of this and more almost berated me into more silence until I was into my adulthood, and was forced to be more proactive in communicating. Still, to this day, in a large crowd of people, I prefer to be the one slinging one question into the crowd and then softly withdrawing to the sidelines to watch the frenzy.
Because I learn more this way.
First: I learn about character, history (or backstory), as well as flaws and strengths. In the listening to their words, their thoughts, their stories in total, yes, but also… I learn how they speak, I listen for intonations, and body cues. I listen for changes in pitch and pace, I listen for old dialects and idioms sneaking through. I listen with my eyes to watch the way their hands talk, their body nervous or posturing. I listen to the subtext of history behind it all. I learn about humans, and their story when I listen. And learning about humans is such a fundamental skill for writers to have. Not because we want to poach a character straight out of our monthly PTA meeting (well, maybe you do, I’m not here to judge) but so that when we sit down with our characters we can visualize them. As they are, with all of their imperfections and mannerisms, and really start to build a world true to what they’re saying in words, thoughts, and actions.
Second, and perhaps more utilitarian, I learn about the world. Listening to people opens me up to experiences and knowledge that I don’t have, maybe that I may have never even wondered about. And every story that settles into my encyclopedia brain is a new idea, a richer understanding of an old idea, and a bigger picture of this fantastical world. Every human being is a conduit to experience I don’t have enough years to gather myself. What a wonderful way to learn, am I right?
Third, and this is a natural consequence of the last point, listening to someone is a sign of respect, of interest, and on some level, love and acknowledgment of their existence, their struggle, and their worth in the world. More than just getting that character quirk you’ve been struggling with for months, or learning that a group of hippos is called a ‘bloat’, you are validating the experiences and importance of another person’s life. You are willingly giving them your time and attention (finite resources) and being present with them. That matters. More than just as a writer, but as a human being.
So–next time you’re in a crowd, writer… pay attention. Focus in, feel the presence of being in someone’s audience and listen to the story they show and tell you. It may lead to the next grand idea, it may help you unstick your work, or it may just help another human being feel seen.
Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.
Meditation on Old Wounds
See how turbulent winds blow sweet words away sand on black top sand on black top clouds in blue sky the blue sky where nothing good sticks where every promise comes with an emergency life vest, and when I get scared, I can pull the cord explode the meaning dismiss it for a lie another half-truth sugar sweetness to worm their way in and nothing is true but the stink of my rejection and love is a dark cloud I must constantly clear away clear away to empty blue skies lest I be caught in the storm once again battered sand on black top why do I continue reaching for the chance to be seen to be known in all my stormy dark when I am unknowable I will wiggle my way out of any noose of supposed love it only hurts it only hurts it only hurts
except when it doesn't
Reawaken
Feel this ancient rumbling shake and tremble below what was once barren ground the river springs to life from the soft and patient rains bubbling up from the forgotten cradle soaking the ground feeding the forest until it overflows warm and crashing over banks mountainous peaks above hardened in cold breaths and warmed with praise, of god-like hands and the land settles into its rhythm of pulsing electric joy
Tomorrow I’m hosting an in person writing event at The Gilded Goat in Fort Collins. If you’re in the area, you can register for it at Writing Heights. It’s free, but it will cost you two hours of your otherwise worrisome Friday night, and give you back a lightness in your heart. For a couple of hours we’ll enjoy playing around with ridiculous prompts, and find a flow, hopefully working on things we couldn’t during the week and all in a supportive and loving space. Even if you can’t join us, I hope that you can try the practice out yourself (write ten of the weirdest sentences you can think of: i.e. “A family’s toilet goes on strike” and follow it with abandon). I hope you can find out something fun, disturbing, and original in your own brain and spark some new projects. You clever writer, I bet they will be fabulous.
This week, in order to give your creative noodle a break, I thought I’d switch more to the editorial aspect of writing. Specifically, the sound of our writing and what it means for our readers.
Whether it’s poetry meant to be read aloud, stumbling through your first chapter at a promotional event, or having your book read by a parent to their child, the flow and sound of your “writing voice” matters and reading it out loud changes a lot about what you can only see on the page.
So, let’s talk about the benefits of using oral…
Okay. Sorry, that was the fifteen-year-old boy part of my brain thinking he’s clever.
Ahem.
Apologies.
This exercise doesn’t take much effort and is an easy way to edit a work in progress that may be in its final stages of completion. Or, if you’re a poet, this is by far the best way to gauge the power and purpose of your work.
Print out a chapter of your novel, a poem, or a short story (I suppose you can use your device or laptop—the girl who loves the feeling of paper between her fingers sighs to the encroaching dominance of technology).
Then read that piece out loud either to yourself or to your unwilling cat.
*note: It isn’t that your cat doesn’t like your work, I’m just saying cats don’t, in general, like anything that doesn’t meet their own needs, and writing that does anything but pay homage to their divinity, tends to fall short in their demographic. (Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com)
If you don’t have an audience, I encourage you to use a mirror.
Read vibrantly, read purposefully, read with intonation and depth. Meet your eyes in that mirror and feel the story, the dialogue; that stanza of hard cutting thought.
You will start to hear your particular voice emerge and you will also find editorial errors that are invisible during the brash sweep of only eyes without the mouth getting involved.
So, get your mouth involved (*snicker* *snort*)
Oh man… come on!
I think I’ll stop there for the week.
Go read your stuff out loud. Make marks on the paper (or device) where you notice inconsistencies, mistakes, or ‘not right’ words.
Change them, adapt them, smooth them out. It’s already good, just make it a little better.
This week, an incredible poet, humanitarian, human being, and open hearted warrior, was called away. I have long held that some stardust burns too brightly, and the universe becomes jealous…takes it too soon. Perhaps we do not deserve them. We have not become enough of love. We are still too full of hate. We have not learned enough yet, to have deserved them.
Andrea Gibson was an inspiration for kindness. For loving one another, in a world that did not always love them. I hope they are at peace. I will think of them, in quiet mornings. In bird songs. When I sit next to someone touting beliefs meant to divide… I will keep writing poems. I will light up the dark, and do it all, over and over again.
Argh… I have to tell you, there’s nothing more frustrating than staring at that blinking cursor with no words to keep it moving. I know I’ve long been a denier of the “writer’s block” theory. That we are only blocked when we stop moving and that every word out is a word that counts. But I’ve never felt this severe shortage of words before.
I’m a voracious writer when I get in my zone. To be clear, they aren’t the best chunks of writing every time and there’s often a lot of editing that needs to follow. But when it comes to the count, I’m kind of a rock star. Until this book. This final in a series of three. This book with a deadline. This book that should be no problem to write, because it has four of my favorite characters, and a fun premise, and all the adventure and romance available to it. This book that has stalled out on the sandy streets of 1920’s Cairo and I can’t seem to get it started again. It’s like I ran my character’s path straight into the side of a pyramid and there’s no where else to go.
So what does a writer do? When they’re boxed in? When they’ have 30,000 more words to get written in the span of a month? And the story is finished?
Well, we pivot. The book must go on. The story is not over, it’s threads are just hidden away. I’ve lost the path, perhaps even took an unintended side street that was not meant to be their final course. So, I’m struggling this week with some of my tried and true practices for ending the block and finding my way back into the flow. Normally, it would include taking a break and a step back to write something else, but I’ve been doing that. My brain has had plenty of breaks…I’m not gentle parenting her anymore. It’s time for tough love. Behold the bullet list.
I will write my major characters into a different scene, in a different place/time and see what happens
I will write three different endings to the story and work my way backwards from my favorite.
I will work my way backwards from my least favorite.
I will go back through and re-read the first three chapters, writing 1000 words as a continuation from those initial, more inspired thoughts.
I will look back through my synopsis of the series, see what was promised, and find two scenes to complete (out of order)
I will write at least three heated and NSFW scenes between characters that may or may not make it into the book to reestablish their passion and their dynamic so I can re inject some of that into the story-line that’s grown cold.
I will write my publisher, admit to my struggles, and ask for a respectable extension. Then I will give myself reasonable word count goals to get to that date, with room to spare for editing.
Okay, well, now that my plan is public I have no other choice to follow it. Sometimes the accountability of admitting to our failings and planning out what we intend to do, helps to keep the urge alive. Thanks for being my sponsors. Happy writing this week. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.
Remember Your Lines
What does depression feel like?
Like I want to sleep forever
but every time I fall into that
blissful unconsciousness,
I hope I never come back out
that it’s just a peaceful send off
So long…have a good flight
Don’t call when you get there.
Because…that would be weird
And freak everyone out…
It feels like…
I can’t feel
sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope
I’m a slab of granite,
wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone
stuck in quicksand and sinking
and I don’t care if I go under
in fact, I welcome it and hope
it suffocates me
with calm commands,
breathe in…breath out…and hold
like an MRI of your final moment
but it never tells you
to breath in again
Depression feels like
I have no energy in my synapses
and even if I did, nothing I could do with it
would be worth anything to anyone
least of all myself
Depression is a gray, weighted blanket
only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load
that life gives you to carry
and you just can’t find a good enough reason
to carry it anymore;
but you can’t find your way out
from underneath it either
Depression is seeing through eyes
that are a movie screen
to an audience that lost its will to care
lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize
Art
or love
or fleeting time
or beauty
Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,
fake platitudes
in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me
I am a day late. Well a day for me. For you it’s 11pm but I’m just getting in from a morning run in Stockholm and realized I didn’t set up my blogs for while I was away. I don’t have much, as my trip has a rather demanding schedule and I’m trying to soak in these last few moments with my baby before she flys the nest. So here’s a poem. Next week I will try to do a little better.
Anticipation
Was there ever such sweet anticipation as a cherry in June? Held, eager between teeth where cold water droplets tease the tongue before the crisp breaking of delicate skin the flush of sun-warmed tartness carrying along the sugary bite but tender must teeth sink to gently toy with the unyeilding stone sucking it free of bright red pulp til pristine pebble is all that's left
I love this word. Abundance. Say it to yourself. Abundance. It feels full and heavy, it feels like satiation and potential. I love when my yoga teacher tells me to widen my stance, when bending forward to make space for my Abundance. It feels like a loving way to approach what we have, and to be content in our space.
As a creative, abundance is not something we may consider. In fact, if there’s anything a writer is good at, it’s practicing the fear of Abundances counter point; scarcity. Scarcity says that there won’t be a next idea. There won’t be a next poem or painting or song. Scarcity says you better hang on to this project and keep working on it, because it’s the only one you have. Scarcity will tell you lies of the well inside you, drying up. That once you expend so many words, there will be no more. Once you complete this idea, that will be the end of your road and maybe your career. So hang on, greedily to that idea, to that brilliant book proposal, that one perfect poem. It could be stolen or critiqued apart, or lost. Best to hold it close to you, where it maintains a certain pristine quality. Your precious.
The funny thing about scarcity, and abundance, is that they are both self- fulfilling states of being. When we hold on to one idea, one book, one poem…our hands are useless to catch more, to reach for more, to hold more. I know, its scary. To think that this might be your last, great idea. To let it go, either out into the world, or back into the drawer for a later date. It might feel (especially when you have been working on the same novel or project for years) that this is it. All you will ever be. All you will ever write. The great American novel, never to be surpassed. Perhaps you worry you’ll never write anything as good again ( I feel that, acutely friends) But I’m here to tell you from experience, that its a good time to look at it from a different perspective.
You see, your creativity and your potential to make more art, pursue different stories, write more…it’s endless. It is a bottomless well of energy. And even after we’re gone, the things that we put into the world spark more ideas, and more stories, so really…think of your writing and creativity as a river, not a stagnant pool. When you dam it up, from fear, from worry (I’ll never write another poem this good, my novel isn’t ‘ready’) stagnation will occur. It is the only idea (ie water) in your pond. Letting it go, releasing that barrier, putting it out, submitting it, allows the water to flow freely again.
Creativity, in this way, is abundant. It is a river that we dip our hands into and grasp the ideas that come our way, play with them, run with them, drink them in (don’t drink river water, please, giardia–Beaver Fever–is real) and then when its time, let them go down stream and sit along the banks for the next one to come along. And it will come.
How do we let go? We let others see it, we make the best changes we can and throw it out into the world. Be conscious that once you let it go, its a bird flown from the nest. It might come back to visit, but you are no longer it’s home, it belongs to the world now and you have a big beautiful space (time and mental playground) for the next hatchling.
I’ve used so many metaphors in this thing, I think I got lost myself. Rivers, birds, abundance. Always abundance. You have it. You have room for all the beautiful things in your brain and those that haven’t been found yet. So let go of the fear that you’ll dry up. Loosen your hands around your one great idea so you can embrace the potential of you.
Sarah Reichert Author 