Dream of rusty robots
Rusty red-scoured robots that tilt over to the side,
against walls, against each other
Against you.
Dream of grey robots
Grey slinky-seal robots that rummage
through file cabinets, once locked,
Your memories.
Dream of live robots
Live jazz-cool robots that slam
on pianos, breaking floors, while
You sing.
Dream of bitter robots
Bitter dust-covered robots that fight
each other, fight the wind,
tear the sky, set
You against--

I recently finished Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Big Magic. I’d always loved her TED talk, and finally got around to reading the book that went on further go into her creative philosophy. In a way, her book was affirmative to me. How being creative is it’s own reward, it’s own work. How the act of creating does not always lead to fame, fortune, and shouldn’t be relied upon in life. It was a reminder to keep creating, to keep working, to steal time. Creating as gift that must be earned.

What I found interesting was the amount of time spent on detailing the need to send work out to slush piles, journals, and short stories—essentially working to get stories published the traditional way. Gilbert worked to become a writer before the options of self-publishing were mainstream. Anyone self-publishing was doing so through zines or having to shell out a lot of money up front, and any avenue would have limited distribution.  It is a crazy world we now live that anyone can upload a text document and have a book.

The route of self-publishing has its own challenges. Primarily, being willing to claim the title of “author,” without making it past the gatekeepers. You have to steal the mark of approval; you have to earn it by your readers. Readers won by word of mouth, by reviews, from the grassroots, by the author’s ability. While self-published authors will have their own social media campaigns, and time in traditional advertising, for so many, publishing is sending a work out there without even the hug of a publishing company believing in you.

I’d like to argue that’s a good thing. Is every work that’s self published great? Nah. I’d personally love the ability to hire an editor, but that’s not in the budget. But many self-published works are great. Or they identify with people in ways that not everyone expects. It allows the possibility of more diversity, more cross-pollination of genres. All in all publishing work digitally allows creativity to blossom. In reading Gilbert’s book, I thought there was a bit of a missed opportunity in her talks regarding how the view of artist needs to change, we also should examine how the action of creating has changed is something we are all on the cusp of.

I personally can’t wait to see where it goes next. 

Hey Everyone,
It’s been quiet on the blog, I know. Hopefully, I’ll now post on a more regular basis. I’ve been working furiously on finishing up my graduate program am done with that (yay!). I figured this would translate into more productivity here or my own work, but all I’ve been doing is watching the Great British Bakeshow and going down the rabbit hole over at Archive of Our Own.

I’ve finished up the draft of my current work in progress. This one is number five. Normally I don’t work that way. I do some plotting, some world building, go to town, and then start writing, then editing. This time I got five (5!) substantial drafts of the same work. This story was different with a first person narrative, and the characters were being stubborn. I like where it’s at though and will start editing now.

The work is set in the future and is based on the assumption humanity doesn’t change its ways and the repercussions from that—essentially post global warming, post genetic modification, post nation states—provide the setting for a powerful character.

I’ve found a lot of my stories really do start to fall back on that phrase attributed to John Gardner. There are only two kinds of stories: "A hero goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town." This story is a mix of both.

Keep an eye on the blog, or follow me on twitter for more updates!

​I worry all the time: 

Because my mother
taught me not 
to trust a man, who
has good intentions like
buying candy on anniversaries.

Because my father
taught me not
to trust a woman, who
smiles without any
teeth through red lips when
accepting flowers. 

Because my sister
taught me not 
to trust a man, who
laughs at every joke
another woman makes. 

Because my brother
taught me not 
trust a woman, who
has good intentions like
sharing the last cigarette.

I worry
because my mother, my father, my sister, my brother
never tell me to trust them either. 

I worry
because my family
never will tell me what 
happens when trust is
broken.

[is candy poisoned/flowers dangerous/
just not funny/smoking kills/woman/man/left with the dogs]
 
No one ever tells me,
Because some truths just take time
Like trusting a man, who
sings in the shower every morning
Like trusting a woman, who
plays dominios and never cheats
Like that.
And finding out there were things your
Family didn’t warn you about.

my grandmother
can't wear watches.
she and time are
old enemies--he kills
the timekeepers dead
the moment they dare
touch
her skin.

his greatest revenge
was my birth.
the clock above the fireplace,
gold filigree, walnut encased,
that hadn't worked in days
(or was it years?)
chimed 13 times the day
my mother labored.

a new born reminder that
he would always win.

now i never wear
watches and am
always
late.

out of respect.

you understand.

River--
the house was awake, stirred by the restless call and response--blessings--
after, pictures would show only the remnants of the seven empty bottles.
Three red.
Three white.
One sparkling, with a cork found lodged in the tree outside.
Nothing of the women.

Seven women left to feed an old murky
dream built by bitter second sons.

Can't you hear?

River--

It's a familiar refrain:
got any change? I appreciate it, little lady,
any kind of
change.
on the way to work, on the way home
I never have cash
and when I do
I lie.
Sometimes we make eye contact.
Usually we don't.
One of these days he'll be gone,
and I'll think about all the coins that fall out of my pockets, purses, dresses, and hate myself.
Then again maybe I won't.

Not a lie.
I never change.

Hello Lovelies,

Do you like the photo? A few weeks ago, I looked out my office window from the 21st floor of my day job. Across the expanse was a bright blue Hi?! I settled in and waited for the next installment and was rewarded by the message in the image.

While I'll probably never know the story (is there a matching message on my building? nothing? who started it?), the message is a poignant reminder beautiful moments happen in real life.

No matter if you celebrate Valentine's Day or actively avoid it, I hope you are still able to find the magic around you.

Happy writing!

He found her on a god forsaken dessert planet
far from any map his mother had painstakingly drawn for
him.

She was in a cage.
The kind that said she was worth more alive than dead--
but only just.
He bought her
for a bargain. He asked, as he signed,
the papers if she was human.

Only half, the slave keeper said.
half demon, half human.
When the cage door opened, she
looked at him.

In all that was to follow
he would never know
if it was the human
or the devil
looking at him
--ready to devour him whole.