True Story

I am in the process of organizing several poetry chapbooks, and while dusting off a file of old poems from my 2013 graduate poetry class, I found this ridiculous little gem! It's a "break up" poem with Iffy Magic . . . you know, the first novel I ever went on to self-publish!

True Story

I try to break it to you gently

Without ellipses

Or time to let the ink splatter.

I can’t be with you anymore

Please don’t linger or make a scene

Like a melodramatic Em dash queen.

Don’t think of me too harshly

Just because I promised you

A prime spot on the book shelf

Behind the glass panes 

Of the oak vanity cabinet.

Honey, get real!

After 3 years of revisions

A pile of rejection letters

Leaning like the Tower of Pisa,

Not even an agent can save

This “thing” between us.

Now, don’t you dare interrobang

I’m not saying what we had

Was nothing, but maybe

It was altogether too much.

You consumed me

Chapter, comma, and semicolon

I just can’t keep cutting and pasting

My soul to flesh your pages.

Did I ever tell you how

I almost scrawled your name

On my bank check once?

I forgot my own signature

True story.

But it’s mine, not yours,

And I’ve got to write it

With somebody else now.

Evening Primrose Goodwing—

Unfollow

Unfriend

Bye . . .

Delete.

*I'm really glad I didn't give up on Prim. Now to finish Regalia's adventures! #2020 goals

 

Best Laid Plans and Lucky 13

So the past two weeks I have suffered from the worst migraine in my life that ended in a trip to the ER for a migraine cocktail. As for the past two years, well, they've been full of surprise health challenges that have been frightening, but I got through them. Yesterday, I forgave myself. My body. I acknowledged that the human condition is one of complex frailty and that if I am to learn from failure, I must let go of my unhealthy frustration and expectations of how my life should be unfolding right exactly this minute.

But I will also honor my dreams as best I can, with whatever thimble's worth of diligence and determination I can muster day by day.

When I attended my SCBWI regional conference in September 2019, I was in horrendous pain from what I later found out was pelvic floor dysfunction. I couldn't go to the bathroom properly, and sitting was utter agony. I carried a hemorrhoid pillow with me everywhere. I was mortified when an editor sat at my table during lunch and I had to repeatedly excuse myself for bathroom breaks. But you know what? I learned so much at the conference! I had a marvelous time with all my fellow writers despite feeling terrible. And someone liked the premise of Agent Regalia and is expecting me to complete her story.

So I won't give up. I am more than the sum of my pain, ink is also in my blood. 2020 is going to be a good year, I know it . . . because it marks the thirteenth year since I started writing novels. And 13 has always been my lucky number!

Trudging

I got two and a half pages done on Agent Regalia after hours of work today. I'm going to call that a win!

I've also been delving into bridal history as my little sister/super editor often chides me about the need for solid research to enrich my narratives.

Oh, and dabbling in messy character art!