art is long, time is short.

why the silence?

poems used to pinch me out of no where. they’d tap me on the spine in the bathroom, press their cold nose on my ear while i was at the grocery store. they’d well up in my mead glass and i’d drink them until the grin on my face was a glasgow.  they’re miniature autobiographies, fiction, non-fiction, the smallest stories, can fit them into a dollhouse.

but my time is scarce. this isn’t a personal diary (i wouldn’t have time for it, even though that might be amusing), and even if i’ve mentioned personal things here before, i prefer to just be my work as much as possible. ‘when mozart died, he just became music.’ — and so, all my time, tiny as it was, has been devoted to writing my novel. the novel is now finished. which means maybe, just maybe, poetry will stab me again. and again.

of course, this means editing for hundreds of years on that novel, but the accomplishment is done and the time has partially freed up. i’ll also be figuring out where i’d like to send it out to, whether or not to use kindle, as this is not my magnum opus. a first novel never is.

i intend to get to work on another novel soon, as well, but i’m taking this time to let the story take root within me. it’s actually a half-finished novel from years ago (the one that i may be working on next, that is.) and i need to bake longer.

as for my book i’ve just written, it’s about a woman who goes on a road trip to kill the man who’s killed her daughter. as i edit, i’ll post excerpts, perhaps from each chapter.

i’ve got a few drafts saved here on wordpress, full of cobwebs and carcasses and carapaces, of some rants about pictures i’ve found in vintage stores, being a mom, which i suppose could pass for prose, so i may be editing those shortly and posting them here.

i also have piles of half-done poems, sad, i know.

and a list of places seeking content…

so here i go to become music again.

 

i somehow forgot to mention.

some time ago, i submitted a horror story for an upcoming halloween anthology taking place in salem. the story’s called ‘let’s kill her‘ and they just accepted it to be published in the book. more details to come. i’ve put an excerpt of it here before, i just don’t want to dig for it. no need to read any further if you’ve already read it before, it’s the same excerpt. also, please tell me to commit to sleeping more.

i am still working on a novel. 30k isn’t a bad word count for how little time i have to truly get into the mood and let go, and just write and write. it’s a slow process. i am waiting to get my rejections from the reviews i’ve submitted to before publishing my poetry book. it’s nothing that anybody hasn’t read on my blog or on sudden denouement  already, perhaps only a few unpublished pieces.

and isn’t it the biggest curse of the creative to find ourselves in stagnate ruts and have no idea how we got there? the stars align for me sometimes, or maybe it’s all ritualistic for me to feel driven. although, i am interrupted often by screaming, or MAMA, MAMA, which doesn’t help my already delicate concentration♡ so much to do, so little time. lately, it seems anything can put me in quicksand. the reason i was so disappointed in the movie a quiet passion, was not only because it royally sucked (my cousin rachel was much, MUCH better, yet strangely has a lower rating? i have a thing for period pieces.)  but because i can relate to the isolation that emily dickinson gladly, and at times perhaps not so gladly, placed herself in. it became a bad habit of mine to isolate myself when i was staying in florida. i’ve moved away from that awful place of course since february, having too much of my genes be comforted by the cold to ever stay where i was so lost in the constant heat. even new orleans isn’t as bad. i could sip absinthe happily in the pirates alley all day and get beignets when my stomach went sour, but i couldn’t wait to breathe somewhere that wasn’t florida. the habit has carried over to where i live now, somewhere that makes some semblance of sense,  but i’m slowly working on it. the only place i really go is the gym, and everyone leaves you alone there. best place ever. i guess i’m a model introvert who can speak to people easily, but prefers peace. not that i get any with twins. especially now that one of them talks. it’s so fucking cute.

anyway, i was getting at admitting that i am nervous as fuck to go to this book release event that’s coming up. the other book i’m in, well, that my poem is in, has a release event. other poets are reading their work live. i already told them i won’t be doing that, but will be very, very happily attending. by happily i mean anxiously, because it’s going to be quite a crowd. so back to the excerpt.

‘let’s kill her’ is a short story about a murder that takes place halloween morning, and is avenged on halloween night.

Continue reading “i somehow forgot to mention.”

“she brings curses” will be featured in “entombed in verse: an epitaph for salem.”

some months ago, i wrote a poem for an anthology chiefly interested in salem history (no, not this one!) and it was accepted for publication. it’ll be featured in the upcoming book named above. you can find more details about it [HERE]. that will apparate you to a pre-order page, but you can read the gist of the atmosphere of the book. and yes, i did just use a harry potter term.

i am so fucking delighted about being in that book. i love salem. since one of my best bitches lives not far from there, i’ve gone plenty of times. salem also has the best indian restaurant EVER IN THE GALAXY (besides the one in california i used to frequent in my past life.)  it’s called passage to india, and if you’re ever in town, go.

i’ve also always been fascinated with the history of the place, which should come as no surprise considering i adore most all things macabre, relating to behavioral psychology or criminal as a bonus, mysterious and wretched in history.

the title was inspired by the username of a past writing partner of mine who i loved working with, who is one of the best writers i’ve ever met. she used to write as a witch and i as a magician in our stories. she knows who she is. although, she may never read this.

here’s a small excerpt:

She is the ratty crone who dwells in tears
intruding up the mildew walls of sick-dreams,
like howling veins bulging for a snake-bite
shuddering to the open grin of a white moon

currently working on:

  • self-publishing my poetry book; dancing around with different designs, sparring with words that want to, need to be said, all tangled up with an impatience to have it mystically accomplished in under an (unrealistic) hour. this is largely for my daughters. as i’ve mentioned, it’s an epitaph in the event that my medical condition goes south quicker than what is expected. it isn’t expected to, but in my life the unexpected has been in the front lines. my life’s an infantry.
  • another horror short story for an indie publishing company. (i’ll post an excerpt eventually.)
  • considering posting the rest of ‘the horseman’ as one large post rather than continuing the ‘series’ style of post.
  • more poems, of course.
  • believing in something other than fatigue & pain.

i’ve been so isolated for a very, very long time that i sometimes stumble on my words in public and for this end up avoiding speaking. i deliberately go in public, but avoid people, because i love being outside. i live in a very interesting area with access to a lot of history and oddities; if you haven’t noticed, i’m into that.

i have been inwardly and outwardly cringing for so long though, and for so many reasons that have piled on my shoulders, making me feel like atlas, that i’m finding it difficult to finally relax now that i can and the world’s off my watch. i’ve had burdens and depression, anxiety, too long to just forget them and think they’re like smoke, just dissipating. i know better than that. the mind leaves leaves marks on itself, like falling asleep on a crease of your pillow. the dent takes time to soften.

i am true introvert and INFJ. this reminds me that i need to refresh my studies of carl jung. he had the same personality type as me, supposedly, and i fell in love with his work many years ago. introversion has nothing to do with being shy. it has to do with your reaction to stimulation. i am very easily overstimulated by loud noise, bright lights, too many people (or is that just my migraines?) — too much to focus on. i want to absorb things too readily. i think it’s because i like to pay close attention to things, one at a time, and end up doing so all at once. i’ve also read that introverts brains tend to pick up on all stimulation as animate (something to pay attention to.) rather than inanimate (looked over.), and therefore they hardly are letting their brain rest. my brain/mind seems to never rest. i wasn’t always like this.

not to mention i have two beautiful demons who need my energy as well.

speak of the devil …

the western ‘across lots’ will be published this month

so the excerpt of the rough draft of what i was working on, which i mentioned here 800 years ago, will be published in the anthology i submitted it for next month. it’s quite violent. i didn’t think they’d accept it. i’ll post more about it when the book is printed.

they also asked for a ‘headshot’ and a bio. naturally, i’m insane and thought about all the scenarios of people knowing what i look like, but then i remembered i’m a viking and i don’t give a fuck. but, i have no pictures of me unless they look like this:

lol.PNG

which is a more accurate portrayal of me; note the child’s hand holding a giraffe. his name is wilson.

but, i decided to attempt a nicer photo with things that weren’t pajamas on, and also bigger, nerdier glasses. just in case.

so this is what i got.the real one.JPG

 

so now you know what i look like. but if you ever see me, i’m dangerous. don’t approach. 🙂

the horseman, pt. 3.

[a series written a million years ago by a total goth.
unearthed for amusement. posted in parts.
a ridiculed man desperate to find evidence
of the soul embarks on a murderous journey. PART 1, PART 2.]

The Horseman’s First Diary Entry

Continue reading “the horseman, pt. 3.”

so.

the circus hasn’t ended yet. i’m moved. i’m back to where winter makes sense. cold fingers & cold toes. lots of layers. i prefer it this way. fuck american apparel for going out of business. their winter leggings are one of the best things i’ve ever bought in my life.
i’ve got a few places i’d like to submit poetry & short stories to this year. i’m really not sure why i send them in. maybe i just want something to show my kids? in the library i’m harvesting them?
i’ve come closer to finishing my novel(s) by deciding on which one to run with. it will take a long time, but my devotion is there. i’m superstitious, so someday you’ll know the path i’ve chosen. i also came upon an old short story of mine, epistolary style. i think i’d just finished re-reading dracula, this commingled with a wink to houdini and spiritualism birthed this short horror. i’d have to organize it into pages. hmmmm. i may just post it here.
i have everybody on my blog list to stalk. slowly but surely. so expect it. i get about 3 hours to myself a day. sometimes staring at a wall or clicking random hashtags on instagram sucks up too much time.
bonus: here’s me in gettysburg 800 years ago.

 

she said there’d be moaning

a grief ago, i decided that it would be best to braid myself with a sort of unconnected, and consequently isolated, sensation of detachment from people, places, things. basically all nouns, perhaps even some verbs. an eastern perfect emptiness. the cosmic voice of alan watts soothing me back to sedation. it was more suited to my personality type to become this way. maybe i was too feral. i’ve been told that i was a very willful child. i still am.

here lies a tired blahblahblah.

Continue reading “she said there’d be moaning”