The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~~Vladimir Nabakov, Russian novelist, 1899-1977 ....

  Indie publishing queen Zoe Winters, who keeps accidentally inspiring me to write these mondo-long blog posts when I’m innocently trying to procrastinate by reading her blog in the first place, spoke today about the myth of The New York Gatekeepers of Publishing. From Zoe’s post: There is a lot of hullabaloo about “good writing” vs. “bad writing”. And how do you know if you’re a “good writer” or not? The sad truth is that you can’t. I think one of the reasons the gatekeepers hold SUCH strong sway over unpublished authors is that they NEED to know if they’re good or not. And the reason they need to know, probably more than other types of artists, is that EVERYBODY thinks they can write. Whether they can or not. Everybody believes they have a book in them. It’s not like other forms of art like painting and sculpting and film where people seem to have some basic grasp of whether or not they suck. So many writers don’t have enough self-confidence. And those that do often end up being the ones everybody mocks for self-publishing crap. So people are afraid if they have self-confidence it must mean they suck and are just deluded. So...

  I read a blog the other day (3 Shared Paths, one of my favorites), and the latest post discussed the recent solar eclipse and how long it would be until the next one: 19 years. Rebecca mused on how long 19 years feels—not is, chronologically but really feels—and how much a life can change in that time span. My favorite gem: What will be the themes in your life 19 years from now? Take some time to really think about it because you’re building that time in your life right now. That hit a nerve. Definitely. 19 years ago, I was a different person. Hell, that was three whole people ago. In 1991, I was idealistic, lazy, depressed, and hopeful. Yes, all at the same time. I had my whole future ahead of me and I knew it, so I didn’t waste much time with the present. Unfortunately, that particular present was the last place I had the chance to see my great-grandmother alive. Or visit my childhood home which was later bulldozed for the maintenance area of a public golf course. And it wasn’t long afterward that I had a crisis of faith, my first broken heart (which is really the only...

Far be it from me to be accused of taking things “too seriously”, as claimed by this guy.

I’m flashing my boobs in public. Literarily speaking, that is. (No, literarily’s not a real word. But it should be.) Literary Mama has seen fit to publish my poem “Brevity”, available by clicking here. It’s a little weird for me, honestly. I adore this particular publication, and have submitted time and again there, only to have two accepted pieces. (Both of those are here, for anyone who’s interested.) And I’ve always sworn by writing what you feel, not what’s comfortable, so there was no oddity at all in my submitting a piece that deals with secret breastfeeding habits that I picked up casually, remember fondly, and don’t tell anyone about because it’s probably kind of gross. Submitting things like that has never been an issue for me at all. Reading poems aloud about private sexual experiences or my personal failures and embarrassments has happened more than once, in groups from five to twenty. I’ve gotten shocked looks, offended a few folks, and been congratulated for my honesty–sometimes even all at the same event. I’m not shy with my words. So why does seeing this particular poem, which isn’t racy, controversial, or even remotely written in blue language, suddenly making me feel so squirmy? Is...

Humpty Dumpty? Apparently, according to the BBC, he can’t break now. He ends up happy and superglued. The old lady in the shoe? She now gives kisses instead of whippings.

Many thanks to the editors of The Legendary, who saw fit to publish two of my poems, “Loving Darkness” and “Finger Trails” in Issue #9. These are among the older poems that I haven’t trotted out in a while, and it’s nice to see them find a home. If you’d like, you can read them here. ....

I was transfixed by the tiny grubworm of a human before me, the one who needed everything, at all times, in all measure.