Being The Light

Posted on by sereichert

As we move away from November, closer to the shortest and darkest day of the year, and on the first day of a celebration of light… I wanted to say a few things about our world. A little, horrific recap if you will, of situations that are spreading darkness…through the world, our own country, and our communities. Nothing like a little Suzie Sunshine to make the holiday’s bright, amIright?

Every year, since 2020, sort of feels like a strange do-over that’s still not getting done right. We’re trying to catch up, but we’re not really sure what that means. Catch up with the whirlwind of hate and disparity. Catch up with the deepening poverty. Catch up with the escalating violence between two countries that is made worse by the unfair favoritism of the world’s enabling ‘parents’… Catch up with what we lost. And there’s simply no way. Not with all of it. Not with our tiny human brains and our way too big human hearts.

Wages are stagnant, the price of everything is rising. We are still divisive, waiting on an election next year that could very well see our first mafia-like felon on the throne (because he will insist on a throne like any decent dictator would). There is an undercurrent of unrest, but “luckily” we’re all so underpaid and overspent, we simply don’t have the time, energy or funds to protest. And the internet keeps us drugged up on kitten videos and algorithmic echo chambers…

Companies and the government et large are concerned by the dropping birth rate, but not so concerned that they’ll do something to improve the conditions of all those fertile youngins. You know like…giving them a decent wage so they can afford to feed themselves before they throw another mouth into it. Or subsidized/free/decently priced healthcare to care for themselves and the said new offspring. OR I DON’T KNOW MAYBE GIVE WOMEN BACK THE RIGHT TO CHOSE TO HAVE A BABY OR NOT.

Here’s a tip…nothing turns women off from sex like knowing that we may get saddled with a baby that we’re solely responsible for in a declining economy. Cross your legs ladies, we’re not designated as broodmares to keep social security from crumbling. They should have thought about that a long while ago. In any case. That’s a dumpster fire with a different chemical accelerant for a different day to throw a match on…

The rich are getting richer (glad to see the stock market is so healthy while 1 in 3 American school-age children are suffering from food insecurity—are we still calling that kind of shit a ‘win’ for the economy?) The poorer are falling into depths of poverty they can’t begin to rise from.

The world’s still burning and flooding. Freezing and drying up in ever intensifying waves, destroying entire habitats and species within shortening periods of time.

Did I come here to remind you of the dumpster fire caught in a tornadic shit storm that is our world?

No, I did not.

I came here to remind you that you are a vessel of light.

I came here to remind you of your potential to shine even in the face of insurmountable difficulty and hardship.

I came here to remind you that your attitude, actions, and struggles matter and can make a difference.

Am I preaching to go forth and be a Pollyanna, ray-of-delight-and-positivity, spreading goodness and sunshine to the masses so that they can catch your optimism like gonorrhea on spring break?

No. Jesus Christ, no. Certainly not.

Look, we’re all reeling. We’re all coming up out of the dark of our own prisons. We’re all trying to find balance. We’re all watching horrendous atrocities take place a world away. Babies and mothers, refugees and wounded being bombed on their way to safety. Wondering, constantly with upturned guts who’s side to take. Allow me to let you in on another little secret.

There is no winning side.

War is not hell. Hell only takes the deserving. War takes them all. The grandmothers. The doctors. The five year old, clinging to his mother. The only good to anyone, to humanity as a whole…is a ceasefire. But you can bet your pretty little knickers that the US government in its dwindling war machine will not remove itself from such a gracious teet. Nope. Babies can die as long as the military complex survives.

Ugh…see? It’s pretty fucking dark in these parts. And we are but one heart. One soul, each of us. One tiny spark of stardust, trying to find some happy in a world of increasing hurt.

Here’s another secret…its not your job to find continual happiness. It is your job to do something with your life. To find a why, that makes a difference, and to pursue it. In the midst of hardship, in the midst of suffering, this is your purpose. Happiness may be a byproduct. But it’s not the reason. I’m asking you, in the gloom and confusion of our current state, to get out of your own head for a goddamn minute. Allow yourself to sit in the misery–appreciate the suffering and while doing so, extend your hand to the person next to you, or sitting in a bomb shelter half a world away.

Do something for someone else. Petition, Vote, Donate a little more if you can (be it time, money, or resources). Bring your elderly neighbor groceries or offer to put up their holiday lights. Send care packages or thank you notes to your local hospital or teachers or even the delivery person who’s working their ass off for some bijillionaire so he can make another penis rocket… Wait, am I getting my bijillionaires mixed up? Pot-ay-toe, Po-tah-toe, they’re all the same white privileged asshole who instead of ending human suffering, delights in deepening it…

Call your mom. Call your friends. Hell, call your best friend who you had a political rift with years ago. (Just–don’t call your ex—nobody needs extra shit in an already rampant shit storm). Patronize your local businesses for the holidays and take out.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

None of that appealing? Not feeling THAT altruistic? Ok, feed the birds outside, especially on cold days. Spend ten extra minutes playing with your dog or being ignored by your cat, perhaps at a closer distance. Read your kids an extra story. Hug them twice as long as you normally do.

Still not ‘up’ for that?

Then at least don’t be an asshole. The world is already at capacity. Be one of the good ones. If for no other reason than you are a light. And light spreads light. Not darkness. A light goes out and purposefully makes the world a better place in any small or significant way it can. It does not hate. It does not fear. It doesn’t not justify the killing of other people. It lets others have rights over their own body and futures.

That’s what being a light is about. Thinking about someone other than yourself. And that, my friends is the best gift you can give.

If you can do just one or two of those things, I guarantee something amazing will happen. The world won’t just look a little brighter. It will BE brighter. You will feel it in the center of your chest. You’ll start to see the world as a series of choices, opportunities, to glow a little warmer. To spread more joy. And I can’t think of a world more in need of the simple, small acts of kindness. No Pollyanna pigtails and sunshine yellow dress required. (Unless you already have the outfit and bitch you look fine in it—then rock that shit).

Go on now—get out of here and do something with your codger-ly, huff-ly, badger-ly self. Be a reluctant light if you have to. But be a light.

Survival of The Writer: And What National Novel Writing Month Teaches Us

Posted on by sereichert

I’m going to keep it brief and give you a little excerpt at the end of this blog to tie up another great year of NANOWRIMO. I hope that your month was successful and that it taught you something about your ability to persevere, in the face of ominous word counts, writer’s block doldrums, and persnickety characters that don’t do as they’re told.

I, for one, am proud of you. The winner of the goodie bag will be chosen this week and I’ll announce the name on the blog this week. Think of it as an early Christmas. I’m still curious to know how it went for all of you and if you have any pitfalls or successes you’d like to share, please send them my way. If this was your first or your 25th, I know that you got something out of the process.

If anything, it teaches us how to manage our time better, how to flow with the writing even when its not going how we think it should, and how to keep going even when its hard. I hope the very best for your project. My final piece of advice is this:

When the first day of December rolls around, I ask that you take that hard-earned manuscript you slaved over for a month, save it (Twice) and put it away. For a whole month. Don’t look at it, don’t tweak it. Don’t edit it. (the only exception is that if you’re really close to finishing something or the whole thing, keep extending your daily word count goal until you’re at a good stopping place). Don’t open it again until January 1st at the earliest. Give your brain and your thoughts time to settle and reflect, so you can come at it with fresh eyes and a begin the process of turning that beautiful raw material into a wondrous book.

Here’s a little (unedited) piece of my new project. Enjoy! (and Congratulations)

…

Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

I wish the train would go faster, why do we have to keep stopping for people? I get off, shove my way through the current going down, swimming upwards like a desperate salmon. I keep the soup intact. I climb his stairs two at a time and the ache in my chest is probably equal parts worry and being terribly out of shape.
“Please answer. Please answer,” I whisper as I raise my finger to the antiquated brass button. Charlie rips the door open before I can even ring his bell. He looks wild. Unmoored. His eyes are fighting and strange. Like he’s made…decisions. I don’t know what to say so…Kansas takes over.
“Hey—”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where you going?” I ask and tilt my head to the side like an innocent farm girl, unaccustomed to dark thoughts.
“Out,” he grouches.
“I’ll go with you.” I shrug at this, and the soup and bread shrugs too. He glares at me; I can feel his mouth forming sharp blades of words.
“I’m suicidal.” The admission itself is a lifeline that he throws out. He could have said he had a meeting, or lawyers to talk to, or a walk to think. He hopes I’ll back down if he throws it, head on, into my face. I force myself to smirk and roll my eyes, even while I bully him backwards, my will and the box of warm food herding him.
“You’re hungry.”
“No!” he says, a split second before his stomach rises to greet me with a groan. “Just go, Meg. I’ll see you at the funeral.” His back is pressed to the not yet closed door.
“Who’s? Yours?” I pause, Charlie’s eyes go soft through the anger. “Get in the apartment, Charlie. Before it gets cold.” I force him back, and slam the door closed, putting myself between him and it. I set down the box and take off my coat and hang it up next to where he’s standing. He sighs, takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Meg,” he whispers.
“Let’s eat,” I say and take off his scarf for him, hanging it with reverence next to my shabby long trench. He gives in and throws his coat over the bright blue. As though he can’t look at it tonight. I take the box into the kitchen and start to unpack the hot soup and warm bread. I have to get the step stool to reach the bowls in the cabinet and Charlie is just standing there watching me, shirt with his cuffs rolled up, untucked and pining for the bridge or busy street that would have ended the pain.
But the pain can fade. I know. It can become livable. It’s been my asshole roommate for some time. I set down the bowls and crack open the top of the container. Charlie leans in, trying to feign disinterest.
“Is that—”
“Chicken and wild rice, from Saul’s private stash.”
Charlie fake glares and his stomach growls again. “You little shit.”
I don’t respond but I pass him a full bowl and a chunk of fresh bread. He holds them both in his hands, warm, soft. Little things to cling to in a world that was so desperate and cold five minutes ago. He doesn’t speak, but he sits at the island and I saddle up next to him.
I talk about work. I talk about an article I’m working on about AI, I talk about the impending writer’s strike. I keep my topics to things easy to let go of. I talk about anything, but leave spaces of silence for him to contribute. He doesn’t, but he presses his long thigh against mine under the counter, and finishes the rest of the soup.
I offer to stay. He says it’s unnecessary. The funeral is tomorrow. We have things to take care of. He shakes his head. He’s changed from the man marching to death. To someone resigned to accept it. But I’m wary, and I don’t want to return to my cold apartment. Not with his knee touching mine.
“I can take the couch.”
“No.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m fine.” He says, and I believe him, but I look at him like I’m not sure. “I’m gonna be fine.” He says, and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

NANOWRIMO: WEEK 3

Posted on by sereichert

Hey! It’s week 3 and if you haven’t sent me a comment or update on how your process is going, please do! I have a drawing going on for a Writer Care Package, with all sorts of fun goodies for you to enjoy as a treat for surviving this month. And speaking of surviving, let’s take a look at the dreaded week 3.


Hey there writer.

I know I don’t have to thank you for being here with me because if you are akin to me, you’re looking for any excuse to change up the monotony of this novel-writing month and escape that mad-dash. Perhaps you’re feeling like this story you’ve been pouring your heart and soul into for what seems like years is starting to stale. Things are getting drab. The plot line is petering out. The characters have run out of things to say.

This is the dreaded, dead-ended doldrum, (say that one a few times fast) of week 3. And it can often feel like middle age in its sunken sails, stagnant air, and the questioning of the choices that brought you here.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

With only days left in this crazy adventure, you may feel like you just don’t want to go on. That perhaps it would be easier to abandon your project all together and take a hot little novella out for a spin. Maybe start seeing some poetry on the side. Perhaps dabble in a little erotica?

While I encourage some dabbling (especially in erotica) I would argue that all of those exploratory practices can be done right in your own work in progress. So you’re bored, so you don’t know what the characters will say to one another…I urge you to start a new chapter, in the same document, where your characters take a jump off of the tracks and do something completely unexpected. Put them in a different time, put them in a different dynamic…hell, switch their genders and see what happens. Write a poem that serves as a synopsis to the story, first from one character’s perspective, and then from another’s. All of this play might help unlock the paths your novel needs to get going again. Think of it as putting some wind in those sails. A little spice in between the pages.

And all of those words you put down, even if they may be edited out later, still count as words towards your 50,000. Let’s be honest, at this point in the process, any word count is better than none.

It’s normal to feel a bit discouraged and bogged down in week 3, but what you’re building is worth hanging on to. It’s worth the investment of time and thought in this, the darkest, dreaded, dead-ended doldrums.

Hang in there kid. Go get freaky with your WIP and spice things up to see you through to the end.

Next week, look for the final, and highly inspirational installment of my NANOWRIMO survival guide.

Finding Your Why to Handle Your How

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. From a near breakdown (I have a blog on that I’m trying to work the courage up to post) to a long and quiet return to my roots, to the challenging journey into sobriety, I feel like I’m walking a strange and wobbly tightrope. Teetering between okay and falling to my death.

So here’s what I’ve been doing. Reading. And writing. And planning classes. Struggling with knitting and walking my dog, giving back to my writing community in any way I can, and being present for my kiddos. I sometimes have to make myself do the things, and fight to keep the engine running. I’m keeping my hands and my heart busy and I know that’s not always the way to healing. But its a way to keep living, and right now…that’s got to be my only focus. Living. Hanging on, by full-arm embrace or bloodied fingernails.

Let’s go back to the reading part.

I’ve been going thoughtfully through Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. (I know– ‘Human’s’ search would be better, but I’m giving him grace, because I know he means us all). And it’s full of interesting and useful psychological studies and logotherapy as a means to find focus. But there’s this theme that’s been popping up, that he derives from Nietzsche, and that is when a person has a why, they can bear almost any how. And that even when we suffer, we can create of our suffering a purpose. That the suffering itself is a reason. And moving from there, we must think about our own personal meaning of life not only in total, but in every moment. Individual to us. Because without it, it doesn’t take much to drop us into a pit of despair and self-sabotage. What is our Why? Why do we exist, beyond what’s just pleasurable. What purpose do we serve in this moment and in the future?

He told stories of men in the concentration camps he was in, and their death and survival seemed to correlate (barring outside, violent factors) with whether or not they felt they had a purpose and a focus. When we have a why, we make the how possible. That when we lose hope, we start to disintegrate. More than just personal will and physical strength, it is the belief that we still have work to do.

I’m really not certain of my exact and ultimate why. I’m not sure that’s the point, and on the path to healing I’m granting grace to myself.

So instead I try to find a why in every moment. I eat better to keep my brain chemicals balanced. I work out to help my healing heart and feel strong. I kiss my children and hold them to make as many memories as I can. I write, even on days I feel drained because some days that’s when the truest thoughts come out. Some days I can only deal with one why. Some days I have the vision for all of the whys at the top of a mountain and I keep up steps towards them. Some days rest is my why….

I have important why’s in my life. Two of them to be sure, who walk on two legs and call me Bro (this generation’s affectionate ‘mom’) But beyond that (because as we know, everything in life changes and grows and evolves and we are not in homeostasis, we are in a constant state of morphing) what is buried in my own soul, the one thing I will take with me from point alpha to point omega, is not always clear. (Did I just mix German philosophers and Greek lettering systems? Maybe…it’s late.)

I could say writing, but its more than that, isn’t it? Because writing is storytelling, and storytelling is communication, and communion with other humans, and touching an empathetic center that says, I see you. I am you. I understand fear and love and the need to belong, and I will sit with you in all of these moments. Maybe it’s not so lofty and introspective as that. Perhaps its just kindness. Human compassion. Love. Who knows, that’s a 6 hour drive by yourself kind of question.

Ultimately, I find some why in every day. All the better if it lights even the smallest flame in an otherwise dark world.

What’s yours? Beyond the physical or environmental. Beyond your skill or your education. What drives you to wake up in the morning? To get up. To keep putting on pants and brushing your teeth.

Think about it this week. What’s your Why? What will make any how bearable?

The Best Advice

Posted on by sereichert

You all know I’ve been going through some stuff. And there are good days and bad days that cycle through (sometimes it seems endlessly). I’m more than certain that friends are getting tired of my shit. I’m tired of my shit. I’m tired of the ceaseless parade of thoughts that run over, and over, and over in my head. The same story, and the injustice that it carries. And my powerlessness to fix it, to solve it, to gain back my power.

And my friends have been wonderful. They’ve listened they’ve helped me get through the toughest points. They have been soft and understanding. They’ve allowed me space to rant and cry and feel all the things. But I’m getting tired of my own emotional stink. I reached a breaking point last night. I was laying in bed, hoping I could somehow manifest a small tear in my own heart. A weak blood vessel wall in my brain. Anything that would silently open in the night and insure I wouldn’t have to wake up today and face another round of my emotional baggage. That’s how exhausted I am of all of this.

But I did wake up. I woke up and my depression sat heavy on my chest and begged me to stay in bed. But I know if I don’t get up and move in the morning, it will hold me hostage for the whole day. So I got up, dressed, checked my email and had a response from an older lady in one of the groups I’m a part of. I’d written her, irate, and kind of rudely (not proud of that) last night about some issues with the group.

I expected her response to be in kind. But it wasn’t. But neither was it coddling to my tantrum. In essence she grabbed me by the shirt front, pulled me up off the floor, looked me in the eyes and said: Yeah, you’re going through it. We all do. It’s not the end of the world, stop being a little bitch about it and do something. (This is complete paraphrasing). She’s too decent to use that kind of language, but the salt-of-the-earth response was the same.

We all suffer. Get over yourself. You’re not going to get better sitting in your self-pity. We can’t change the way of the world but we get to decide how we let it change us. So stop being a little bitch. Do something about it.

I dunno. I think that’s actually the thing I needed to hear. Pull yourself up kid. You’re tougher than this. So you took a loss. Don’t we all? Move the fuck on.

So this morning I worked out, went through the normal morning routine and looked at my to do list as a series of steps towards something better. Even if it’s just more sanity. Even if its just away from the pit of vipers I barely escaped. Even if its just a step towards something else to be determined. It’s better than sitting still, with the loop of regrets and hurt running over and over in my head. Some days we step far, some days we shuffle a few inches. But today when that loop threatens to run, a broken megaphone on repeat, in my head…I’m going to give it that response… Stop being the victim. Get over yourself. Get back to work.

Poetry 9-21-23

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. Just a quick note to remind you that my next, unrelated Vella The Three Hearts of Eve is up and available (first three are free) at Amazon. It’s a fun little romp into espionage, genetic experimentation, forced proximity and questions of ethics. Still, oddly light hearted.

Also, I’ll be in Wyoming the weekend of September 29th through October 1st to celebrate their annual Bookmarked Literary Festival. If you’re in the area, come check it out, lots of awesome writers looking to connect with new and equally amazing readers.

And now, enjoy some Verse:

The Heart is A Terrible Driver

I am the owner of a body in the trunk
the forgotten musty trunk
in recesses of my memory
muffled and tied up
speechless to the ways my heart fell

Hearts do what they do
and mine
she is so big
so eloquent a speaker
so deviously soft and swaying...

she convinced me that 
she was the only one 
who could drive the beast of me 
through life, and it would all
work out

while my brain 
sat in the back seat,
shaking her head and looking at me 
in the rearview mirror
mouthing the words

You know better
Your gonna hate yourself for letting her drive

Brain was right
Heart took us off a fucking cliff
the first chance she got
giggling with the thrill
the free fall of Love
drunk on its chemical cocktail

all the way down
Brain stayed silent, 
arms crossed over her chest
as if to say

nothing I tell you will matter anyway
We were already over your head
the minute you gave her the keys

the carnage at the base of the canyon
was ruinous
the destruction, 
complete
Heart took the hardest hit
split down the middle in two ragged
pieces of desiccated meat
devoid of reason, or rhythm 

Head pulled her from the car, drug her through
the sharp pebbles and burning metal
shook with disappointment and 
carried her to a lesser used path
and I followed complacently
my own wounds stinging

Brain barely spoke, 
in all of those tender months-turned-years
up from rock bottom
winding on trails
of drunken malestorms 
and pious sobriety
We are a heavy load

Heart sometimes regains consciousness
and clings to the brush, on the side of the trail
striking out with bloody, broken hands
against the pull
trying always trying to get back
to the wreckage
to somehow make it all work out
make that car and joyous ride
run again

Brain cuffs her, hard
Sometimes it's just easier to knock her out
and keep her from making any decisions
then to try and reason 
with her stitched up pieces

from here on out,
my heart must remain bound and gagged,
the body in the trunk

we won't survive another crash like that

Learning to Say Yes Again

Posted on by sereichert

Gentle readers, its been a tough 9 months to say the least. In all actuality, it’s probably been more like a tough year. Year and a half? The point is, I can’t remember feeling good, and so this haze of depression and anxiety has been with me for too long a while. It transcends my short term memory cut off date.

Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com

That’s not to say wonderful things haven’t happened this year. They have. I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities and experiences I’ve been given (and earned). But all totalled, this last year has been the equivalent of having half my heart ripped out while the other half worked in vain to make up the difference. It was doable, it was survivable, but it wasn’t living.

Time may not heal all things, but time gives you the tools to learn how to go on living despite your losses, and the perspective to help you learn from those losses. In that period of learning and readjustment, I didn’t do a lot of saying yes. Only when absolutely necessary. Only when I couldn’t afford not to. And rarely to things that threatened to open the stitches of my past wounds. I just didn’t believe I was strong enough to suffer that kind of blood loss. I was barely strong enough to make it through the benign and even the enjoyable events of my post-loss world.

Photo by George Shervashidze on Pexels.com

But a few weeks ago, I said yes. To something I thought I’d never be able to do. A small step. Hardly a big deal for most people on the outside of my traumatic experience, but kind of an epic ordeal for me. And it brought up a lot of feelings and emotions and tugged at those stitches, now solidly grown into my heart and skin…but it did not tear them. And it did not sign a contract, and it did not change my mind about certain things. But it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be, as I feared it would be. It wasn’t impossible.

That one yes, opened opportunity. Not to go backwards, by any means, but to have the choice to go forwards. Sometimes saying yes, reminds us of our ability, our strength, and the experience we earned through going through some kind of awful shit, that leaves us stronger and more prepared to set boundaries and protect ourselves.

Photo by Stijn Dijkstra on Pexels.com

I’m saying yes more now. Yes, to events I would have bypassed before, yes to opportunities and possibilities. Yes to challenges that keep me from being stagnant. Yes to moving on. Yes to resting when I need to rest, and yes to pushing my comfort level when I’ve grown too at ease.

Yes to myself. To my future, to the things that I want as part of my distant horizon. I’m leaving the no’s behind me. The ones that showed me what wasn’t meant for me. What didn’t deserve me. I’m leaving behind old hurts, but taking the scars to remind me. How strong I am. How capable I am, How I own the capacity to say yes, and mean it.

The Tumultuous Writer’s Mind

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve struggled with a post this week. Either to launch into some deft and cuttingly beautiful poetry, or as Melanie Griffith once said in “Working Girl” to hit you with my smarts. I don’t have a lot of poetry or smarts today. Sorry.

Life has been chocked full of events. Some of them are little, and benign. Some of them seem like…not a big deal, but they rift something deep within the surface and you end up spending the week dealing with the ripples that have become tsunamis. Part drowning, part relishing the destruction of old temples and ideals that held you for far too long in subjecation. In any case…you start to question, where you’re at. What you’re doing? Are you living well? Are you loving well? Are you taking all the advantage of this one wild life? Or are you… stagnant? Have you slept too long in comfort and stopped fighting for something…far greater? Have you given up truth and freedom for discomfort for blissful ignorance?

And why not? Out of fear? Out of habit? Out of…this is how it’s always been and why should I wish more for myself?

It’s hard. As humans. As writers. To trust our own individual worth. Our creativity. What we offer the world. Why does it even matter in dark and vast sea of a million different voices?

Especially when cookie cutter, and formulamatic fiction seems to be the thing that draws in the most eyes… Well…shit I don’t know. There’s very little money in truth. There’s very little fame or fortune in telling the general masses something interesting and thought provoking and…god help us…challenging to their idiom. Please, as the Briar Rabbit once cried, don’t throw me into the thorn bush…Please don’t make me…think…

Is there room for the artist in this world? Is there room for the intellectual? The person disconnected from the constant spin and pizzaz of what constitutes journalism and entertainment (trick question, there’s no difference between the two now) these days. Is there room in the world for the person who chooses to turn of their screens and the voices and the barrage of constant, dumbing down information to sit still…and think… and write? About an original idea, about the absolute absurdity of life? To write something that makes us think? When was the last time you read such a thing? Such a strange soul-stirring thing? When was the last time you sat in silence, and contemplated the idea that in your not-so-distant-past, your brain kept you alive in a world full of real dangers and still managed to tell a decent story. That you were designed…for far better things. Not monetary, not status related. But…soul worth…When did you last wonder if all of this noisy bullshit was beneath you? Because I’m pretty sure it is.

I am weary of this world. It holds so little that matters. It has become so much neon pink and drowning narcissism.

I don’t have a blog for you.

I’m too busy thinking. On my own. Observing, with eyes, not videos. Listening to all perspectives, shouting to be heard… And even if I had something worthwhile to tell you, about you, your existence, about the white washed reality you’ve been fed, all the anxieties they’ve readily given you to keep you engaged on numbing little pills, I’m not sure anybody is ready to listen.

Book Launch and Something Fun

Posted on by sereichert

Hi kids…

Just a friendly reminder that my writing partner and I will be at Totally 80’s Pizza here in Fort Collins for our book (Back to the 80s) launch, next Tuesday (August 1st) at 6 pm. There will be prizes for best 80s costumes, giveaways for trivia, and books for sale! Also, we’ll be rocking some utterly disgusting neon so… come and at least laugh at me. Maybe buy a book while you’re there. (AND enjoy some pretty good pizza and all the amazing nostalgia that Totally 80’s offers)

The book release for Granting Katelyn is the same day as Back to the 80s, and since I can’t be both morose and Scottish and 80s Retro Bright at the same time, I’ll be hosting that launch in September. Stay tuned for details on that and a possible get together after the signing.

That’s the news that’s coming up soon. I’m currently making arrangements for a book tour up in Wyoming in November (may the road and weather gods smile on me) and so far only have the set date of November 21st at the Saratoga Branch of the Public Library. I will have all three of The Sweet Valley Series Available (signed) and will give a little talk about the books, the characters and how the state shapes great stories. More of that to come.

But–because I don’t just want to sell you books (in neon and blue eyeliner nonetheless) here’s a little flash fiction piece to entertain. It’s, as Monty Python would say, something completely different. Enjoy!

Demon-O’s

The day I summoned the demon was a normal Tuesday. I’d been reading the back of my cereal box, as usual. Milk dripping from my bottom lip as I tried to decipher the answer of the puzzle, by reading the letters upside down. My lips spattered sugared milk, through the white bubbles as I muttered and remuttered the words. Finally convinced, I shouted them out a third time, in fluffy robe victory. And there, before my eyes, sprang up from a tear in the fabric of time a blackened corpse, tattered wings, and one broken horn. It’s eyes bored into my soul as he asked, in gravelly tones.

“What is thy bidding, master?”

The milk dribbled down the front of my batman t-shirt and soaked into my robe from my agape mouth as I tried to reason with the smell of brimstone among the vanilla, frosted sugar bombs (now with extra marshmallows!)

“I—Do I know you?”

“You have called upon me, on this day, to aid in the wreck and ruin of this failing world.” Its voice rose in melodramatic glee. I put my spoon down and considered.

“Well, I hadn’t thought about that just yet. I haven’t even finished breakfast—” The demon heaved in deepening breaths, stoking up the fire of destruction that glowed like coals being blown on inside the empty cavern of its exposed ribs.

“What is thy bidding?”

I sat back, considered for a moment. One should always think clearly when presented with the opportunity for rampant destruction. I picked my spoon back up, tapped it in the air before, folding my hands in my flannel covered lap.

“Well, I—I do have some laundry needing folded.”

The demon stared at me, head cocked to one side, a bit of ash fell from its one decaying horn, dirtying my carpet.

“Laun–dree?” its voice croaked.

“Yes. Definitely.” It was my most hated chore. If I had someone at my beck and call, I wasn’t going to waste the resource on a world already destroying itself when I had three good sized piles waiting on my bed to be folded.

The demon’s boney shoulders shrugged up to its ears, clawed hands rose up in the in the universal gesture meaning ‘what in the fresh hell is wrong with this guy?’ and a disgusted look turned its mouth and stony forehead down.

“We do not fold laun—dree.”

“Are you or are you not at my bidding?” I glowered back. The demon grumbled and a hot coal fell from its grinding teeth.

“I am.”

“Well, then. Laundry first, world domination second.” As though versed in the obstinate language of teenage defiance, the demon threw its clawed hands up into the air and rolled its glass-like eyes skyward.

“This is bullshit!”

“Whatever! Get the chores done first and then I promise we’ll go find some havoc to wreak!” I argued back. You may not know but demon sighs are punctuated with smoke and spits of sparks that float on for seconds. Still, to his credit, he trudged up the stairs all the same, even if grumbling all the way.

“And don’t forget to separate the delicates!” I poured another cup of cereal into the bowl and looked at the answer again. I’d misread it. Thrice perfect times over.

“Oh—that’s an L not an O.”

Cats, Responsibility, and Writing

Posted on by sereichert

What in the hell is she talking about now?

Well, I was going to go through more information on conferences and educational opportunities, and how to network, with the impending conference season upon us all…but right now, my semi-blind, seizure prone cat is sitting at my feet, having unstartled from when I came up in different pants an hour ago.

This blog is about writing. In so much as it’s about compassion. In so much as it is about responsibility.

In so much as it is about living, every day, as fully and as lovingly as we can.

Periwinkle started going blind about a year ago, as a year-old rescue kitten. We adjusted, pivoted, and managed the house to meet her needs. Because I recognize that when you agree to make an animal part of your family, then you take them in total, and you care for them as best you can until it’s their time to move on to the next adventure at a nice farm in upstate New York. Then about a month ago her seizures started. Scary ones, big ones, with hissing and violence and running in circles while she urinated all over herself. Trying to hold her steady enough that she didn’t knock her head into a wall again and bloody her nose. And then came the clean up, and calm down, and gentle hands to wash it all away. I was convinced, after the third, that she would need to have help, ending her suffering.

After relaying my plan to my children, to prepare them for this difficult decision, my daughter…my loving, quiet, introverted daughter, the oldest and my first, who never asks for much and is sensitive to wavelengths most people in the world never even feel, looked me dead in the eye and said. “You’re just giving up on her.”

And at first I was mad. I’m the only one who takes care of the pets. I was exhausted. I was doing all I could and our vet didn’t have answers. There was medicine that might not help. There were surgeries she might not live through. All we had were mights and maybes.

Then I let her words sink lower into my heart.

When exactly–in the course of my ever-jading timeline–did I decide that nothing was better than mights and maybes? That the certainty of quitting overruled the hope of trying? When did I start putting my comfort over the pain of effort that may not be rewarded? Was I just justifying her ‘quality of life’ over my own life-weary need to not bother?

And didn’t I have a responsibility to do better for her?

So we took her to the neurologist (a three hour appointment that my husband took on as I had to work that day) and was given an order to administer 2ml of shitty tasting medicine, by mouth, twice a day.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever owned a blind animal, or one who’s breed and temperament predisposes them to vocal and violent physical outbursts but if not, understand that Periwinkle’s NORMAL vet appointments require no less than four vet techs/veterinarians to come in with welding gloves and a kitty straight-jacket to administer a two second shot to her hind quarters. Nonetheless, twice a day, we (two untrained and un-welding-level-protected adults) have to hold her down, open her mouth, and force her to take this sticky, foul tasting medicine.

TWICE A DAY.

FOR A MONTH.

That’s 60 times. 60 times I have to hold her down, against her will, pry her mouth open, let her nails tear into my inner thighs and hands and hope she doesn’t sneeze or vomit it all out again. I hold. My husband gives it to her. We placate her with treats and pets, and clean her face after. And it doesn’t get easier, and it never feels good.

But I’m not giving up on her. Because we don’t give up on the things we love. Not our pets, not our writing, not ourselves. And I try to recognize and respect that present discomfort is short term, survival and hope in thriving are the end goal.

We find a way, we exhaust all possibilities, we trudge through the painful tearing of our work and the forced sittings of writing in the parts and pieces of the story we’re trying to heal and bring to the surface. We go to therapy and we journal and we cut out toxic people who we’ve tried to appease for too long, even when it feels lonely and unsupported. We start saying no. We start aiming for yeses that matter. We sit in the pain and ply ourselves with gentleness in the aftermath. We speak kindly to ourselves. We cherish every moment, even the painful hard ones and we don’t take the easy way out.

Because the truth is, there’s not really an easy way out. Nothing in life is easy all the time. And I suppose you could quit whenever it got hard, but you’d never really get anywhere and all you’d end up with is a huge steaming pile of regret. And that’s a pretty shitty consolation prize for life.

I wasn’t built to give up. I wasn’t built to let heavy weight wear me down. Or have false friends, and gossiping narcissists and egotistical jerks make roadblocks of my own insecurities or need for love. I will do the hard work. Despite the odds, despite the voices that whisper behind my back and inside my head “wouldn’t it be easier if…”

I have a responsibility to my characters, to my stories, to my own love of writing. I have a responsibility to my peace of mind, to my health and well-being, to my balance and serving my future. Anything that gets in the way of those things, whether its claw marks, or vicious gossip, or plot holes…I’m no longer willing to accept or let them stop me anymore.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go pet my cat, and enjoy the sunshine calm where I can catch it.

Don’t give up while I’m gone.