Angela Felsted

And the good/bad news is . . .

2012-02-09T10:04:00.003-05:00

I'm gonna start with the bad new first because hey, then I can get to the good news.

Bad news: For all you wonderful peeps that have preordered Cleave, I just received an email from Finishing Line Press saying they're having difficulties with their printing equipment and that the press run will be delayed for possibly three more weeks.

See this, :D That's the glued on smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Now for the good news: After a year and a half of writing, editing, listening to my critique partners, my beta readers, and a competent editor, I'm almost ready to release CHASTE (my 75,000 word YA romance novel) to the ebook reading public. And I have total control over when it will be ready, how I choose to promote it, and what the cover will look like. I can even decide what to do with the profits, and have decided to give 5% of the proceeds to Teach for America.

See this, :) That's my real smile.

So yesterday I spent hours coming up with covers, and now I've narrowed my options down to two. The book's a bit edgy, so in that respect I like the first one. But the second one is just so classic that I'm torn. What do you think?

I put the book description below the pictures as a reference.

Option 1:

Option 2:

When he steps into his physics class on the first day of senior year, Quinn Walker is too exhausted from staying up all night with his three-month-old nephew to deal with moral dilemmas. As a devout Mormon who has vowed to wait until marriage for sex, the last thing he needs is a very hot and very sexy Katrina Jackson as his physics partner. Regrettably, he has no choice.

Kat feels invisible in her mansion of a home six months after losing her older brother in a fatal car crash and will do anything to get her parents’ attention. Since her pastor father has no love for Quinn’s “fake” religion and her ex-boyfriend refuses to leave her alone, she makes an impulsive bet with her friends to seduce her holier-than-thou lab partner by Christmas.

So tell me awesome blogging friends, which do you like better?

ugly

2012-01-18T09:31:00.001-05:00

her fingers draw a brutal self-portrait
with chipmunk cheeks and squinty eyes.
ugly, she calls herself. ugly and deformed.
she rips the portrait to feather-thin shreds.

i want to catch the sun in my hand, mix
it with mud, rub it over the hollow of her
pink lids. let her open her eyes to the light.
give her the sight to know she’s beautiful.

Catalyst

2012-01-04T12:28:00.004-05:00

I wrote this review of Laurie Halse Anderson's Catalyst last year and have decided to post it now because it was one of the most thought provoking books I read in 2011.

For me this is kind of a big deal. First, because I've made a point not to post a lot of reviews on this blog. Second, because I try to write only positive things about the books other authors write. And this is a critical review.

To be clear, Laurie Halse Anderson is one of my idols. So I really hope if she reads this that she knows I still admire her and that I wouldn't have posted this so publicly if the issues in her book hadn't triggered issues from my own past which I feel are quite important to address.

The review (spoiler alert):

Catalyst by Laurie Halse Anderson

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Last night I dreamed that I was sitting in a gathering of people, waiting for my turn to get up and play my violin. There was a tall guy with dark hair speaking to the crowd, and a little fat blond girl sitting across the aisle from me who the tall guy called an idiot. This struck me wrong, so I told him to stop. Not just because he’d called the girl an idiot, but because he’d yelled it, said it in a mean and condescending way. Instead of listening, though, he slapped the girl on the head.

I picked up my violin and left the room.

The reason I write about this dream is because I had it last night, right after I read this book, and in so many ways it’s revealing to how I feel about it. On one hand, I am a HUGE Laurie Halse Anderson fan and loved the poetic power of her words. On the other hand, I had a particular dislike for both the message of the book and the way it ended. Let me explain how my dream pertains to all of this.

In the dream I was waiting, waiting for my turn to play the violin, excited for the music, but captive to the words of the tall man giving the sermon. I felt much the same way reading CATALYST. My joy for the music was like the joy I felt in discovering Kate as a character. The girl is a minister’s daughter; her mother is dead; she takes care of her father and brother; she has issues with good and bad, particularly with integrating the good and bad parts of herself. This becomes clear when she refers to herself as both Good Kate and Bad Kate on the first page. It’s genius. Here’s the quote:

“On the outside I am Good Kate, Rev. Jack Malone’s girl, isn’t she sweet, she helps so much with the house, so sad about her mother, and she’s smart, too. . . . On the inside I am Bad Kate, daughter of no one, she’s such a bitch, thinks she’s all that, prays with her eyes open, lets her boyfriend put his hands all over her, Miss Perfect, Miss Suck-up, disrespectful, disagreeable, still waters run deep and dirty.” Catalyst p. 3-4

Then you see that Kate is running, not just for the exercise or because she’s good at it, but as a way to run from who she is, her feelings and thoughts and traits which don’t fit into the Good Kate mold. Despite the fact that this girl had straight A’s and had applied to MIT, despite the fact that she had really good friends and was an overachiever, I very much related to the perfectionist tendencies that drove Kate to run from herself.

Enter Teri: the nemesis whose house burns down (though we never learn the details of how). All we really know is that Teri comes to live with Kate because she has nowhere else to stay, that Kate and Teri don’t get along, not so much because Kate is a snob, though. More because Teri used to beat up Kate when they were younger, and because Teri flicks Kate off regularly and has a habit of being mean to her, and because Teri steals her things. Needless to say, I was not a Teri fan.

And this is where the tall man in my dream comes in. I was expecting to find a reason to like Teri. She has a little brother who is two-years-old who loves her to death, a mother who’s out of it, and a father who died in prison. There are lots and lots of reasons to feel sorry for Teri. She’s bullied at school by the football team, takes vo-tech classes, and is pretty much looked down upon by everyone in her life. I could relate to the bullying thing, and have a particular love for underdogs. So imagine my shock when I just could not, no matter how hard I tried, find a way to relate to Teri. I mean, yeah, sure she was taunted and teased and targeted by the football team. But she was a bully herself as well.

Now, I know a lot of people say that bullied kids turn into bullies, and I’m not going to argue with that. My guess is that the boys at Columbine would not have gunned down their classmates if they hadn’t been the targets of shameless bullying. And I agree that Teri had some horrible situations to deal with. Her home situation was a hundred times worse than mine was in high school; her situation at school was pretty bad too. Things got even worse for her in the middle of the book. So if anything, Teri had a right to be angry.

But as a child who was bullied so severely myself that people threw rocks at me, and as a person who was ostracized, who had to listen to boys make animal noises as I ran past, who was systematically pushed into walls, sexually harassed, and had nasty rumors spread around about me, I was always ALWAYS aware that I had a choice how I treated others. It was the constant ill treatment I received as a child that drove me not to treat others that way. Giving in to my anger, cutting people down, acting like a jerk was not an option. I chose not to be like my tormentors. It was the only form of control I had.

And Teri, no matter her circumstances, had a choice to how she treated others too. It was, in fact, the only form of control she had; and she chose to steal Kate’s watch and necklace, to hotwire her car, to steal food from the grocery store thus making Kate an accomplice to a crime. She chose to call Kate a spaz, to make fun of her inability to use a hammer, to point out her flaws, and to push her around. She chose to tear apart the house others build for her and throw paint cans at those who tried to be her friends. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Teri had no right to be angry—she had every right to be angry, but how is the way she dealt with that anger any better than a father who screams at his children and throws things because he’s a rageaholic? I’m going to be blunt here and say, I think it’s EXACTLY the same thing.

The difference is that when Laurie Halse Anderson writes about the rageaholic father in TWISTED, he’s the problem, and the one who ruins his family’s life. But when Ms. Anderson writes about the same kind of character in CATLYST, we’re supposed to pity the girl and see things from her point of view.

This is where the tall man giving the sermon in my dreams comes in. He represented Teri and the way she treated those around her. Even though the author tried to make Kate stop running by having her help out Teri in the end, I didn’t feel like Kate did the right thing. She calls her boyfriend a jerk for telling the truth to Teri. Here’s what he says to her, “ . . . I know you’ve had a really hard life. But that doesn’t give you permission to make Kate feel like shit, or make fun of people, or steal from them . . .” p.222

I get the impression that as a reader I’m supposed to be appalled by Kate’s boyfriend being so “mean” to Teri. But instead I’m sitting there, reading it, and agreeing with Every. Single. Word.

What Kate truly does at the end is disown “Bad Kate” instead of integrating her healthy negative feelings into her identity. She doesn’t really stop running, instead she runs into another bad friendship. One where the girl treats her like crap and Kate’s expected to just put up with it. Like the fat little blond girl that gets hit on the head in my dream. I feel sorry for her.

View all my reviews

My Half NaNo Failure

2011-12-12T09:36:00.004-05:00

Yes, it's true. Apparently making myself write with a set number of words per day does not work so well, especially when I get sidetracked by non-fiction projects.

See, this was my issue with the month of November (and part of December), I spent so much time stressing over one non-fiction article that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.

Not poetry. Not fiction. Not blogging. Not laundry.

So I'm sitting here in a worn pair of jeans that needs to be washed very badly, socks that don't match, and shoes that are falling apart. And to make matters worse I still haven't finished that darn article because I've turned into such a stress case.

Moral of the story: non-fiction is not my thing (unless it's poetry) then I'm okay with it. So to all of you wonderful people who have stuck with me through the month of November and early December when I was being a horrible blogging buddy while hitting my forehead against the desk, thank you!

Thank you for coming by despite my neglecting you.

Thank you for writing validating comments.

Thank you for being an example to me of the kind of writer I want to become.

There's so much talent and support in this blogging community, and I feel honored to be a part of it. And on that note, I've got to let you know that I'll be on hiatus until January.

Hopefully I can focus on poetry and get back my writing spark over Christmas.

So tell me, have you ever felt your inspiration fizzle out? And when that happens, how do you get it back?

When We Fell In Love

2011-11-28T09:57:00.002-05:00

The soft, falling summer rain
That rests on my window pane
Reminds me of WHEN WE FELL IN LOVE

The stroll in the glen we knew
The picnic we packed for two
How soon rain clouds hid the sun above!

Like leaves in the wind, my dreams were blown
And where you have gone my hopes have flown

But when gray skies bring that yen
For our sunny summer glen
I'll still dream of WHEN WE FELL IN LOVE

Copyright ©2011 by Joe Gleese

Joe is a poet and lyricist from Cincinnati, Ohio. You can find his lyrics put to song here. Also, visit him on his youtube channel if you get the chance: Joe Gleese's Channel.

Interview with Jessica Bell

2011-11-09T08:24:00.003-05:00

I know Jessica from the fabulous feedback she gives me on my poetry, for her consistent online presence, and her ability to be a good friend. In addition to all this, she's a wonderful writer. I know because I've read her book, STRING BRIDGE. It is amazing. You can buy it here.

String Bridge by Jessica Bell

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Lucky press sent me the arc of this book last week, and the moment I took it from the mailbox, I was dying to start reading. Jessica is a poet, so it's not surprising that she employs good use of imagery, metaphor, and other poetic devices from the very beginning.

The preface is gorgeous and reads more like poetry than any other part of the book. It gets you into the mindset of 30-year-old Melody almost immediately, and paints her as a woman who loves music, but has chosen to give it up for the sake of her family and a stable paycheck.

Though the protagonist refers to herself in the preface as "a mother, a wife, a 'happy' homemaker--who lives a socially acceptable existence," it becomes clear while reading not only that Melody isn't happy, but that the source of her angst comes less from the demands of her daughter (who was so good I sometimes wished I could trade her for one of my real children) and more from the strain of living with a husband who is both verbally and emotionally abusive. Not to say he's always a tyrant, or that Melody is a perpetual victim. She has her own moments of irrational behavior and fits of rage. One in particular where she hurls plates at her husband's head because she doesn't want to be a "doormat." But much of Melody's problems are brought on by her own distorted thinking, perpetuated by her husband, mother,and her need to turn her anger inward so she can think the best of them.

This book deals with some serious issues: mental illness, self-injury, infidelity, and codependency to name a few. It take you through stages of grief and pain with evocative description, puts you in the midst of turmoil, grabs you by the shoulders and makes you examine what is true and false. Melody is not a Stepford Wife with a pasted on smile and politically correct emotions; she doesn't do or feel anything halfway, and the way she comes to view her life is nothing short of inspirational.

You can just imagine how thrilled I was to have the opportunity to interview Jessica about her awesome book. Here goes nothing.

How much of you is in Melody?

Jessica: Well, it’s hard to say. I think every writer puts themselves into every character, but the similarities come through in waves which depend on various factors, such as mood, while writing. I could try and give you a percentage, but I think I would always change my mind. Overall, I’m not Melody. I want to primarily write, not have a career in music. I don’t have a daughter. I’m not married. Yes, I live in an apartment in Athens and I work as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching materials, but I used those aspects of my life because I needed to really ‘know’ what I was writing about. Being my first novel, I didn’t want to get caught up in a mist of research, so I figured if the basic details, such as setting and occupation were the same as my own, I wouldn’t stumble into any mind-numbing obstacles along the way. I needed to write what I knew to get that first book out of me.

2.) Being an Australian who lives in Greece, do you think Greek men are different than Australian men and why?

Jessica: Haha! Yes, definitely. Generally speaking, I think Greek men are nurtured quite a lot and remain dependent on their mothers for quite a long time, which I suppose creates a quality in them which craves being ‘looked after.’ Australian parents tend to encourage their kids to get out and live their own lives as soon as they turn eighteen, which means Australian men tend to know how (and want) to look after themselves better. Ha! Look, this is a total generalization and is by no means a definition of the Greek and Australian man. It’s just my surface interpretation.

3.) In writing String Bridge, why did you choose to make Melody a character who struggles with depression and emotional stability?

Jessica: I suppose it’s what came the most naturally to me. I suffer from depression sometimes, and depression is what seems to make my creativity thrive, but I certainly took it a step further with Melody. It needed to be there for a reason. I couldn’t just have her moping around and feeling sorry for herself because she felt like a doormat and couldn’t sing anymore. Who would be interested in that? So I blended her emotional instability with a few other factors. Not wanting to end up being like her mother who also suffered from severe depression, and not wanting to have the same effect on her daughter, Tessa, as Melody’s mother had on her. It then became a bigger struggle than just overcoming depression. Suddenly there was a need and motive to beat the depression in order to become a good role model for her daughter.

Thank you, Jessica for answering my questions. I feel so fortunate to have you as a friend.

The Flowers

2011-11-07T08:23:00.004-05:00

When FLOWERS color the lane
Where you and I used to stroll
I hear a bitter-sweet strain
That stirs deep down in my soul

The song my heart knew that first moment we met
Seems wrong__ It's a blue song I know I'll only regret

And yet, this flowering view
Brings back the thrill once again
To dream my rev'rie of you
As I'm remembering when
We kissed__reminisced
Over dreams we thought were ours
These dreams I see all anew
As I stroll among THE FLOWERS

Copyright ©2011 by Joe Gleese

Joe is a poet and lyricist from Cincinnati, Ohio. You can find his lyrics put to song here. Also, visit him on his youtube channel if you get the chance: Joe Gleese's Channel.

HalfNaNoWriMo 2011

2011-10-27T11:50:00.016-04:00

Yes, it is official. I AM CRAZY. Call me a non-conformist, or whatever you want, but I am on a crusade to rid all-or-nothing thinking from my life. And as much as I respect any writer willing to write 50,000 words in the month of November, I know for me the goal isn't manageable. Not unless I ignore each of my four children, stop doing laundry, refuse to cook meals, and shut everyone out of my life except for fictional characters.

The sad thing is how very appealing that sounds. I'm sure it would get me back on the writing track and heaven knows, I need that more than anything. So I'm faced with two choices:

1. Don't do NaNo and neglect my writing.
2. Do NaNo and neglect my family.

Well *scratch chin* I have come up with a third option: The HalfNaNo. And I propose this for anyone who wants to go on an occasional walk to let the inspiration in, who'd rather write while fully rested, and who wishes to see the light of the sun every now and then. Please join me if you are a person like this and are willing to try something new.

I've even created a widget. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- >

Just grab it and stick it on your blog. If it doesn't cooperate when you click the "get widget" button, let me know in the comments, and I'll email you the embed code. It links back to this blog for anyone who's interested. I can't promise bells and whistles, but I'll support anyone who wants to do this with me. Just leave your word count in the comments at the end of each week in November. 25,000 words is the goal for the month. This way we can support each other.

Oktoberfest Blogfest Vampire Poem

2011-10-26T08:13:00.007-04:00

Today is the Blogfest hosted by Bish Denham over at Random Thoughts. We're supposed to write a story or present a poem under three hundred words somehow related to Halloween. So I've pulled a vampire poem from my archives to showcase for this event. This one can also be found in Pill Hill Press's anthology: POEMS FROM THE DARK SIDE.

For Lucy and Mina

Based on Stoker's Dracula

“Flesh of my flesh”
Your fingers are ice.
“Blood of my blood”
Your lips are soft.

You come to me as fog
thick and cool
on a sultry night, and I
like a child, breathe you in.

Your eyes burn crimson
and I close mine
feeling ever weaker
as you drain away my soul

“Flesh of my flesh,
blood of my blood,
kin of my kin . . .”
How frail am I.

Leave me my strength
Give me my will
and I'll forgo forever.

Messages

2011-10-24T08:40:00.003-04:00

(For Jen)

Words can be filled
with all sorts of things:
meanings and feelings
and secrets and lies.

I found some of yours
in a sentence today
hiding in a letter
packed full of truths.

I wasn't sure what
they meant at first;
it scared me,
but I want you too.

Copyright ©1994 by Jim Murdoch

Jim Murdoch is a Scottish writer living just outside Glasgow. His poetry appeared regularly in small press magazines during the seventies and eighties. In the nineties he turned to prose-writing and has completed five novels and a collection of short stories. His first novel, Living with the Truth, was published in 2008 and the sequel, Stranger than Fiction, the following year. In 2010 he brought out a collection of his poetry spanning over thirty years of writing entitled This Is Not About What You Think and later this year his next novel, Milligan and Murphy, a work inspired by the writing of Samuel Beckett, will be available in paperback. You can find out more about him on his blog, The Truth About Lies and you can read further examples of his poetry on his website.

created equal

2011-10-21T08:09:00.005-04:00

As final proof that we are not created equal, I give you the following to consider.

My kids have school picture day today, and I completely forgot until the kids had gotten onto the bus and the neighbor mentioned it. Can we say scatter-brained?

So hopefully you'll forgive any typos you may find in here as I'm in a bit of a rush.

I need to write out three checks, take them up to the school, and get them in my children's backpacks before they get their pictures taken. I should probably also bring a comb. Good thing I recorded my vlog yesterday. You will find it below along with the poem (which is already in the archives of this blog) but since it's one of my favorite poems, I had to read it for the camera.

created equal

if i could split myself down the center
i think my right side would weigh
seventy-four, my left side seventy-six.
for my hip is rounder on that side
my chest fuller, my eyebrow capable
of rising, flexible as the joints on my
left hand, curvy as the arch of my foot.
jefferson said we're all created equal
but i know better. we're all lopsided.

Hey all

2011-10-19T08:08:00.005-04:00

This is a crazy week at the Felsted house. My daughter, who just turned eight, is getting baptized this Saturday. My husband is thirty-nine today. My oldest son turns ten this Sunday. Yeah, it's true, we have three birthdays in the same week.

So if we're in the middle of a conversation, and you notice me phasing out. Chances are I'm going over my to-do list. Regretfully, I do not have a poem to post today. :(

But, and this is a huge but, I am guest posting on two wonderful blogs.

1.) Lydia Kang's blog, The Word Is My Oyster, where I talk about what Margaret Atwood, Carrie Jones, and Laurie Halse Anderson have in common.

2.) Bethany Wiggins and Suzette Saxton's blog, Shooting Stars, where I get a little more personal about what I get from poetry and music.

Stop by if you get a chance. My next poem/vlog will be up on Friday.

Have a great Wednesday!

LONELINESS

2011-10-17T08:16:00.003-04:00

Solitude used to be so special
till you came between us.

I think of you when I'm with her
and she knows that I do.

And it's not the same any more.
Nor can it ever be.

Copyright ©1989 by Jim Murdoch

Jim Murdoch is a Scottish writer living just outside Glasgow. His poetry appeared regularly in small press magazines during the seventies and eighties. In the nineties he turned to prose-writing and has completed five novels and a collection of short stories. His first novel, Living with the Truth, was published in 2008 and the sequel, Stranger than Fiction, the following year. In 2010 he brought out a collection of his poetry spanning over thirty years of writing entitled This Is Not About What You Think and later this year his next novel, Milligan and Murphy, a work inspired by the writing of Samuel Beckett, will be available in paperback. You can find out more about him on his blog, The Truth About Lies and you can read further examples of his poetry on his website.

dear audrey hepburn

2011-10-14T10:29:00.003-04:00

in judging beauty
some people think only
of symmetry.

on the ice cold bed
the woman is screaming

your name. the space
between her legs

is raining sweat
on the crown of

her infant’s head.

the woman sees no
blood or vernix, she

sees only symmetry.

doctors wrap a plastic band
beneath the child’s blue-red fist.

birth is brutal
pain is ugly

the baby’s cone-shaped head is ugly
the baby’s squished up face is ugly

and the woman calls
her darling.

some people think only
of symmetry.

Gift Card Winner

2011-10-11T12:54:00.005-04:00

Yes, yes, I know I've been a complacent blogger lately. But I'm finally on here, yes I am, with a winner to the $20.00 gift card giveaway.

And our winner is, drum roll please . . .

Shari !

I am so thankful for everyone who participated. This is such a wonderfully supportive blogging community. :)

Also, now that it's Wednesday, I have a guest post up on Jen's blog. You can click here to check it out!

Yellow Is a Dreadful Color

2011-10-07T08:57:00.005-04:00

(A poem about bedwetting, a taboo topic.)

Moments after I shut my eyes, I dream of jaundiced spiders
descending on cords like fishing lines,
their feet land along the curve of my widow's peak
where they weave a web to keep my head from turning,
"Don't move," they say. "Hush."
They do not crawl or creep or tiptoe.
They do not let me leave.
I am not a girl. I am not an animal, a flying moth, a swaying plant.
I am calcified, frozen like I'm made of stone.
And the spiders, oh the spiders, they dissolve into yellow liquid
with an acidic stench, moving, sliding, flowing off my skin,
down my legs, and into the sinking spot beneath
my body where they seep into
polyester cotton, soak the sheets from the
base of my neck, to the hollows of my knees, to the pliant folds
of skin behind my elbows.
The color turns cold, clings to the fabric
between my thighs until my muscles shake, and my eyes snap open,
feet kick off the covers as I rise from the mattress
drip drip dripping on the warm dry floor. Biting my tongue
I strip down, throw my clothes into the hamper,
wrap the sheets into a giant ball, wipe the vinyl clean like
a killer wipes up fingerprints, splattered blood stains,
lipstick on a glass. Haul away my linens like he hauls
the body to his car, evidence tossed into the wash
stains erased in the churning of the river.

This poem was hard to write, but it is even harder to post. It’s about a childhood nightmare and what it feels like to wake up in a cold wet bed. I would know because *cough* I had this problem clear into my teens. And while this is rare, I am not the only one. Here’s a list of famous people who had the same problem I did:

Sarah Silverman
Michael Landon
Franklin D. Roosevelt
Suzanne Somers
Johnny Carson

Despite all the advances we’ve made in understanding this condition, there is still a huge stigma attached to it, as evidenced by the many unflattering ways I see bedwetters portrayed on the internet.

I found these examples just this morning: On Terrorists and Bedwetters, Tummy Time is for Pansies and Bedwetters, Dear Right-Wing Bedwetters, Dear Bedwetting Liberal, Coldplay – genius or bedwetter? Even yahoo answers joined in on the fun with this question:

Who are some famous bedwetters? I need to know of some famous people that wet the bed due to child abuse.

What’s worse, look at this answer?

I don't know but I would guess and in just my opinion only ;
Jimmy carter
jesse jackson
mike tyson
george bush
all of the popes
roseanne barr
lincoln
hitler
jerry falwell
billy graham
jim jones
( most tv preachers were serious bed wetters i think)

all three kennedys bobbie, johnnie, eddie
there are just too many to name.

My response: while I appreciate that many of these people are trying to be either funny or clever, I feel like I’m back in grade school with the playground bully when I run across stuff like this. Please . . . people, be sensitive to those who have struggled with bedwetting. There’s nothing more mortifying than waking up in a wet bed, nothing more frightening than having so little control over your own body, nothing more shameful than thinking the secret makes you unlovable.

And now for something positive and wonderful: Jessica Bell has posted a review of my chapbook, CLEAVE, on her blog here. Go check it out if you have the time. :)

Shifting Winner

2011-10-04T09:04:00.004-04:00

And the winner of Shifting is . . . Tara!

I'm a guest at Laurel's Leaves today, talking with her about ten things you ought to know about publishing poetry. Head over there and take a look.

Also, there's one week left to enter the $20 gift card giveaway. For rules click here.

I hope everyone has a great day.

The Insides of Words

2011-10-03T08:09:00.004-04:00

I gave her some hollow words to fill and she asked what with.
I suggested the truth but the romantic in her wasn't too keen.
So she left them empty on a shelf.
She said they meant something to her.

One day a spider made a web in them to catch flies.

Copyright ©1991 by Jim Murdoch

Jim Murdoch is a Scottish writer living just outside Glasgow. His poetry appeared regularly in small press magazines during the seventies and eighties. In the nineties he turned to prose-writing and has completed five novels and a collection of short stories. His first novel, Living with the Truth, was published in 2008 and the sequel, Stranger than Fiction, the following year. In 2010 he brought out a collection of his poetry spanning over thirty years of writing entitled This Is Not About What You Think and later this year his next novel, Milligan and Murphy, a work inspired by the writing of Samuel Beckett, will be available in paperback. You can find out more about him on his blog, The Truth About Lies and you can read further examples of his poetry on his website.

inhaler forgotten

2011-09-30T08:05:00.003-04:00

a girl passes me on the rocky path
her hat caked with mud.
i should have worn a hat.
i should have held to the sweet
breath i was born with.
my lungs dressed in the
soft tissue of my mama’s love.
i wanted to play basketball.
i wanted to ignore the laughing
voices and pointing fingers.
if only i could’ve played basketball.
the girl reaches the adobe-red hut
marked Acceptance. i push toward it
wheezing through doubtful lungs.

I wrote this a number of months ago after reading a lot of Lucille Clifton. It took my longer to write than I had anticipated. And despite the impression I give here, I've never had asthma. That doesn't mean I don't feel for those who do.

Can you imagine this girl waking up in a dark alley naked?

2011-09-27T08:13:00.010-04:00

Shifting by Bethany Wiggins

Maggie Mae is in amazing shape, has been arrested for indecent exposure almost a dozen times, and has the biggest roundest . . . eyes you have ever seen. And like most YA characters I've read about lately, she is strong and fast and has the ability to change into something not-quite-human. But unlike these same characters, she doesn't magically keep her clothes on like some G rated, ultra-cleaned up, Disney version of a werewolf/pixie/shapeshifter.

If you want to read the rest of my review, click here.

This book is a fast paced, edge of your seat read that comes out today. Congratulations, Bethany!

I'm really lucky because the Barnes and Noble stocked this title on Saturday, which means I got to read it early. I can't tell you how happy I am about that. So I've decided to share my good fortune by giving away my copy. If you're interested, read on.

Um, who am I kidding? Even if you're not, please read on anyway.

I have a poetry chapbook coming out in January. It's called CLEAVE and it's going to be published by Finishing Line Press, which is a small publisher. Since the print run is determined by the number of preorders and the preorder period officially starts today, I was very motivated to make a book trailer. My first ever trailer.

As a matter of fact, it took days. So PLEASE watch it:

In order to promote my trailer, I've decided to have a giveaway. And I don't just mean the book above. If you want me to put your name in the drawing for Shifting all you have to do is say you're interested in the comments below. I'll announce who wins the book on Tuesday, October 4th.

But I've also decided to give away a $20 gift certificate to Amazon on Tuesday, October 11th. I like gift cards because they're a free pass to buy anything I want. Plus, I can email them, which saves me a ton of money on shipping. In order for your name to be in the drawing for the gift card, this is what you have to do.

1. Put your name in the comments saying your interested in the gift card.
2. Share (or like) the trailer.
3. Add up your points so I know how many times to enter your name.

Here are the points.

+1 Liking the video on YouTube
+1 Sharing it on Twitter
+2 Sharing it on Google Plus
+2 Sharing it on Facebook
+3 Putting it on your blog sidebar
+5 Featuring it on your blog

The deadline for entering the Gift Card drawing is midnight on Monday, October 10th. The deadline for putting your name in the Shifting basket is midnight, Monday, October 3rd.

So tell me, what do you think of my trailer/music video? Have you ever made one, and if so, how long did it take?

Green Wanderings

2011-09-26T09:18:00.002-04:00

i. paddock and river bank

trees tease one another,
green finger tips tickling
as they soak their roots
in the river’s edge.

further a field,
scattered trees look on…
I wonder …do they long to feel
tree fingers flutter down their limbs,
confirming their ‘treeness’….

ii. bush garden

out of the trees, in black frock and scarlet
bobby socks …
‘where you been lovely?’

‘loving in the grass green shade,
feeling the lick tickling
of every bending blade!’

iii. eastern European forest

as tho’ she were still laying on her bed,
the world turned, slow spun and swayed inside her head
and when, at last, her eyes stared open wide
up from the snow fall of the many littered dead,
the trees all bent themselves to hide the lonely fact
that she had died on the only path
out from their rest.

Copyright ©2011 by J.R. McRae

J.R.McRae has written since she can remember. Worked in a circus, as a librarian, book reviewer, film reviewer, associate lecturer, English Expression, DPP, UQ, editor etc! Teaching herself to illustrate & to make jewelry. You can visit her blog here.

scorn

2011-09-22T08:07:00.002-04:00

my thorns won’t defend me
from the jabs of sticky feet
won’t shield me from
metallic bodies
come to feed with
razor teeth.

my skin won’t protect me
from the sting of poison ink
won’t guard me from
the clouded eyes
come to scorn the
creamy pink

petals of my pale lips
offered up in open trust
prostate under
clicking wings
bruised in silent
prejudice.

Effects

2011-09-19T08:10:00.001-04:00

See the path of raindrops fleeing the high cloud slopes
And the destiny of water caught in leaf cups to distil
The voice in blood, in river’s rage and stream’s laughter
And the circle of a ripple spread across meridians

How far can thought compass if you count
The violent spread of radio waves and satellite
Who can hold or a moment even intercept
The radius of light when it is passing

Thought holds and so it intercepts
The destiny that life makes us accept
That we ourselves are ripples in the bloodstream
And we flow……

Copyright ©2011 by J.R. McRae

J.R.McRae has written since she can remember. Worked in a circus, as a librarian, book reviewer, film reviewer, associate lecturer, English Expression, DPP, UQ, editor etc! Teaching herself to illustrate & to make jewelry. You can visit her blog here.

Amy Says Cut-Downs Are Cool

2011-09-15T08:24:00.002-04:00

I know because on
the first day of school
we walked home together.

Her: laughing about great cut-downs
Me: counting the sidewalk cracks
one, two, three, four

My brothers ran along beside us.
Brent in silence; Evan working
to fill up the space:

“So Amy, as an outsider,
what do you think of us human beings?”
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen

Amy giggled, then revealed her
awesome cleverness: “I’d rather be a freak
than belong to the same species as you.”

She looked at me. “Your turn, Angela.”
thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three
“Humans are so much better,” I said.

Amy scoffed, her smile pulled tight.
“That’s the most pitiful cut-down ever!”
A car drove by, rubber rolling on asphalt.

“This is hateful,” I said. "Who talks like this?”
thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine
The end of the sidewalk loomed ahead.

Amy opened her mouth,
closed it tight, then spoke up again,
“My parents do, but they’re getting divorced.”

Field Surgeon Remembering

2011-09-12T08:13:00.001-04:00

From his garden, he hears young men prowl in their cars,
Arms captured in a circling crush,
Hears their music blasting,
Down the stethoscope the beat is strong.
They U with screaming rubber.
He begins again, the third time tonight, the needle circling.
The metal cut deep in. The wound is sutured over staying the scar.

He wonders, from his garden, if the tank tracks are
Still there, snailing among the rosy flesh.
He remembers the bodies and how he stitched
Deliberate tank tracks across the skin,
The needle circling, the thread drawing torn flesh together.
He thinks, “there is no perfect rose.”

Copyright ©2011 by J.R. McRae

J.R.McRae has written since she can remember. Worked in a circus, as a librarian, book reviewer, film reviewer, associate lecturer, English Expression, DPP, UQ, editor etc! Teaching herself to illustrate & to make jewelry. You can visit her blog here.