S. E. Reichert | Sarah Reichert Author

poetry 5-23-2024

Posted on May 23, 2024May 25, 2024 by sereichert


Gentle Pressure, Applied Ruthlessly

Watch the way, the bouncy ends of the pinyon

waver to every wind blown

see the arch of their spines, the reminder

that the pressure of her breath is constant

and unyielding

She is invisibility and discretion of power

Her presence, ethereal and it seems

mere trickery

until it is applied

day in,

day out,

to the tender aspirations of every tree,

Only then, when they are grown

in twisted sculptures

Leaned away and in piety of her face

do we see the influence

of the wind that raised them

S.E. Reichert

Standing at Attention

Posted on May 9, 2024April 28, 2024 by sereichert

Hello Writers…

I came across this blog from a few years ago. I no longer am blessed to teach Martial Arts (due to some pretty awful happenings at my former dojo and a level of patriarchal bullshit I can’t even dive into right now). But I’ve been teaching a lot this year about creativity and this blog struck me as something that fell in line with the concept. So, without further ado…

Today I’m talking about kids. Particularly the three to eight crowd whom I typically work with in my karate classes. You see, this week is testing week.

It’s the exciting hours when those little bright-eyed darlings bound out on the floor (hopefully remembering to potty first and bow before crossing the threshold of the mats) to ‘earn’ their brand new belt and no doubt bragging rights the next day.

Now heading the school’s instruction team is a stoic former Marine and a stalwart of rules and order on the floor. Absolutely excellent in the face of a rowdy teen or an unsure adult in need of the structure and control.

Absolutely useless and frustrated in the face of the giggling, juggling mass of pent up life force.

And testing time is rarely different.

Though the potential for their future of order and restraint is glimpsed (and I suppose that’s why they come to the school in part) some of the instructors will roll their eyes at the still inadequate control. Meanwhile, I stand in the back and lament the beauty of their childhood being chipped away.

I was told repeatedly that “the Dragons class will eat you alive”. Both male instructors said so, shaking their heads and trying to bury the horrors of such a war. I nodded, in that reassuring way you do when someone has no idea.

Son (I call them son because I’m grow’d up over them by a few good years), I’m a mom. And on top of that, I’m a mom that actually enjoyed the ages of my daughters when I had to staunch nose picking while watching them ping-pong off the couch and sing “Let It Go” at the top of their lungs. Every day. All day. Seven days a week, most nights, and EVERY vacation.

So when those little bouncy balls landed on line tonight, wiggling in their gis until their belts untied themselves, and the jaws of less-seasoned warriors clenched, I glowed. I smiled. I adored and doted on.

Want to know why?

One of the greatest beautiful moments in life is when the life in us cannot be contained in man-made illusions of order. It’s in the misdirection and distraction. It’s the exuberance and unconditional love. It’s all that we lose as we age, either by the weights of life tying us down, or from being told repeatedly to stand straight and stop wiggling.

Ok. I understand that order has to exist. Ask any of the poor souls on I-25 while the uninformed attempt to merge. We do have to learn order and self-control. Or everyone would just live on cake and would never go to work, and we’d get into fights and stray from our taxes… I’m not saying that order isn’t important.

But order imposed on a mind still fluttering like a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow, is like trying to…well, catch a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow. At some point. You need to just let go and enjoy the ride and the sunlit flash of pure color. Keep them safe, keep them engaged, and love every odd-ball story and uncontrolled giggle.

I hope you realize by now, that I’m not just talking about kids here. Think about the people in your life, and what it would mean if we all encouraged, especially the adults in your life (You TOO reader), to barrel through it all with a bit more frivolity and joy.

Sometimes we’ve been so long from those two things, that we’ve forgotten how. It’s not so hard to find your way back. Here are some things that may help:

Go barefoot in the grass

Dig for worms, put them back in the garden.

On the way to your car from the grocery store, work up a good speed and hop on the back of your grocery cart…ride it all the way to the car.

Say no. To them. To yourself…to every “how to be perfect” blog or article you read.

Read the comics first and throw the rest of that shit away.

Go for a bike ride with your kids around the block and name your bike like the noble steed it is.

Tell a dirty joke.

Laugh at dirty joke.

Laugh at a fart.

Fart (and pull the covers over your spouse’s head so that they may truly enjoy it…if your marriage is really meant to last it won’t matter. If it matters well…then I’m going to let you think about that for awhile)

Belch in front of your kids, and follow it with a “Holy cow! That was awesome!”

Grab a bowl of lucky charms and watch some cartoons (Teen Titans is my fav these days).

Wiggle

Dance

Sing “Sweet Caroline” LOUDLY out your car window at the stop light. Those who don’t join in or at least smile are to be pitied.

Never say no when a child wants a hug.

Always kneel down to meet them, their perspective is so much better anyway.

Tell people you love them.

Tell them you love them without needing it to mean anything more than just what it is.

Move on.

Forget.

Someday, remember just the good bits, fondly.

You see, kids and older people get what we’ve forgotten. That the beauty of life comes from the dancing in chaos, not the standing still on line.

Still, go potty before you try the standing still…it does help the wiggles.

Poetry 4-23-24

Posted on April 25, 2024May 25, 2024 by sereichert

This is the last week of April, and so I offer a “still has that new smell” poem, straight out of the journal (so please forgive if I haven’t reworked it much). If you’ve enjoyed this month, if you’ve gotten out of your comfort zone and explored poetry, I encourage you to keep reading. Poetry is the boiled down essence of awareness and presence in the moment. It’s a straight line to another person’s soul and perspective and if the world needs more of anything these days, its building up compassion and connection between humans and fostering our common humanity. Enjoy this little off-shoot of one of my favorite songs. Its always good to have a conversation with the beating of your heart. The punctuation is intentional. I hope you can feel yours beating too.

Conversations with My Old Heart

Hello, 
my old heart.
I'd nearly forgotten that you still lived
in this tattered cage of me

until you jolted awake
with such ferocity
that I was stunned to attention,
in the death of night

. . / . . / . . / . . / . . /. . . . . . . . .

Who put a kicking prisoner beside my lungs?
Why does he fight against his cage so?

Is it because I've ignored you?
Silenced you
reprimanded you
cuffed you 
when you spoke out in knowing beats
against the electrical reasoning
of neurons and logic?

Is it because,
this time it matters?

You're quieter now

I put my hand on top of you
and feel you push against my palm
fighting . . steady . .

pay . . attention . .
or you'll miss it.

You'll 
miss
it
all . . / . . /

What am I missing?

Your . . One . . Wild . . 
and . . Beautiful . .  life . . /

There you are,
my old heart
I'm sorry I locked you away 
for so long

Why? Why did you? . . 

Because I was afraid.

Of me? . . 

Of letting you lead.
Who knows where I might have ended up?

who . . knows . . who . . knows . . 
who . . knows . . who . . knows . .

Poetry 4-10-2024

Posted on April 11, 2024April 11, 2024 by sereichert

I’m ten days late to Poetry Month. So, in penance, I’ll be posting poems every blog this month and a few more on my socials. Because if the world needs anything right now, It’s poetry.

Here’s an odd little collection. Read, sift through, taste them on your tongue, roll them over your neurons and let them…sink in.

Poem Speaks

She scribbled me down
in the depths of anguish
The sharp lines that cut through 
conventions of writing forms
and cursive norms

uncaring of limits or margins
for there were none to her suffering
no lines could contain
the horror that poured
fresh blood on the page

She died on that page, over and over
for nights on end
awash in loneliness
visions of failure
longing for the final epilogue

and all I could do was trail behind the pen
powerless to stop the deluge
helpless to stop the stabbing wounds 
of ink and metal
I was merely the blood spattter
the aftermath

sometimes a river of words 
flooded over with her tears 
until she lay spent across the page
a traveler unable to cross that river
unable to battle the current
but unwilling to stop fighting
for safe shore

I loved her every word
her every dark thought and
the possession of her passion
that overtook those nights

Because at least when the damaged words flowed
and their messy calligraphy 
misspelled itself across the page
there was breath to her

there was fire within
and she burned bright

in the blackness of a cold world
there was enough fodder of love to suffer
to ache
to ignite

The pause of me meant the death of her 
the blank page was a heart 
too weary to go on 
a silent pen was a life ended

I persisted in the days when I was her written world
survived while she lived
in all her aching splendor

When she lies still, 
pen laid to rest against desk
I will only breathe 
if her words pass through 
new eyes, ride across new tongues
I will be the fire she leaves behind.

S.E. Reichert

Tiny Speck Wanderer

Hey, tiny speck wanderer,
no more than a bird’s heart beat
A flutter of space dust,
careening out of control
headed into the black abyss
along with all the other 
stardust heart beats.

What’s one head of a pin
drumming on a thimble mean
to a galaxy of celestial beings?

Don’t you ever feel small?
No matter to your matter, at all?

The moon takes up a quarter’s space
to those tiny bead eyes
Jupiter—the mighty giant
just a hole in the dark night’s skin,
pricked by needle tip.

Yet there you spin, 
the world in orbit around you
The cares of your heart
the temperature of your feet
the hunger or fullness
weight or lightness in your belly.
The love worn or tossed away,
Suddenly the concern of the cosmos.

Tiny speck wanderer
The universe beats for you.
in the petite coils of your
Underrepresented brain junk.
A flutter of space dust—
with universal ego.

S.E. Reichert

Untitled 1-24

I swing from suicide
to bird song
in the hair-breadth
of a star

one shade dark
now light
but...

When I have purpose
the pendulum halts
the need for center
a string of balance hangs
my sanity
and...

When unrequited and impossible love 
teases the fluttering edges
of this tattered heart
I forget that I want to jump 
off a bridge
in the small moments of 
polite conversation
so...

Even when
its all just illusion
the empty purpose,
and impossibility of love
the light from a star
billions of years ago
now dead and gone...

They are the precarious 
threads of hope
from which I swing.

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Damn Book. Part Three: The Down and Dirty of Feeding Your Creation to The Wolves of the World

Posted on March 21, 2024March 18, 2024 by sereichert

Hello, gentle writer, thanks for surviving that title up there…ahem. Let’s chat, shall we?

I suppose it goes without saying that after you’ve written your book and streamlined it into a gleaming beacon of fine-as-hell storytelling, you could easily stop reading this blog. You may even wish you could. But there is one more thing I’m going to need you to do…

Resist the urge to tuck that book safely away in a drawer.

Unless of course, all you want for your book is for it to sit on the dusty shelves of your den and no other eyes need apply. That’s cool.

We probably didn’t want to read it anyway, right? Your story? The shining soul child of your imagination and hard work? The obsession that’s kept you awake at night and in the zombie zone of blank-eyed stares over your cornflakes, morning after morning, while your brain builds the magnificent steel girdle of plot and your vibrant right hemisphere stretches the skin of detail and beauty across the iron bones to make something quite unique and amazing. Nah…We don’t want to see that. Who would?

Were you able to pick up on that sarcasm? It’s tricky in Cambria 12 font to really capture the essence of my meaning. Here, allow me be to be perfectly direct.

Show me your work! (Channeling Cuba Gooding Jr.—“Show me the Story!”)

It’s quite possibly the hardest thing you’ll ever do (even harder than killing your darlings? Why yes, even harder than that!) Being a writer is a parade of progressively harder choices and leaps of faith…but then again, so is life… hang on to your self-help hats here, she’s getting deep.

Yeah, it is scary. Because we’ve learned well by this point in our lives that when we put so much love and heart into our work it’s gut-wrenching to hand it over to someone who can’t possibly understand the grit and soul we put into it. They might misinterpret. They might not ‘get’ it. They might declare us wrong, or awful, or in desperate need to change our dreams.

Nobody wants to face that possibility. You are not alone in this fear. And let’s face facts; there are jerks out there. Legit, bonafide A-holes. Those that are quick to cut down creative efforts (especially when they get to hide behind the curtain of anonymity in some trolling-Wizard-of-Oz’s mother’s basement.) They LOVE to give a good criticism, because of their own fears of failure and are stung by the twinge of jealousy when someone else is bold and brave enough to create and share.

It’s a sad state of affairs but your work can become fresh meat for the slathering-mouthed, teeth-gnashers of the world.

You Are Not Alone. You aren’t the first they’ll try to tear down, and you certainly won’t be the last.

Do it anyway.

Why? Why torture yourself? Because, there are good people out there. People who love stories and story-tellers. People who understand it’s a process and that when you come to them with open pages and hearts, that they are taking on a mantle of trust. Trust that they will be kind, but honest. That they will work WITH you to make the story better. They will point out things you’ve been too close to see. They will point out things they think could use clarification. They will show you the loosened bolts and torn canvas so you can repair your creation. They will point out the beauty, the grace, the delicate details that gave them shivers or tears and it will embolden your spirit to fight for your creature.

Sharing your book is a monumentally important part of finishing your book. It will teach you what you didn’t know about your writing. It will teach you what works, and what needs work.

My challenge to you, frightened artist cowering over your pages like a hunched Gollum in the dark defending a scarred band of metal, is to offer up your precious. The beauty and the joy of creating are in the sharing.

I’ve had my cut of criticisms, hard and dirty. Mean. Some of them made me wonder if the person had even read my writing or just made assumptions based on my genre and lack of MFA gilding. I’ve wanted to take match and tinder to 8 years worth of my life on the front lawn while screaming profanities in the general direction of certain publishing houses. But I didn’t. I cooled down and let myself say these words to my disgruntled brain.

“What are they seeing? What is slowing my writing/impairing my message? What can I change while still being true to my work?”

Opening the wound is to lay your ego out on the ground beside your creature and do the work that needs to be done. This is not an actual child. It’s an idea. And all good ideas can always get better.

Find a group of friends. Start there. Start with those that love you. Move up to those that think you’re decent enough, but aren’t afraid to tell you what they think. Give it to a few discerning hard-asses. Each step along the way, refining and tweaking, without giving up your voice or the elements that make your writing yours. No one can take that, nor should you let them.

So that’s it. The third and nearly final part of this series. Next week I’ll wrap it all up with a handy and bulleted (we all know you love the bullet lists) list of how to query your work to someone who can serve as a gateway into the realm of publishing.

Good luck, kiddo. And if all else fails and you don’t know where to turn with your work, send it to me or another writer you trust. Nobody knows the soul struggle better than your own kind.

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Damn Book. Part Deux: Seeing The Bigger Picture

Posted on February 15, 2024February 12, 2024 by sereichert

Bonjour!

I’m so glad you decided to come back.

How was last week?

Did you separate the amoebic tendrils of your technological parasites long enough to remember how to write, free-style? Did you get hand cramps? Keep it up, before you know it, you’ll be cleaning and jerking 7,000 words a week, vocabularian veins popping out all over the place.

For this week we’re going to zoom ahead to the future; to the cumulation of all your writing efforts and the massive chunk of story sitting in front of you. All of those beautiful words you’ve poured into a pile are just waiting for the dexterous hand of a good story teller.

Your rough draft is like a thousand pound hunk of stone. If you want to get all “Americana” on it, you could even say its akin to a 100 pound ‘pat’ of butter. Yeah, let’s go with butter.

The rough material has potential. Your story has energy and power. But if you were to send in a stick of butter to the Iowa State Fair judging committee, they’d probably to one of three things: write you a scathing review for wasting their time; send it back and write a scathing review for wasting their time; or batter it, deep fat fry it, and send their thanks for the mid-morning snack.

jabba butter — Jabba the Butt(er). No? Come on. You have no idea how many hours I spent looking at butter sculpture.

Your book, your words, your ideas deserve better. If you loved it enough to write it, then love it enough to shape it into the best it can be. And by that I mean…learn to edit your work properly. This week’s true secret to finishing your damn book is something you won’t hear from a lot of writers and here it is:

Being a great writer is 20% writing. and 267% editing. Shut up, I’m not good a public math. Seriously though, when you get your ass in that chair and throw all the good and bad down, and your mind learns to work in the space and time you give it to create, you can really accumulate a massive amount in a short period of time. But the art of writing, the finesse, the je ne sais quoi, if you will, lies in the ability to edit that beautiful mess into a story that captivates.

Que voulez-vous dire?

How does this magic happen, you might ask? If you’ve been around in the writing game for any amount of time, you’ve had the old adage banged into your skull over and over “Kill your darlings, Kill your darlings…” Yes…yes Maestro Faulkner, whatever you ask!

What does that really mean? Well–*le sigh*–it means you as a dreamer, a wordsmith, a lover of story and character…you, creator…must become a destroyer. A hard, eagle-eyed machine; disconnected from the rapport you’ve built over the years with your characters. You must let go of the personal angst, pain, and joy you’ve brought into the world enough to see its true potential. You have to take that beautiful hunk of marble (or butter) and break the rough and useless parts away to reveal the true work of art beneath.

buttered saddled cock — Yep…that’s a giant butter cock with a saddle. You. Are. Welcome. (By the way, ‘giant butter cock’ is now trademarked. By me.)

Oh, Mon Dieu! (which literally translates to OMD—OMD Becky, regarde ses derrière!)

The practice of “Killing your Darlings” is meant to make you understand that editing is hard. That letting go of the phrases and pieces of your novel that you love, when they are distractions to the story and its flow, can be the best thing you do. Cut. Cut deep. Cut the subconscious catch phrases and passivity. Give your readers a stronger character by making them the center of the action; by putting the reader in their shoes. Stop telling us everything. Cull the useless, the distracting, the stuffy, the monologues and head hopping. Give us the moonlight glinting off of window panes.

Take that lump and make it into something where details pull double-duty and every word counts. Line by line, strike out that which does not serve purpose or cause emotion to rise in the chest. Because even the most indescript lump of butter can turn into something quite magnificent when given the time and attention it deserves.

angelic butter — Sweet, Angelic Milk Fat.

Next week…after all of you hoodlums have taken a hard look at your work and gutted it to buttery perfection, we’ll take a look at what you can do next to get that silky minx out into the world.

Until then, keep writing. Drop me a line. Tell me how you’re doing.

Does anyone really want a giant baguette right now?

A Super Secret Guide to Finishing Your Work In Progress. Part 1: Technology vs. Creativity

Posted on February 8, 2024February 6, 2024 by sereichert

Hey there, writer? Whatcha doin’? Surfing the Internet? Caught up in some devilishly clever blog post that has promised to give you the secrets of the craft in one easy-to-read, bulleted list with some fancy-schmancy graphics?

I see you.

I’m glad you’re here, actually, I DO have some important advice in this my first lesson on finishing your work in progress.

Get off the Internet and back to your writing, you filthy animal.

Ok…wait! Not right now…just hear me out. I promise, I’ll be brief (500 words or so…Look! Only 420 left! 418…)

Fewer things deter the creative process like the multi-faceted distractions we face in our interconnected world. The phone, social media, the addictive thumbs-up ‘likes’ and sympathetic sobbing emojis. Constant information streams into our overworked, underfed brains; the lies, the truth, the barrage of sight and sound that, when boiled down, amounts to so much nothing. So much noise.

So shut it down.

That’s it.

That’s all. Part 1, in a neat little nutshell. Expand? Ok, but only because you asked…

Do you want to write more? Then disconnect. Grab a pen and paper and sit your ass on a park bench or in a coffee shop with your phone and laptop “conveniently” left at home.

“But…but I can’t just write! I won’t be able to spell check or word count (320 left) or research the typical milk production of a Nubian goat in April!”

First of all, my little perfectionist, rough drafts don’t need to be spell checked the moment words hit paper (shocking, right?)

Secondly, one page of average handwriting has about 250 words give or take. You’re welcome.

Third (ly?), you sound like someone who could use my patented “Blah Blah” technique to avoid distraction in the middle of your writing flow.

Not familiar? Well, don’t search it on line (Jesus, haven’t you been listening to me?) It’s a secret I share with only my closest creative misfits, lucky you.

When you don’t know a factual detail of some part of your scene, insert the words “Blah Blah” into the space and move on.

Did you—did you just roll your eyes at me? Watch it…I will mom voice you so hard…

Observe:

“Victoria knew that the Nubians would produce at least blah blah of milk next month, giving her blah blah bars of homemade soap to sell.”

It also works if I’ve forgotten a secondary character’s name but know that scrolling back to find it will dry up the good stuff that’s pouring out:

“ ‘You’re a handful,’ Mr. Blah Blah said and scowled over the drag pole fence.”

Don’t fiddle with your flow. Let the unnecessary lay in wait and avoid the pitfall of jumping on the Internet to do some ‘quick research’ which will curtail your thought process and take you away from your work (16 hours of baby-goats-in-pajamas-videos later and I’ve forgotten evil exists in the world. Good for sleep, bad for fleshing out antagonists.)

When the creative dust has settled into a beautiful, uninhibited outpouring of ingenuity go back and find your ‘blah blahs’ (they stick out like sore typos, especially being ‘repeat’ words) and you can designate a specific, allotted time to research and check them.

There it is.

But in my forty or so words left, I should give you at least one bullet (I believe I promised it somewhere up there.)

More than just in your writing, consider disconnecting in your life. Be present in the world around you, not face down in a screen. Your writing will be better. Your life will be better. Power down for at least an hour a day. No phone, no television, no laptop, no screen. Live through your eyes, your ears… all those messy, beautiful human senses your mother worked so hard to make for nine months. Notice the vibrancy of color in nature, the way wind feels against your cheek. Listen to your own breath. Taste your food. Powerful writing comes from living with powerful intention.

Ok, now you can leave me. I apologize for surpassing the mark. What can I say? I didn’t want to mess with my flow.

Go work on your book. Your poem…your passion. Come back and let me know how it’s going.

I’m signing off for the day, but I’ll get back to you when my creative dust settles.

Advice on The Next Year

Posted on December 28, 2023December 26, 2023 by sereichert

(As if she knew enough to tell anyone else what to do with their life…)

I am, by no means, an expert in life. I have failed at it before in so many ways. I’ve made lots of messy mistakes, and will probably do so again, at least once a year for the rest of the time given me. So–feel free to close out of this blog with a knowing roll of your eyes.

Or…

Hang with me for a minute, and let’s talk. Listen, I know that this world and this life feels like a hot mess sitting on top of an explosive train wreck, parked next to a puppy store and children’s hospital. There are large, capitalistic forces beyond our control, churning out profitable war machines, and rising costs. Famine, disease, environmental ruin… There’s very little that can be done by one person. Except…

Except what we can do.

Here’s my humble advice:

Stay healthy. Eat well, cut out poisonous shit (alcohol, drugs, etc), keep your body moving, and mediate. Read books, lots of them, from lots of sources and lots of topics.
When you indulge in news, chose a reputable source, and shun any ‘breaking news’ sensationalism. Your attention to the world’s needs and troubles isn’t for sale.
Do something that scares you. No, I’m not talking driving off a cliff, or anything that’s hurtful. I mean, ask for that promotion, take that class, talk to that girl, write that book, quit that job, leave that jerk. Do it.
Do something that feeds your bigger self. Everybody has a passion, no matter how silly or fanciful others find it. Fuck others. Do your silly. Embrace that hobby, that joy, that interest. Do something that makes you lose track of time for the engagement it brings you.
Understand and embrace that your passion, your creativity, doesn’t need to be monetized to be worthwhile. It does not have to be sold to justify its existence.
Be kind in all things. Studies have shown that when we are kind to others, it releases oxytocin into our system. That’s the feel good snuggly chemical that we’re all short on. It helps us bond and relate. It helps us connect. In a real way, not just by clicking a ‘like’ button. People who care for others, speak out for others, stand up for others. Understand that other’s rights are our rights too.
Limit your time in imaginary, algorithm cesspools and echo chambers. Seriously. Set a timer for your social media scrolling. I know its part of many of our jobs, but so are spreadsheets, and we don’t spend any more time on those than absolutely necessary. Spreadsheets are better for you than social media. And if you knew how much I fucking hate spreadsheets, you’d know I mean business on this one.
Get outside. In the cold, in the wind, in the heat and the dark. The human body was built to experience the particular stimulations of the outside environment. We need sun. We need the far away stares into mountains and parks. We need shivers and sweating. We need to feel the earth under our feet and the sharp skin of tree bark. We need it. We came from it. We should cherish it while it’s still here.
Self Care is important but SO IS COMMUNITY CARE. Hate to break it to you, little meat suit, but you’re not the be-all, end-all of the world. Yes, you are important, but you are only as important as the community you build and support. You do not survive alone and the self-care craze has turned a bit too self-important and self-centered. You are not above the suffering of others when you have the capacity to help. Take care of yourself, but take care of others too. We all lean on each other to survive. And on that note…
VOTE. While we still have a democracy to vote in. You laugh but… we are dangerously close to a dictatorship. We already are muddling through an oligarchy of waaaaaay-too old leaders dictating policy and laws based on ideals of 60 years ago, that serve the ruling class (white, male, rich, christian). They were able to stack the supreme court so we can no longer feel safe that our democracy is being held in check and balanced with common sense. See above notes about…be kind in all things (including voting for issues that affect humans’ rights and quality of life) and participating in community care (what’s best for those most disenfranchised will eventually be best for us all)
Protest. If every worker, every woman, every unrecognized majority member were to stand up and walk out… on their imposed ‘places’, on their below-wage jobs, on their prison-pipline school systems, this country would grind to a fucking halt. This country NEEDS to grind to a halt. This country needs to be reminded that shareholder needs mean jack shit when there aren’t workers to keep the economy rolling. This country NEEDS to recognize that unpaid labor, income disparity, childcare fleecing, education suppression and the harassment and abuse of over half its population is no longer tolerable. Money should never outweigh the betterment of humanity.

In short. Next year should scare the shit out of you. Because you’re going to try all kinds of new things. To be seen, to be heard, to heal the downtrodden, and to heal yourself. You’re going to learn things about the world that have been hidden by your echo chambers and sensational ‘journalism’. You’re going to have to step out of your house to meet people and learn about them. You’re going to have to constantly push boundaries.

It will be scary to try new things, scary to speak out. It will seem pointless and fruitless, unless we can all do it together. Because maybe… maybe if we stand up to be brave, whether in protest of policy, or in defense of our own happiness and health, it will ignite the fire in someone else, and in someone else…and in someone else.

Until…by the end of next year, our one candle will have lit an unprecedented inferno.

Being The Light

Posted on December 7, 2023December 7, 2023 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.

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 November 30, 2023October 23, 2023 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)

…

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.”