Reward

Small-town living is
Not for the faint of heart, but
It is rewarding.

Small-town life never
Leaves you behind, no matter
How far you may run.

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

When…

When all is said and done,
When you are dead and rotten,
Will you be mourned for all you’ve done,
Or for all that you have gotten?

When all is said and done,
When all you are is ash,
Will you be missed for what you’ve done,
Or for being over brash?

When all is said and done,
When you are but a memory,
Will you be recalled for fun,
Or for being absentee?

(c) 2017. All rights reserved.

I’m too *fill in the blank* for this!

It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year since I posted my stressed-out-Mom version of “Jingle Bells,” but it’s true. It’s that time of year again, and just like this time last year, I’m feeling the blues. The holiday stress began in earnest with Thanksgiving and trying to squeeze in trips to family, trips to friends, and trips to the store on Black Friday (not for the deals, but because we actually needed things) without going bonkers. This week I’ve got two Christmas concerts, church for the kids, a basketball game, a house to decorate, family pictures to take, and 20 dozen cookies to bake before Saturday.

It’s gonna be a crazy…

Another review!

mmmwmjMalevolent, Macabre, and Mysterious is a collection of short stories and poetry by the inimitable Will Macmillan Jones. The collection lives up to its name, though it’s not without a comedic twist here and there (the end of “Road Trip” amused me greatly).

I particularly liked the story “Truckers” – I even read it to the kids around the campfire this summer – as well as the poems “The Wedding” and “Death Holds a Rose.” “Dry Eyed” was good, too, but the first two reminded me a little of Edgar Allan Poe, which I didn’t even know I’d missed reading till I picked up this book. I seem to recall having read “Hachette” once before, and of course “The Showing” and “Portrait of a Girl” evolved into full-length novels (see my reviews here and here), but it was nice to revisit them for a moment, especially as I can’t wait to read the next in the Mister Jones series.

So, if you’re in the mood for a spooky story or a  atmospheric poem, pick up Malevolent, Macabre, and Mysterious today!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Bliss

My bliss lies in writing. I love it – I can’t get enough of it.

So many irons in the fire...

So many irons in the fire…

No, really. When I haven’t written in a while, I start getting really cranky. Ask my family.

Of course, that also extends to times where I’m not writing as much as I’d like, or times where extracting the story from my brain is like extracting a particularly difficult wisdom tooth, or times where editing is kicking my butt six ways from Sunday…

Still, writing (and editing, I suppose) is my bliss. What’s yours?

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

A lovely little space

2015-05-13 11.41.03

Lunch breaks are best when spent writing. 😉

Much about the way I write has changed considerably over the years.  When I was a teenager, I often wrote with my friends (several of whom also enjoyed writing), and we wrote anytime, anywhere.  I wrote stories during free time in class, at lunch, during pickleball tournaments, and at home after school.  Often in the summers, I’d stay up half the night working on a story.  Whether with music and conversation or without, in the living room or my bedroom, my ideas flowed freely.

riss

Hot tea makes great writing fuel, especially in the winter.

In my twenties, it was much the same.  I had a small office space, but it shared room with my washer, dryer, deep freeze, and litterboxes.  With four cats and one litterbox, you can bet it wasn’t long before I needed to take a little writing break, so back to the living room I went.

My twenties actually saw the greatest upheaval

Sublime Rhyme

To read more about Fezzik's great gift, check outThe Princess Bride!

To read more about Fezzik’s great gift, check outThe Princess Bride!

Unlike Fezzik, I do not possess a great gift for rhyme.  That, however, doesn’t stop me  from trying, especially when it’s with a super fun form like the limerick:

It takes a really long time to think
Of rhymes that don’t epically stink.
One rhyme is fine,
And two are sublime,
But from more than that, I do shrink.

Today’s poems are supposed to embrace the imperfect, and be personal, and I think I’ve done that here.  I love poems that rhyme, but rhyming is hard, yo!  What about you – do you like poems that rhyme?  Or do you prefer unrhymed verse?

(c) 2015.  All rights reserved.

Lambent Dreams: A Review

Lambent Dreams Cover5As promised, my review of Lambent Dreams.  What’s it about?  Poetry.  Plain and simple:

The Poetry of Tallis Steelyard. This appropriately slim volume is the fruit of a unique artistic collaboration, bringing together the writings of one of Port Naain’s most major minor poet with the personal commentary of an esteemed cartographer and traveller, and the guiding notes of an informed poet-critic. You cannot say you have not been warned.

The poetry in this book is endlessly fascinating.  I read the whole volume in the course of a morning, punctuated by short bursts of doing my day job, and I can’t wait to go back and read them over more closely to see if I can find some deeper meaning.  (If, of course, there is any deeper meaning.  Sometimes a poem is just a poem.)

My favorite bit is behind this cut!

Photo 365 #343

So today was crazy!  I had my first book signing at Smith’s General Store in the morning, and it was a lot of fun.  I only sold three books (five if you count the two I sold on Wednesday), but it was still a lot of fun.  And we’re talking about doing another one in November during the town’s annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony, where hopefully I’ll do even better.

wpid-20150716_111037.jpg

Woo! …

Photo 365 #340: Where everybody knows your name

Mmm, reuben and chips, omnomnom!

Mmm, reuben and chips, omnomnom!

Writing, of late, has been an odd sort of chore. I love to write – I yearn to write – but lately when I find myself alone with my thoughts and a pencil, I find that the words won’t come. They used to spill forth from my fingers like fat drops of rain from a heavy summer storm cloud.  They used to burst froth from my pencil like rushing floodwaters through a broken dam.

But now?

Now, I find myself extracting each precious word like a miner with a gem. Or, more accurately, like a  dentist with a particularly stubborn tooth. Bubbles’ first tooth, with its inch-long root and insistence on clinging to his lower gum, springs instantly to mind.

But that’s if the words come at all.

Today, for a change of pace…