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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Crossing Genres

Posted on by sereichert

Good morning! Well, its been an exciting few weeks with book releases and readings, and promoting the hell out of my stuff. I’m so excited to get back to actual writing, and talking about writing. Today, in collaboration with the fine folks at The Writing Forge, I’m going to talk about crossing genres, both as an author and also within singular books.

For more check out this podcast: “Look Both Ways Before Crossing Genres“

So, what does it mean to be a cross-genre writer? Well, it’s more prolific than you might think. Very rarely does an author stick to one genre alone for the entirety of their lives (I was going to say career but I’ve never actually known a ‘retired’ writer. We write up until the day we shuffle off the mortal coil as far as I know). Nora Roberts writes romance but she also crosses over into Mysteries as J.D. Robb. J.K. Rowling went from YA fantasy to Adult Fiction, Anne Rice has written everything from Vampires to DomSub, to Christianity. Hell, even James Bond’s creator, Ian Flemming wrote “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”. So the better question is not should you become a cross-genre writer but when and how.

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Writing in multiple genres can be done in one of two ways. By switching genres completely by novel or story, or by incorporating multiple genres into one project. Let’s start with the first.

So, let’s say you’ve been churning out kids books for the last ten years and you’re ready to jump into something new. You’re an established name in the genre, with a following (let’s dream big while we’re dreaming). Yay for you! But how do you go about the transition seamlessly?

First, know the genre you’re getting into. Mysteries don’t follow the same plot points or tropes as kids books (wait, do they?) Read as many mysteries as you can, gain a good understanding of typical tropes and character types for your new genre. Discover what you like and what you don’t, what works, and what doesn’t. This way, you’ll be ready to write a mystery that will appeal to the die-hard fans of the genre and hopefully make your work more acceptable.

Second, if you’re established in one genre and are jumping the creek into another, you may want to try a pen name. When people know you for a certain story/genre type, they’re going to follow you. But maybe they don’t want to read your new blood spatter fest to their 8 year old. So, establish a new name for your new genre. (J.D. Robb, A.N. Roquelaure, etc.)

However…if you are a sci-fi writer and you’re dabbling in fantasy, this is a smaller jump and you can probably keep your name. Those followers you have will probably be more lenient and accepting of your next adventure, and if you can take an established base on a new adventure all the better.

What would be the benefit of writing in multiple genres in this way? I’m so glad you asked. Here’s a bullet list.

  • Its a great way as an author to diversify your writing, get your work into different venues, and expand your base of readers
  • It can help beat boredom of following the same tropes/patterns over and over
  • It will help grow your skills as a writer. Romance writers know dialogue and relationships, Fantasy writers know word building, Horror writers know suspense. All of these skills can be honed and developed to the betterment of all your writing.
  • It makes you hard to pin down and undefinable. Frankly, I don’t like being put in a box. Yeah I write romance, I also write speculative fiction, suspense, sci-fi, and erotica. I dabble in poetry, and sink into human interest non-fiction. Don’t you put your labels on me.
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Now Let’s talk about utilizing multiple genres in a single novel/story/project.

Its slippery slope. Genre fans are genre fans for a reason. They like the predictability. They like knowing where the story is going and that it will end in a certain way. Mixing up loved tropes, taking side quests, and tripping the hero on his journey might lose you some fans. And genre fans are a huge base. I’ve even turned off a couple of readers because some of my romances were not ‘sweet’ enough. They were a little too dark for the genre. And that’s a risk I took by telling a grittier story in a genre that likes to stay flowery.

BUT the benefits to writing this way, are that you can incorporate elements of storytelling that best suit your characters and the story itself. I wrote a science fiction novel set on the rings of Saturn with time/space wormholes, and a heavy nod to literary poets. It had elements of religion, and romanticism, and social commentary, all in the midst of blaster fire and moonglass blade fights. It was one of my favorite stories to write and one of my best recieved and I think that’s because sometimes a story is just too big to fit in one genre.

Sometimes your story, is more like life. A daring, romantic, mysterious, fantasy western set in modern day suspense-filled and poetic semi-reality. And its interesting and unpredictable in spaces, and comforting and ties up well in others. And that’s why knowing the elements of each genre is important and can boost your plot line into something quite magical.

Crossing genres is, all in all, a great way to improve your writing and your reach. Knowing your audience, and understanding the different and distinct elements of your genres will help you do it in a successful and enjoyable way. I hope that you all give it a chance and let me know how your forays go.

What Change Can Teach Us

Posted on by sereichert

Ah, sweet homeostasis. That divine little holding pattern that so many of us humans cling to. Cute little creatures of habit, we like to find our lane, our niche, the familiar, the expected, the routine. I’m almost even inclined to believe that we not only enjoy it, but the longer we spend in our well-loved ruts, the harder it is to leave them. Even when we need to. Even if we want to. Even as the world changes around us. Isn’t that just when trauma and painful growth usually happens? When we are forced to change? Or are left behind because we refuse?

I could probably write a good 10,000 words alone on what change does to us as humans, but this blog is about writing, so I’m going to narrow it down.

Every writer has a rut. The niche you gravitate towards, the style you use, the genre, the POV, even your character choice…we have familiars that feel good to write in because they come easy. We know the pattern, the trope, the arc of a plot and all its points. And we could write this way forever and do, probably, quite well for ourselves (James Patterson and Nora Roberts own prime real estate on this front). But we don’t do very much growing.

Why is it important to grow?

Well, unless you ARE James Patterson or Nora Roberts (and if you are, holy shit welcome to my humble blog, thanks for reading) the chances of you scoring big on mass repetition are slim. Plus, the world of writing is changing and trending and learning to understand and at least try out these new waves, will help us adapt to the new and dynamic tides of readers. It will also help diversify your portfolio for future projects. Sounds like a 401k investment plan, right? Well—in a way it is.

Changing up your routine, your genre, your trope, your characters, even your plot is scary and hard and it may feel like you’re stumbling around in the dark. You may get tangled up, and blocked. But the best thing happens when you struggle and even when you fail. You learn. You learn what works, you learn how to take chances on solutions you might not have thought of before. You learn that you are capable of writing a flash fiction piece when all you’ve ever written were 200,000 word novels. You may learn you can plot a novel when all you’ve tried before is a 1200 word magazine article. You learn that you can explore different avenues of writing and still keep your voice.

You will learn. And learning empowers us, it invests in our ability and talents so when the next project, idea or work in progress comes around, we are armed with experience and inspiration to deal with it. So submit to a contest or journal that takes something you’re new to trying. Sign up for a class not in your genre. Try out a magazine article, or a poem if that’s not your normal route home. Do it. The worst that can happen is rejection and that’s not the worst that can happen in the grand scheme of things.

Get out of your comfort zone and face change and challenge as if they were opportunities for bigger, grander landscapes ahead. Say yes once in a while, even when it scares you.

We don’t always get to choose the changes that happen in our lives, but we can choose how we move forward with our art. We can jump out of the rut and careen into the unknown. We can fall. We can get scraped up. We will rise, take the lesson and keep leaping. To the end, that someday, we won’t be afraid of any new endeavor and will jump up to the opportunities that come by. And every time we do…we learn how to land on our feet. We will learn to navigate all kinds of bigger change if we chose to jump into the small changes.

You never know where your next great adventure will show up. Don’t let your head be buried in your rut when it does.

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Heat Index: What Spicy Pepper is Your Novel?

Posted on by sereichert
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Hands down, one of the dumbest blog titles I’ve ever come up with. But what are you going to do? We all have seasons of creativity in our lives, and sometimes I’m in the winter of title production. Today is that sometime. On to the point.

What is a Heat Index?

Great question! Well, if you don’t write/sell/promote romance, you probably don’t need to worry about it, but as it’s the month of ‘love’ or whatever made-up Hallmark holiday craze February represents to you, I thought I at least owed ONE blog about passion, romance, and how to make sure the right readers for your work find you.

Heat Index is, as in spicy peppers, a way to grade the level of sexual interaction (description of and frequency) in your books. Now, romance has a wide and varying range of heat levels. This blog will help you understand where yours falls, where you might need to edit to keep it in a certain level, and how and who to market it to based on it’s score.

Below is the breakdown of Heat Index. Keep in mind, this may vary from publisher to publisher, but in general the levels correspond pretty closely.

  1. “Wholesome”, Sweet” or “Clean” (I’m not a fan of either of these terms as it denotes that anything outside of this classification suggests that sex is dirty or nasty–and those are ‘bad’?) These are sometimes called ‘inspirational’ romances, and often fall into Christian Romance sub genres. They might have kissing, holding, etc, but rarely is a bodily fluid exchanged and the romance is built heavier in the emotional/spiritual attachment.
  2. “Sweet”, “Closed Door”, “Off The Page”, “Gentle”, or “Quiet”— This level of heat says that there is sex in your novel, but it happens without the reader being included. The characters may kiss, fondle, make out, and get excited physically but they will shut you (the reader) out in the hall while they get down to business. Mainstream women’s fic will employ this index more often, and there’s something to be said for leaving a few things to the imagination of the reader. I’m not sure about the terms “gentle” or “quiet”–as we don’t know what’s going on behind that door. Ha. Sorry.
  3. “Sensual”, “Sex on Page” and “Minimal Description”–This level the readers definitely know that sex happened, as it’s written down, but not poured over. Minimal description can mean an author uses euphemistic language, very basic terms and ideas, or even is more mechanical in description. They sort of “beat about the bush,”….he…heeheheheheha. Ugh, sorry, I had to. Nobody else laughing their ass off, just me? Ok.
  4. “Sexy”, “Sex on Page” and “Explicit” also “Erotica”–In other words, if you’re at your kids karate/dance/hockey/ soccer practice, it would be wise to not let anyone read over your shoulder. These scenes get as close as any good OB/GYN or proctologist might (but in a less clinical way). Sometimes the lines between 3 and 4 are more blurred. My rule of thumb, is that if it makes me blush, feel warm all over, and a bit flustered after reading it (or writing it), it’s probably a level 4. What constitutes “Sexy” might be more based on the female main character’s exploration of fantasy. “Erotica”, has much more to do with the physical aspects of romance and can be broken down by ‘special interest’ (ie bondage, monogamous menage, reverse harem etc.). In both cases, these are not “letters to playboy” books, even with more descriptive love scenes, they still have emotional attachment and a satisfying (nearly said ‘happy’) ending.

Well, there you have it. If you write romance, and especially if you’re looking to query your manuscript, it helps to know what you’re selling and if the publisher is a good match. If you just like reading romance, look for these keywords (often in online descriptions and sometimes on jacket covers) to make sure you’re getting the romantic endorphin hit you crave most.

Happy Reading!

Poetry 1-26-2023 (a collection)

Posted on by sereichert

I was supposed to write something wonderful today, about writing or marketing or something akin.

I was supposed to sell my books to you today and tell you how much you’ll love them, and how fun my writing is. I was supposed to remind you to submit, to tell you to check out my social. To connect to me in a thousand different ways, and hey–leave a review if you can? And tell me you’re favorite romance trope…

But today…is not that day. Today the poet sits in the captain-of-my-soul chair. Today I want to connect to you with words and not flashing scrolling reels. Because today, grief and loss are sitting heavy in my soul. Because I’ve crossed over a line I cannot travel back over. Because I have lost so much of myself. And I am tired. Today I am tired. And I’m full of heavy words and thoughts.

So– I’m not going to sell you my books, or my enemies to lovers tropes, or my poetic tomes. I’m not going to sell you myself today. I’m just going to gift you a piece of my heart, while I still have some of it to call my own.

Photo by Vera Silkina on Pexels.com
Rooted

I fell
a lone tree in the woods
not even the soft whisper of leaves
touching ground
to announce my end

and now, even slain
recumbent on the forest floor
my heart continues on
in irregular beats
a strange, sad creature
gnarled and stubborn
a stump not removed,
rooted too deep 
a fixture of these 
dark woods

you cut into my core
the center rings
the childhood yew
the heart of my heart
cleaved in two
with such a cruel and easy
grace

I am no fixture to you
no rooted thing
you see forests,
not me
a weeping willow, 
scythed down, 
with one stroke 
of your sharp
and pitiless
tongue.



Found
 
when they find me

i will be alone

the questions and headshakes
directed in quizzical depths
to the loam and silt they cannot sort through
no reasoning to be caught
in bucket or screen
 
when they find me

dressed as animals are
in the skin i was in
the day i roared into the plain
i will shock in cold white
filled with trout breath
and minnow kisses
 
When they find me
broken shell
battered 
lovely in purple and blue
head struck rock 
knee scraped branches
lips in shades to make 
mountain bluebell envious
they will lament
such wasted splendor
 
when they find me

the questions of why
i was lost to the brine 
a jointer to the self-takers before me
whispers will static the air
of all the ways i failed
and too long loitered in futility
 
when they find me

they will burn the empty package
while I sneak, 
soul-snake in water
down river bends to the sea

never to be found again


This Isn't a Poem for You

So this isn’t a poem for the broken hearted
it is not for those who were left behind
or ghosted
or dumped
or abused
or disregarded

This is a poem for those who watched
as another soul walked away
sat in their silence
was released from another person’s life
faced pain at their hands
or were simply ignored
into nothingness…

You are the warriors of time
you, who have felt the sting
of heart break 
and disappointments

you are the carriers of grief
and the bodies made of scars
and you have lived through
every burning cut
and every lonely night

This is not for the soul they broke,

this is for the you that survived.

This is not a sermon from some high tower
that you are stronger for it
that you are braver because of it
that you are a better person
a heart bigger, 
with these new and ragged cracks 
to let the light in

I will only tell you what I know

You survived.

you packed up your heart and your mind
and you moved on
you accepted their silence
you treated your wounds and closed the door
you started paying attention to yourself 
when they no longer did

and that carries weight

self determination
and the ability to move past
the fickle and soft-seated lies,
of a love always perched to flee 
the very second things got hard

Your feet remain grounded
and you outlasted

You heart is a seasoned warrior
and it may never let another in

but it doesn’t have space anyway
because in their absence
beyond the echoes of their abuse
the pain of their mistreatment,
you’ve filled your heart
with the unfaltering love
of yourself

they can’t ever move back in

there isn’t room any more.

Welcome to my Newsletter

Posted on by sereichert

Hey Cats and Kittens, (I have no idea why I wrote that. It’s been a very strange, life altering week, and I’ve filled up all the confused spaces with a lot of marketing so…I can’t be trusted with vocabulary)

I any case, Check out my new newsletter! You should be able to access it every third Thursday. If you follow the blog, it should be some repeated information but I’m trying to throw some new things in. Every month, I’ll also be running a recipe from my upcoming book “Raising Elle” and giving dates of book launches, signings, and events coming up this summer.

Newsletter

If you like it, share it, and spread the good word

Also, don’t forget to send me your submissions for the Beautiful Twist. Come on, I know you have some poetry laying around needing a home, a cozy little book with a breathtaking cover. Something you could show off to your family and friends (look I’m published!) So don’t hesitate. May will be here before we know it. (Submissions should be sent to sereichert@comcast.net titled “BT Submission_your name”. Further details can be found here: Submit

Finally–if you live in Wyoming or along the Front Range of Colorado and you’re interested in hosting a signing or even a talk about writing, send me an message here on the website or via my email: sereichert@comcast.net and we’ll work something out.