- 12:34 am - Thu, Mar 14, 2013
Q: I love the posts on your Tumblr and thought you might enjoy Electric Literature's Recommended Reading, which is the first major literary magazine to publish directly to Tumblr. We post one story a week, and this week's story from Ted Sander's new collection No Animals We Could Name due in July from Graywolf Press. We want to share free fiction with as many people as possible, so if you like it please retumble and follow us! Hema
Thanks Hema- I look forward to reading the magazine!
- 7:11 pm - Tue, May 8, 2012
- 3 notes
so here i am, stumbling over to the keyboard, pink and lightly sweaty. project ‘get myself off daily(ish) and write about it,’ part one.
usually coming is work. and i don’t mean that as a bad thing. it’s just that i’m kinda muscle-orgasmic. i need clenching and pressing and grinding to do it. or…
Read this! I couldn’t comment I don’t know why so I’ll just say it here. Amazing. Hot. Pro-fucking-found. I am mind blown, soul blown and so very hopeful. Tucking these words in forever -
“it’s ok to come thinking about the things i try not to think about anymore. it’s ok.
i forgive myself.
i forgive my body and my psyche.
i forgive my clit. “
- 12:40 am - Thu, May 3, 2012
- 1 note
More on a theme- bad girls
Bad Girls Part 3
Bad girls are lining up all around the block
inside my head
tapping high heeled feet impatiently,
scuffing the toe of just polished motorcycle boots
adjusting breasts, fluffing cleavage and looking out
with hungry eyes
I never knew them, not really
even though that’s what we were called- always
even though that’s what I was born into
like a shoe box with a lid without air holes
even though that was my identity
I always thought I was bad but not a girl
or bad at being a girl
or not enough of a boy to count
or too much of both to be believed
- 11:40 pm - Tue, Apr 17, 2012
- 1 note
Picture by the talented Sarah Deragon
This is Jen Cross: Bay Area writer, facilitator and founder of Writing Ourselves Whole. I write with her whenever I get the chance and you should too. Jen is a widely anthologized writer, talented performer and highly skilled writing facilitator.
She has a unique way of creating a safe, comfortable environment for writers to come together and write and read their work, to give and receive positive feedback and have a good time doing it. She also manages to challenge us and give us room to go wherever our writing wants to go. Check out the variety of workshop offerings at Writing Ourselves Whole and come on out for the next Writing The Flood, this Saturday in San Francisco. Writing The Flood happens every third Saturday from 1:00-4:30 and is an open topic writing workshop that is my favorite way to spend an afternoon.
Contact Jen directly to register: Jennifer@writingourselveswhole.org
- 3:29 pm - Wed, Feb 29, 2012
butter by a.meadowlark on Flickr.
The Butter of Writing
All the pretty notebooks and sexy super smooth glide pens won’t make the words appear. You can dust your computer, line up the monitor just so…stack your favorite “This is How You Write” books up to the ceiling and lay your your talismans on the muses alter: old poems, pebbles and driftwood, sage and dried flowers and your favorite pale pink beaded rosary, the old typewrite key and your favorite dried up pen.
Pictures and post cards are taped to the wall, index cards and post its in rainbow colors and your childhood, thrift store, early edition copy of Louisa May Alcott’s The Old Fashioned girl are resting on your desk along with sea shells, notes, pages torn from notebooks and the complete works of Pablo Neruda. Your carefully hidden published smut and your clean, well lit story, published in the local literary magazine still roll their eyes from their respective corners and say well?
Use whatever it takes. By all means keep the old unwashed blue button down shirt that still smells of your favorite ex who could write an essay before her first cup of coffee hanging on the back of your computer chair that slides down every time you sit on it so that your chin is too close to the desk, your eyes, miles away from the monitor. Go ahead and kiss that lucky rabbit foot, knock on wood, have a glass of cold vodka, swagger like Bukowski and flip off Hemingway. Mutter at the old dead published men, whisper to the women. Call on them in their dreams full of crisply typed poems with round smooth adjectives and blue bowls full of over ripe peaches. Dreams of dead writers are everywhere in the air if you can listen past the voices in your head- that buzz of disapproval and the sarcastic laughter of the critics sitting around the poker table smoking fat cigars and drinking bad whiskey. They are waiting for your to cross out those words in angry pen scratches or hit the backspace key so they can nod and say they were right all along.
Meanwhile, the air is full of molecules waiting to coalesce around a thought or idea, to bump up against the what comes next and the then she said while the cursor blinks at you expectantly. All of these blank pages to fill, all this room to stretch out that’s hungry for ink, waiting for words. There’s room enough for all of us to stomp around in a dead writer’s too big motorcycle boots, or favorite Jimmy Choos.
It’s all around you- the hum of it- that raw energy waiting to be ink splashed and useful.
It all boils down to dissolving the yeast in the warm water and waiting for it to bubble to life, just for you. And then the flour, carefully measured like the lines in a well written outline, or thrown in by the handful, it doesn’t matter, bread won’t care too much about what your approach is as long as you pay attention. After the mixing and the punching down and the rest, after the kneading till sweat kisses the flour on your nose and you carefully itch it with the inside of your wrist, You’ll get a loaf from the oven, hot and fragrant. Even though the loaf you are yielded might be a little raw in the middle or burnt at the edges, it will still be hot, made by your own intelligent ink stained hands. It will always belong to you even when it’s offered up at the dinner table or eaten standing around the oven on a cold morning. And if it’s a good month for groceries, you might have some butter that melts into those simple ingredients you’ve combined and then, that bite, that’s as good as it gets.
Writing won’t always be like that, hot and oozing with good butter but it will always be filling, always taste good, always be yours.
- 11:53 pm - Mon, Feb 13, 2012
Thinking of crows…
From a single grain they have multiplied.
When you look in the eyes of one
you have seen them all. At the edges of highways
they pick at limp things.They are anything but refined.
Or they fly out over the cornlike pellets of black fire,like overlords.
(Crow is crow, you say.What else is there to say?
Drive down any road,take a train or an airplane
across the world, leave
your old life behind,die and be born again—wherever you arrive
they’ll be there first, glossy and rowdy
The deep muscle of the world.
- Mary Oliver
I’m writing a novel in which crows play a significant role. A writer from a manuscript group sent this to me today. Perfect.