Poetry 3-14-24

Posted on by sereichert

In honor of spring, I’ve dug this little gem out of one of the many unmarked-but-filled journals in my desk. My poor children will one day find all of these scratchings and will have to make sense of them, or they may chose to burn them (I will be gone and won’t offer protest). I hope some of my words survive. So they know the normalcy of a heart, wild-raging and how undefinable a life really is.

Sown

I am wakening
though this small seed planted
seems stagnant
and it is cold and dark 
the surrounding day
so dense and ungiving
but the seed is planted
and every seed has 
potential
for awakening

And this seed...
I know her concrete shell
her impervious coat
you think the darker,
the colder,
the absolute absence of love
would kill her
dead pod in ground
served justice for even thinking 
of blooming on her own

But you do not know this seed,
no one does
except me.
I knew when I plucked her 
from my heart in the solitary depths of 
lovely dispair, and whispered
incantations of self-worth
of imperviousness
of an unbreakable shell
an unkillable flame
the magic was set and 
it no longer needed 
what living things needed 
to survive

because she is survival
and her words will tendril
into the hard pack of your indifference
and she will feed off of your apathy
and she will shoot forth
arms to the sky 
that you cannot hold down
with guilt or obligations
or crocodile tears

because she is the boundless
and unshakable irreverence 
of me, 
and I will awaken 
in the absence of your love

Big News and…Less-Big News

Posted on by sereichert

Well, first there’s this…

If you don’t follow me on social media, the big news of the week is that “Raising Elle” was selected as a finalist for the Colorado Book Awards through The Colorado Humanities. The winners will be announced at the end of June. But until I lose (probable) I will crow about it wherever I can. Because I believe in the arts and this is a huge honor. Congratulations to my fellow finalists as well!

What else is in news? Well… I’ll be teaching at a sweet little mountain retreat in May. I believe there are still spots open and its going to be a great way to kick start your next project, or help you overcome the roadblocks you might be having. The Writers Retreat, sponsored by the Writing Heights Writer’s Association is May 6th through the 9th and will feature workshops as well as free-write time. Food and lodging is included, and its really a great deal. Don’t wait, because spots will fill up fast.

Whenever someone asks me how I finished my first novel, it was because I invested in the time to work on it. Time is what a retreat offers you, away from the demands of the day so you can throw your heart into your work. And that’s how books get written. Register HERE.

Hm…also…I will be teaching a few Saturday classes through the WHWA coming up. But even if its not me teaching them, you should attend. Every third Saturday, for a very small fee (free if you’re a member of WHWA-register here) you get two, one-hour classes on craft, business, and writing related topics.

If you have a youth interested in writing, this is a GREAT time to get them signed up for my youth classes (every 2nd Saturday from 1-3. Free, no charge, and fun) we’re working on putting together a book, and the young writers will be paid for their submissions. Check out that website here.

The yearly conference for WHWA is on July 19th-20th and will focus on the other aspects involved with writing, including goal setting for writers, contracts and dealing with copyrights in the era of AI, marketing, formatting, and building up your platform. It should be really helpful for those of you who are taking next steps in the process. You can Register Here and we can hang out after all the braining for a martini or a cup of tea.

In other, lesser news…I’m stalled out on my writing. I don’t know if its a combination of everything else happening in life (kids, pets, surgeries, existential dread, running injuries, feelings of inadequacy, lack of sleep, imposter syndrome, anxiety, depression…lack of fucks to give? disillusionment, loss of romanticism, loss of…will to create anything at all. I don’t even want to make a sandwich) but I’m struggling. I’m trying out playwriting… I’m failing. I think I’ve rewritten the current project (not even complete) four times over and I’m barely making headway… I don’t have a new book ready. I don’t even have any of my older projects done…my current Kindle Vella is…DOA, and I feel like I’m bereft of purpose. So….yeah. Happy week I guess? I keep telling myself it’ll come back. But the snide and growing voice in the back of my head keeps sneering…”what if it doesn’t?”

what if it doesn’t?

Maybe life just goes on. Regardless of what my little nothingness of an existence is doing. Life will go on.

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

Posted on 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 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.Stop Wasting Time

 

“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.

Image result for images eye roll

 

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.

Habit vs. Muse

Posted on by sereichert

If you’re a writer or a creative of any kind you’ve known the sweet kiss of a muse. Sometimes it comes skipping through your bathroom, mid shower, and smacks you in the back of your shampoo-frothed head with a bat. Sometimes it tickles your ear, an errant breeze, while you’re outside waiting for your dog to be done with their business. Sometimes it meanders through the crosswalk, wearing clown shoes and a rubber duck hat while you’re waiting for the light to change. Whatever and whenever it hits you, its like the lighting of a match inside of your cold little cavern of a brain and its…brilliant.

With any luck, you’ve stashed pens and paper, notebooks, post-its, cocktail napkins and chocolate pudding in odd and disconnected places to jot down what it’s trying to tell you. Or I guess you could use your phone (old person eye roll). The point is, the muse is a beautiful part of what it means to be creative.

The trouble is…It doesn’t really exist.

A moment of silence for my former, favorite imaginary friend.

You see…”creatives” don’t have more encounters with “the muse” because we’re slightly unhinged and floppy in the gray matter (I mean, we might be, but that has very little to do with inspiration, and probably more to do with preferring to be in a state of la-la land over the past and current hellscapes).

We become ‘amused’ because we spend time building good habits pertaining to our art. Ideas are like seedlings, habits are the fertile soil. If you’re not building up healthy and rich (worthwhile not monetary) habits, there will be fewer little ideas sprouting up.

So what are these habits, Sarah?

Well, for one, you have to write.

Duhhhh…. Okay, I know that’s a easy pitch. But it’s really not that simple. So many of us simply won’t sit down until we feel inspired. Or we PROCRASTINATE with every other conceivable chore and ‘have-to’ before we sit down to write. Or we may sit down, but we stare at the cursor blinking or distract ourselves with ‘research’. Decide the baseboards need dusting, or the dog needs its ears cleaned. There are a billion ways we avoid it. I do too. And constantly I ask myself why.

*Side Quest* It’s because of fear. Usually. Fear that what I write will be shit. Fear that it will be really good and I’ll fall in love with it and lose myself for months and no one else will love it as much. Fear that what I write won’t lead anywhere. Fear that I’ll mess up my grammar, my POV, my plotline, my characters, my punctuation. Fear that it won’t be good enough. Fear that I won’t be good enough. Even with books out. Even with publications and awards. That old fear is a nasty briar patch to the rose garden of my work.

But habits are nothing to fear. At best they’re comforting, at worst, they’re droll. You can set something as simple as…

I will write for twenty minutes five times a day. Or I will sit my ass in my chair everyday at 5:30am and write for two hours straight. Or I will finish one poem a day. I will write three flash fictions every afternoon, or two ten-minute plays a day.

And then you sit the fuck down. And you write.

Its just that easy and its just that hard. But thats all it is.

And sometimes you will write shit. Sometimes you’re going to spend a whole day or afternoon or month on a project that just doesn’t work out. Sometimes it will be too raw or hurtful to share. Sometimes your POV will be atrocious and you’ll ellipses your blog to death…

But here’s your consolation prize to all of that:

Ahem…NO writing is bad. In every word, sentence, scrapped character or ridiculous poem, there is a certain fluency. A repetition. A practice. Bruce Lee didn’t fear the man who knew 10,000 different kicks, he feared the man who had practiced the same kick 10000 times. Because practice leads to progress…and closer to perfection (though who really wants that bullshit, it’s boring.)

Habit will sustain you, even when the muse has left to find some other crosswalk or doggy doo pile to traipse around. And with those designated times (habit) you will train your brain to settle in and do the work when its time. And that work creates fields. Rich and good fields, that you’re tilling and watering, and sprinkling shit on. And things grow there. Things you didn’t even know were laying dormant. Ideas, new directions, new thoughts, new characters, new combinations of words, or exciting adventures. The lushness of a garden well tended.

So here’s my advice. Don’t sit around waiting for some finicky tart in clown shoes to lead you to the next great idea. Sit your ass in the chair, open your notebook or laptop and start writing. Lead yourself to your next great idea, by doing the work. It’ll be a lot more enjoyable than you think.

Courting the Lion: An Excerpt and Call for Thoughts

Posted on by sereichert

Gentle Readers:

I’m so in love with my new couple and I’m beginning edits on their story. I just wanted to share this scene with you. I hope you enjoy. And while I appreciate any feedback, keep in mind that I do not debate religious or ‘moral’ issues, with trolls on line.

Photo by SevenStorm JUHASZIMRUS on Pexels.com

Thomas sat opposite of him and put his hands between his knees. Richard took his books from the satchel, donned his glasses and began to read.

“Are we not going to discuss the matter?”

“Are you going to discuss, or are you going to yell at me?” Richard said, over the top of his spectacles. The carriage started to amble through town, the hoofbeats and city noise keeping their conversation private. The blinds were open and Thomas looked out at the cobbled streets and bright doorways as they passed.

“Last night was—”

“Beautiful.” Richard said.

“A sin—”

“Thomas, I cannot—” Richard huffed, took off his glasses, tapped them on his knee and sat forward. “I cannot undo the years of abuse and hurt you have suffered. Not in a day of riding boats or carriages, and certainly not when we arrive at the source of it. I can only assure you that you are not alone. You are not the first man or woman to fall for one of their own. It is not something that we chose. Any more than our hair color or our height.”

“But the bible—”

“Has been interpreted and reinterpreted by hundreds of men in power who sought to repopulate the earth with the poor and pious as to remain in power.”

Thomas was silent. “Richard—”

“They do this with fear. Not for the love of a god, but the fear of his retribution. And it keeps us all subjugate. Do you honestly believe a God would make you, perfect as you are, and mistakenly lead you to sin? That love, in all its fantastical and natural forms could be wrong?”

“I do not know.”

“You are a learned man. Think on it.” Richard said, put his glasses back on and began to read. The carriage jostled and swayed as they left the smoother cobble stone streets of Chippenham and tracked on to the dirt road. Richard tried to focus on his book, poetry…a love sonnet, that could have been meant for man or woman, or anything in between. He’d said the word love to the duke. And the duke had not said anything in return.

It was silly to be in love after a week. But Richard had known Thomas for so much longer. Hadn’t he wished he could meet a man like that in his own time? When there wasn’t a chasm of hurt to travel across to reach him. Love was not love when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove….

“It is an ever-fixed mark,” Richard whispered and stared out the window. Thomas sat, arm still crossed over his chest, eyes on the road that stretched out behind them, the rolling green fields. The stillness and the sway of a journey taking him back home to the expectations of his family.

Thomas let the swaying settle his mind. Richard could not change the years of abuse. But he could offer him a safe place. Thomas had been a great many things in his life. Rich, strong, kept and shaped. But never safe. He looked up, Richard was still staring out of the window, biting his bottom lip and thinking over whatever verse he’d just read. A warrior body, a scholar mind. Damn, if he didn’t love the man. He wanted to know more. He wanted to spend years learning what made Richard Shaw such an enigmatic mystery. He would not get to know him in silence. Or from so far away.

“Make space,” Thomas grumbled and came to Richard’s side of the carriage.

“My lord?” Richard began but the duke gently nudged him to the side and sat down, swinging his legs up on the seat and laying his head in Richard’s lap. Richard lifted his arms in surprise and looked down at the scowl on Thomas’ face.

“Well?” Thomas asked.

“What is it you expect of me?” Richard asked, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Read to me, Doctor of Books.” Thomas whispered, folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes. Richard smiled, the weight and warmth of Thomas’ head on his thigh bringing such a beautiful sense of ease. He began, soft, even and intoning the rich language of a man who knew the power of words. His hand fell to where Thomas’ were folded and he caressed the duke’s fingers. Soon, his own hands and eyelids felt heavy and he took of his glasses. Thomas was asleep, curled into his stomach. He gently caressed his forehead, brushed the dark blonde hair away from his eyes and leaned his head back on the cushion. He tried to think through it, be logical…breathe deeply and let go of what he could not change. He kept stroking Thomas’ soft hair and felt some of his tension ease. They were here, they were safe.

Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

New Horizons and Old Loves

Posted on by sereichert

Life, man… It is a perpetual state of change. In fact, one of the only certainties about life is that it will change. And humans are no different than any other oxygen breathing, carbon-based sack of stardust. The world changes. We change with it, whether consciously or not. We discover things we didn’t know (I hope) we learn and make different choices (also—I hope and that they are in positive directions). We take hurt and either learn to heal or use it as a weapon on the other stardust sacks near us. We find excuses to fall back into bad habits, or reasons to springboard into better ways of living. We are a constant swirl of contradictions and brilliance.

As a beginning writer, I always thought I’d write the same kind of book for my whole life. Because I loved love. And I loved romance. And I enjoyed participating in the happily ever after of a good swoon-worthy book. But as the world evolves so do we, and I am no different. This is not to say that romance is some basic-bitch level writing, it absolutely is not. Romance is hard to pull off (sexual pun completely intended) in a way that is both believable and reaches for something we all wish we had. Its maddening and beautiful and some of my favorite books are still romances.

Back to my evolution.

It didn’t take me long to realize that while I love romance…it wasn’t the genre that fascinated me. The trouble began (I feel like this is one of those old 1960’s “don’t let this happen to you” videos in health class) probably when I started genre hopping like a vagabond onto railway cars in whatever direction the tracks were going. Just anywhere but here. I was thinking about how and why I seemed easily distracted into forays of genre crossing, experimental writing, and odd formats…And I just figured it out.

I’m a character follower. I can’t stick to a genre because my storytelling is like a puppy out on a walk that wants to jump on and follow every new person home. I want to stick my noses in their crotches and find out where they’ve been. Ok. That—that analogy went too far.

The point is… People interest me. Characters interest me. Whether I’m watching them pirate a space ship, imagining them breaking up the scar tissue of a thoroughbred horse, or fear for them as they get possessed by the spirit they’re hot for. I’m curious about people. How they live, how they deal, how they fail. How they love… what they love. How they keep on keeping on and manage to use their big old squishy hearts towards better ends. Or bitter ends.

So I guess I don’t stray too far from love. But I like the depth of how love incorporates itself into our lives, whether its romantic or not. Knowing this about me feels like untying a corset, a big breath in, a cutting of old ideas binding me into “what kind” of writer I am.

I’m a character writer.

Which means I can write poetry, or gay romance. I can write socially conscious plays, or epic space farmer odysseys. I can write song lyrics or philosophical observations on love and meaning (but I repeat myself). I can write about characters because I love and respect each of them. I care about them. I am curious about them. I am compassionate for them. I can be the journalistic eye that follows character and changes the world and myself through their experiences.

This year I’m wrapping up some older projects (urban fantasy-erotic-trilogy based on the legends of Norse and Scottish mythology? Yes please…Genetic killing machine learns she has a conscious? Don’t mind if I do… A time traveling, hot as hell gay romance between two of my new favorite characters? My heart is all a-twitter… A literary first person POV exploration of grief, loss, and how we let go without losing our hearts? My soul didn’t know my brain could write like that…)

But I’m also hopping on new rail cars. Tentatively, 2 plays covering everything from the cost of pro-life legislation on a micro level and the oft-ignored life ruination of the high school to prison pipeline for black youth, a book of erotic poetry, and exploring my horror side with short fiction. It’s all a little ethereal and unsettled yet, but I see the stardust of potential, tossed out in the frozen dark of space, lying in wait for a gravitational pull to gather it into new universes.

Oh, and signed up for another fucking marathon so…that was stupid. That stardust seed is a cackling massive black hole I should have clicked away from instead of looking at the price and going… “Hey! That’s a cheap way to suffer immensely.” I bet I could have paid somebody less to take a bat to my knees, with the same outcome…but here we are. Eternally hopeful and stubborn.

So here’s to new endeavors, in your writing and your life. Open up that perspective a little wider and let some of the stardust in. But keep love…at the heart of your universe.

Resolving the Past, Living in The Present

Posted on by sereichert

Hello gentle readers and fellow writers. It’s the first week of a new year and I think I probably gave you more advice than you really wanted last week, so this blog will be shorter and less preachy.

First, there will be some events happening in the next couple of months that I wanted you to be aware of. For instance, I’ll be in Denver at a Pop-Up Book Sale sponsored by Illumination Author Events on January 20th from 10-3. I’ll have my newer titles from 5 Prince Publishing as well as some of my older books (paranormal, steamy ghost sex anyone? witches and handyman love?). I’ll be signing books and happy to answer questions, and will be giving away some swag. I hope I can see you then!

Second, I’m back on track with my newest Kindle Vella The Three Hearts of Eve, with new episodes dropping every Friday. For a few tokens and a quick like at the bottom, you can continue to support my electricity and food habits. Seriously, these are fun little stories that are easily readable while sitting in traffic or waiting for appointments. And reading is better for you than doom scrolling so check out all your favorite authors on Vella.

Thirdly, I’m still working with the Writing Heights Writers Association as the Youth Coordinator and our classes resume in January. These classes are free, hybrid (they can attend from anywhere) and this year’s youth will have the opportunity to work on an anthology, including learning the process, getting paid for their work, and presenting the finished book at the WHWA conference this July. If you know a teen interested in writing who needs a supportive community, send them my way. (youth@writingheights.com)

That’s all of the immediate announcements, but I’d like to leave you with a final thought about New Years and resolutions.

I heard someone say that instead of making resolutions we should look to resolve something in our lives. And that actually hit home. I have a general sense of what I want to do this year, but I’ve been struggling with specific, work-related goals. When I got to thinking about resolving things, all of those hectic little post-it notes and vagabond thoughts started to fall into place.

This year I’m going to resolve projects that have been in limbo. I’m going to find closure to a few series that have been in the ‘waiting stage’ for too long. I’m going to spend some time, out of the editing sphere and into the growth mindset. I’ll be taking classes on craft (erotica and playwriting? Not together…those are two separate classes, ha ha) and different modes of writing. I’ll be reading a great deal more (next week I’ll post a picture of my proposed TBR).

2024 is about feeding my present mind with rest and softness so that it can grow into the next year, as well as tying up the loose ends of my writing past. It’s about revisiting poetry and short stories and submitting to different venues, expanding my wheelhouse and sharing what I know.

I’ll be sure to keep you posted as I progress and I hope you’ll reach out to me as well. I love to hear what your plans and hopes are. I want to know, what will you resolve in 2024?

Advice on The Next Year

Posted on 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:

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  • 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.
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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.

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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)

…

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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.”