Posts Tagged ‘National Poetry Month’
This year, I have not done right by National Poetry Month. I have not had an opportunity to feature a single poet. I’m correcting that today. I’m welcoming back Mary L. Barnard, a friend and fabulous poet. She’s been writing poetry for a long time and I’ve learned much from her. I love the commitment that she has had for many years of writing a poem during the weekend and sending it out to her community. The poem below was published in the 2012 collection, Hot Summer Nights: a Collection of Erotic Poetry & Prose.
I’m delighted to welcome back Mary L. Barnard to The Practice of Creativity.
SURE PITCH, TRUE ARC
Then, when he came to her, he was Broken Man,
told her the prophecy of the New Goddess
who foretold twelve women waiting for
a man, if he be good and constant, would sire
with them the New Disciples between moonrise
and moonset on the night of the winter solstice.
If a man be eaten by twin worms of lust and harm,
the Goddess will know and the women will turn
from the face of ill-placed trust.
The man who has spent himself on women who
cuckold him will have his powers taken away.
She, unaware of any goddess, played horseshoes
with men and learned their ways as sportsmen.
Her sure pitch, true arc admired, imitated.
It was rumored that the clink against the stake
of her bronze horseshoes resounded in mountains
beyond the pit.
She met Broken Man when relations were still
new to her. As he told her about the New Goddess,
she mused on the sound of his voice, which entered
her ear as the sound of a bird foreign yet welcome
in her yard.
She dreamed of sitting alone in the cloud forest
of Ecuador where the club-winged manikin
ticks and tings on the bones of his wings
knocking together as bow on violin
to make a sound alluring to all females.
She mused, touched him with her finger
on a place he had hidden from everyone. He did not
push her hand away. The eyes that looked into his
were dark hazel, almost the same color as his own.
Then she spoke, How does one come to be so wounded?
He said Some day I will tell you how I came to be
so wounded. The words on his tongue tasted bitter
and sour in turns but when he kissed her the friction
of their tongues sparked an electrical charge
whose current surged deep in both their bodies.
With her he reclaimed his power – he did not know
his true power until then – and their nights
were mutual and long. She waited, as twelve
women might, for the good and constant in him,
for the answer to her question.
The New Goddess knew how it would end. Broken Man
caught her notice as he slipped his net of shimmering
he-promises over the horseshoe woman as she slept.
Goddess began to plan a place for him in a desert
where his life would be golden: gold sun, red-gold sand,
solid gold money, golden reputation, horseshoes made
of gold – a metal too soft for the rigors of the stake.
Mary L. Barnard
Mary L. Barnard, a Chathamite forever, plans to write poems from her little acre as long as …
In May 2013 she received a Certificate in Creative Writing from Central Carolina Community College’s (CCCC) Creative Writing Program. She was part of the inaugural class.
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Hi creative peeps,
I’m thinking of playing with a new feature called ‘Facebook Live’, in the fall. If you’ve never taken part in Facebook Live it means that at a designated time, I’d turn on my camera and I would be talking to you in real time. (kind of like Periscope)
It means that anyone could drop in and listen. Also, anyone watching can ask questions and I can answer them in real time! I think it would be a blast for us to interact. I’d probably hang out for about 30-45 minutes. I’d love to know if there is a topic about writing (e.g. author mindset, procrastination, perfectionism, etc.), or creativity that you want to know more about or want some coaching around during the FB live session. I created a poll with some suggestions, but keep in mind you can write in an answer. Or, feel free to write in your ideas in the comments below.
Ralph Earle is passionate about poetry and language. You find that out about him very soon after meeting him. His poems have won awards from the North Carolina Poetry Society, Main Street Rag Poetry Review, and The Independent, and appeared in numerous journals and anthologies.
I often refer to myself as an ‘untutored and untrained’ poet which means that while I occasionally write poetry, I haven’t studied it as extensively as I have prose writing. For many years I had heard about Ralph’s reputation as a fantastic teacher. I heard he was especially great at creating an inclusive space for people who knew a little about poetry as well as folks who spent their lives working in the genre. Then several members of my writing group (also folks who consider themselves novelists and short story writers), began taking classes with Ralph. They raved about him and I could see a freshness and clarity in their fiction writing that was influenced from their poetry classes. I decided to do something about the gaps in my knowledge about poetry and took two poetry workshops with Ralph (‘Write Powerfully’ and ‘Revising Poems’). He is a fantastic teacher with a deep knowledge of poetry, language and grammar. He creates a space where students can ask questions, be curious and take risks. In them, I feel as if I can let go of the self-consciousness of “not knowing a lot about poetry” and just write. I thoroughly enjoyed his workshops, and like his other longtime students have asked him when there will be more.
Ralph’s poetry collection, The Way the Rain Works, won the 2015 Sable Books Chapbook Award, and he was a runner-up for the 2015 Randall Jarrell Award from the North Carolina Writers Network. I’m delighted to welcome him, in honor of National Poetry Month, to The Practice of Creativity.
Uncle Jack at 96
The night before my visit you fell
in the unfamiliar hall
in your new wife’s home. You lay in bed
in the sunlight and we talked
about the computer mouse
you were working out
for arthritic hands, how it could register
the change of a single pixel, how the patent
process dragged on. Last year
you showed me in your workshop
the template you cut from clear
plastic, and the tiny bearings.
We talked about the pleasure
my mother took in writing letters
in her years confined to a chair, and after,
I risked a kiss on your forehead
and held your hand, as token
of the long adulthood we have shouldered.
You said you had maybe one more year
of the clarity needed to engineer the mouse,
maybe two, or maybe it was gone already.
You explained how the software responds
to the movements of the physical parts,
the way a leg lifts and a foot sets down.
About this poem: Clearly, this is a poem inspired by the poignancy of a moment. I wanted to capture and convey a sense of this extraordinary man’s life and my love for him, by painting a portrait of this one moment that stood for the whole, with the economy of a few well-chosen images to convey his personality, interests, and achievements.
Ralph teaches evening poetry classes at Central Carolina Community College, and has also taught poetry at UNC-Chapel Hill and the ArtsCenter of Carrboro. His poems have appeared in many publications, including The Sun, Sufi Magazine, Tar River Poetry, Carolina Quarterly, Cairn, Wild Goose Poetry Review, and Redheaded Stepchild, as well as numerous anthologies.He holds a doctorate in English from UNC-Chapel Hill and does social media work for a large computer company.
He draws much of his inspiration and imagery from long walks in the woodlands of rural Chatham County, North Carolina, where he makes his home.
Find out more about Ralph here.
Judith Stanton is a historical romance author, a former college professor and scholar. She’s obsessed with horses and generally, the natural world. I know Judith as a teacher through the wonderful creative writing program offered through my local community college in Pittsboro, NC. Judith is also a former women’s studies professor and when we get together, we can talk for hours. I’m so delighted that as we come to the end of National Poetry Month, Judith is sharing one of her ‘deer poems’ that I’ve come to adore.
The Three-legged Doe
After long drought
the white oak drops
three times as many acorns
as in a year of good rain.
Under its spreading limbs
the three-legged doe stops to feed,
her right front leg sheared off
halfway between her knee
and hoof—victim of a car?
a stump hole in the woods?
or the black rocks in the stream
she crosses to get to my yard?
In the pasture I can spot her
two hundred yards away
shoulder sinking every stride
her stump touches ground
or the lurch when she bolts
with the herd full speed.
At dusk I see her
flanked by last year’s twins
and this year’s lone fawn
its spots faded by November,
its coat like hers turned gray.
He rams her udder hard.
She watches for hunters
lurking in the woods.
About this poem: I write fiction, 7 novels and counting, so when the leader of our writers group pressed us to write a poem for our blog for National Poetry Month, I walked out grumbling, “I’m a novelist, Al. I don’t write poetry.” The next day I saw the injured doe for the umpteenth time grazing under the oak tree outside my office. I embarked on Deer Diaries, an odyssey into writing about the wildlife I see every day on our farm. Amazingly, in the four years I worked on this collection, the deer, birds, bees, snails, turtles, wild turkey hens who grace my life lined up every few days or weeks to show their lives to me in a new light.
Deer Diaries is now a chapbook forthcoming this year from Finishing Line Press. Meet Judith here at her new website and check out her Amazon page here.
I discovered writer and self-described ‘resource maven’, Erika Dreifus, about two years ago. And, I can say without question that my writing life is better because of her. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I eagerly await her postings on ‘The Practicing Writing’ blog. Erika curates advice and information about publishing and the writing life. She also rounds up opportunities for writers that charge no fees and publications/contests that pay writers. I also subscribe to her excellent monthly newsletter. Her work is generous and sustains community.
Erika is the author of Quiet Americans: Stories (Last Light Studio), which is an ALA Sophie Brody Medal Honor Title for outstanding Jewish literature.
In honor of National Poetry Month, I’m delighted to welcome her to The Practice of Creativity.
Winter Haiku (2015)
By Erika Dreifus
I miss Boston lots
though as the snow falls and falls
I’m glad I’m not there.
About this poem: I go through phases—and I’m in one now—during which I try to write a new poem every day (or at least, every weekday). On some particularly frenetic days, I sometimes opt for haiku. Here’s a piece that I wrote during the winter of 2015, which you may remember as an especially harsh one for New Englanders. I used to be a New Englander myself, but I admit that I’m not sorry to have missed out on last winter in Massachusetts! Michele’s invitation to contribute to her blog happened to arrive on a day when my friends to the north were again posting snowscape scenes on social media. (Poor things!) Which reminded me of this haiku.
To learn more about me/my work—and to subscribe to my free e-newsletter for writers—please visit http://ErikaDreifus.com.
Another poet and poem for National Poetry Month! I’m delighted to welcome Li Yun Alvarado back to The Practice of Creativity. Li Yun is a poet and scholar. She wrote an amazing guest post in January on ‘The Art of Low Stakes Daily Writing and How It Can Transform Your Year’. It’s a must read.
A poet and scholar, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Madrid; Wise Latinas: Writers on Higher Education; The Acentos Review; and PMS Poemmemoirstory among others. In 2012, her work received an honorable mention for The Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize. She is currently the Senior Poetry Editor for Kweli Journal and is an alumna of VONA/Voices Writing Workshop and AROHO.
I’m honored that today she is sharing a poem with us. Her new chapbook is Words or Water from Finishing Line Press. I’ve already pre-ordered my copy and can’t wait for it to arrive.
His Thumb on My Belly
To the right of my belly-
button: purple-black
oval print on sun-kissed flesh.
A spirit pinching
while I sleep. Is it
him? A hint? Here,
he whispers. Singed meat.
His thumb on my
belly. Now you know.
And they (some strange,
foreign they) say there’s
comfort in the knowing.
Basements are forgotten
places where moldy lies
cling to dank walls.
On my back: the prickle
sting of inked flesh.
It knows how to burn.
Bruise. Heal. His thumb
on my belly. My aunt
lights candles, piles
pennies in corners, tells
tales of muertitos
who pinch at night. His
thumb on my belly. His
boys cloaked in black
masks. Friendship? Folly?
When they
faced him, (my thumb
on his belly), not flesh,
not lead, not prayer
could stop the blood.
Li Yun Alvarado is the author of Words or Water (forthcoming) and Nuyorico, CA. A poet and scholar, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Madrid; Wise Latinas: Writers on Higher Education; The Acentos Review; and PMS Poemmemoirstory among others. In 2012, her work received an honorable mention for The Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize. She is currently the Senior Poetry Editor for Kweli Journal and is an alumna of VONA/Voices Writing Workshop and AROHO. She holds a BA in Spanish and sociology from Yale University and an MA and PhD in English from Fordham University. Li Yun is a native New Yorker living in Long Beach, California who takes frequent trips to Salinas, Puerto Rico to visit la familia. You can learn more about Li Yun and her work on Facebook and at www.liyunalvarado.com
You can pre-order Words or Water here!
Affirmations-366Days#94
Posted on: April 4, 2016
Affirmations-366Days#94: I practice developing strong powers of observation to support my writing.
For new readers, here’s why I’m committing to writing affirmations, about the creative process, during the next 366 days.
National Poetry Month is here! All throughout the month, I will feature writers sharing poems and insights into the craft of poetry. I’m delighted to kickoff this segment with Alice Osborn. Alice is a poet, editor and popular writing coach.
Several years ago, I attended one of her workshops on promotion for writers. I loved the way she engaged the audience and how she pushed us to be vulnerable and authentic in how we communicate with the public. I still have those notes and often find myself putting into practice her advice. Over the years, I have followed her career, inspired by all that she does and how generous she is in supporting emerging writers.
Alice is a prolific writer. Heroes without Capes is her most recent collection of poetry. Previous collections are After the Steaming Stops and Unfinished Projects. Alice is also the editor of the anthologies Tattoos and Creatures of Habitat, both from Main Street Rag. A North Carolina Writers’ Network board member and a Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared in the News and Observer, The Broad River Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Soundings Review and in numerous journals and anthologies.
I’m delighted to welcome Alice Osborn to The Practice of Creativity.
What was the first poem you’ve ever read?
All of the Mother Goose nursery rhymes were my favorites when I was a preschooler and when I became school age, I loved hearing the pounding hoof beats in Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems,—his Child’s Garden of Verses especially. I’m an auditory learner, I loved his rhythms and rhymes, plus there was usually strong conflict in his work. I also couldn’t get enough of Walt Whitman’s extended metaphor about Lincoln’s assassination in “O, Captain! My Captain!” I, too, wanted to express something grand and meaningful. I first got my chance my sophomore year of high school when I won second place in the annual poetry contest. I wrote a three page poem about the epic fight between King Arthur and Sir Mordred. After trying the next year and not winning any more awards, I stopped writing poetry until my mid-twenties when a friend invited me to an open mic. I felt that what I wrote could have been better, but I didn’t know what I needed to do get better.
How has poetry influenced you as a person? Or as a writer?
Now fast forward to nine years ago when I first started sending my short stories and essays out to various publication markets. I didn’t get any takers for these pieces and I was getting tired of all of the rejections. Then one of my writing teachers suggested reading and writing poetry to become a stronger fiction or memoir writer. I could do this! After all, I had written poetry before. The third poem I wrote after my nineteen year hiatus won honorable mention in NC State’s annual poetry contest. Wow! Maybe I needed to keep doing this poetry thing. It was called “Ghostcards” and it was about the dual hanging deaths of two 14-year-old African American boys in Shubuta, Mississippi in 1942. Langston Hughes had portrayed the boys’ fate in “Bitter River” and I wanted to present my own version using the color gray throughout the poem. One night, the name “Ghostcards” came to me in a dream and wouldn’t let me go until I had written the poem. Many of my poems emerge from dreams, while others come from the newspaper, random encounters, personal experiences or strange family behaviors.
My most recent book of poems is Heroes with Capes, my first full length collection that features many dramatic monologues and narrative poems from famous and infamous speakers from history, myth and pop culture who show varying degrees of heroism and loneliness. From the Star Wars saga, we have the bounty hunter Boba Fett who is a recovering alcoholic working hard at changing the script of his past. “Holding the door for an old man in a Braves hat, /I keep my eye out for movement among the parking lot pines/and mutter a tiny prayer while backing out by the Drive-Thru. /And an even bigger one when I take a bite/to drive east into the sun. /Telling myself this ketchup on my armor is real, /even if the past isn’t.”
While all the Predator (from the 1987 hit movie) wants to do is buy beef at Walmart. “Ring butcher bell, and Charlie comes right away./What wonderful service! And fills up cart. /Few ground chucks spill out and hit feet. /Ouch, I have tender feet like bananas.” Also featured are the Devil, Ellen Ripley from Aliens, the Virgin Mary, LBJ, Darth Vader, Benedict Arnold, Captain Bligh, Princess Leia, Dick Cheney, the Road Runner and many others. You’ll also meet Nolan, the split foyer house who is under tremendous stress and Dina the Delta jet who wishes her passengers possessed more taste. My favorite characters are the B-men: Boba Fett, Benedict Arnold and Captain Bligh because they are all heroes, but they are also flawed and these flaws get in their own way—I really identify with these guys!
In your opinion, what makes a poorly written poem?
A lot of crappy poems are written because they don’t care about the reader; they’re so insular and specific to the author, the reader can’t find a way in. Many poems also don’t have any layering, they are filled with clichés (especially love poems talking about soul mates) and poems that don’t have any grounding. What I mean by grounding is that the poem is only concerned about the abstract and they’re nothing to concrete to make a reader relate to it. Some poems also have a lot of “throat-clearing,” meaning the author takes a long time to get to the meat of the poem. Most of all I sincerely dislike poems that don’t trust the reader’s intelligence—they are expository and pander to the audience like a weak network sitcom.
How would you persuade a non-reader to read poetry?
Attend as many poetry readings/literary open mics as you can so you can experience the poem and the poet in the same space. If you can’t make it out to readings, watch poets read their work on YouTube and The Poetry Foundation. And while you’re at a reading, support the poets by buying their work. If you want to get really crazy and accelerate your poetry craft learning, review all of the poetry books you buy on GoodReads.com and Amazon. Even if you’re not a writer, I encourage you to read poetry to discover a fresh insight into an old idea or see how a poet performs acrobatics with his words. You just might learn something cool about yourself or the fellow drinking black coffee two tables over at the Panera.
Is poetry useful?
No question about it. Poetry teaches us how to live. Poetry is like the Windex on a grubby car window—it bares open the vulnerabilities of human beings so we can all relate to each other a little better.
“Chorus: The Hero of Acheron,” published in the Kakalak 2014 Anthology of Carolina Poets
Chorus: The Hero of Acheron
Against our constant warnings,
You have five minutes to evacuate!
she descends in the elevator,
shedding her blue jacket, shedding her mind-killers—
always watchful with her duct-taped
pulse rifle and flame thrower to rescue
the girl, her Persephone from
the Queen of the Eggs.
This Demeter is something of an immortal—
while in cryo-sleep she outlived her Earth daughter
and once returned to her planet, chose
a space station’s safe orbit, refusing
to walk barefoot in the prairie grass
or view stars burning with death.
She brings her own star justice to the Queen’s eggs,
dripping with mucous as one hatches…
saving the girl before the pomegranates eat her.
Angels hum to the sulfured air.
The two rise to the unstable surface,
what was rage in her descent is now fear.
You have two minutes to evacuate!
This wounded goddess could lose everything;
she’s fighting gods with their own agendas—
before it was only her and her vengeance.
You have 30 seconds to evacuate!
The android Hermes flies
to mother and daughter before enfolding them
aboard the Sulaco as the dead world explodes.
The humans and near human flinch
to shock waves rising higher and higher
in the moon’s atmosphere.
But all we know Hades won’t let
Persephone ever truly leave
the underworld.
Alice Osborn’ s past educational (MA in English, NCSU and BS in Finance, VA Tech) and work experience (Belk, waitress, tutor) is unusually varied, and it now feeds her work as a poet, editor-for-hire and popular writing coach. Alice’s business, Write from the Inside Out, is now a decade old and in that time, she has taught scores of writing workshops and has edited manuscripts locally and all around the globe. Heroes without Capes is her most recent collection of poetry. Previous collections are After the Steaming Stops and Unfinished Projects. Alice is also the editor of the anthologies Tattoos and Creatures of Habitat, both from Main Street Rag. A North Carolina Writers’ Network board member and a Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared in the News and Observer, The Broad River Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Soundings Review and in numerous journals and anthologies. When she’s not editing or writing, Alice is an Irish dancer who plays guitar and violin. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with her husband, two children, four loud birds and Mr. Nibbles, a carrot-chomping guinea pig. Visit Alice’s website at www.aliceosborn.com.
Connect with Alice:
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/aliceosborn
Google Plus: https://plus.google.com/+AliceOsborn
Linkedin: http://www.linkedin.com/in/aliceosborn
Facebook: http://facebook.com/alicevosborn
Twitter: http://twitter.com/alice_osborn
YouTube: http://youtube.com/avosborn
Find out more about her here: http://aliceosborn.com/blog
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April has almost slid past me without a nod here to National Poetry Month. I want to correct this oversight. In honor of NPM, I am sharing a poem that was recently published in The Red Clay Review: The Literary & Arts Magazine of Central Carolina College. Every year, this literary journal solicits submissions for a themed issue. And the issue that my poem appears in is food themed. When I saw the call for submissions, I knew I wanted to submit something unique. Given that I live in the South, I figured there would be many excellent pieces extolling the wonders of Southern food traditions. I wanted to go in a different direction. So, I sat down to write about fortune cookies. A few years ago I became obsessed with fortune cookies and learning about their history. Fortune cookies are in many ways, a uniquely stylized American phenomenon (like U.S. “Chinese” food). In doing research, I discovered:
- Fortune cookies are not Chinese in origin.*
- General Tso’s famous chicken is based on a real life scholar-warrior: Zuo Zongtang (also spelled Tso Tsungtang…and “Tso” should be pronounced more along the lines of “Zuoh” or “Jaw”)
- There are more than 40,000 Chinese restaurants in the U.S. That’s more than the number of McDonald’s, Burger Kings and KFC’s combined!
- The Powerball held on March 30, 2005 had a record number of winners, across multiple states. And, the winning numbers were all traced back to numbers found on a fortune cookie. All of the winners had visited a local Chinese restaurant at some point before the Powerball and played the numbers found on a fortune cookie.
- One of the largest fortune cookie factories on the West Coast is Peking Noodle, founded in 1922.
*these tidbits and more can be found in Jennifer 8. Lee’s entertaining and well-researched book, The Fortune Cookie Chronicles: Adventures in the World of Chinese Food.
I dumped out over fifty fortune cookie messages that, over the years, I had saved and began looking for ideas. Eventually, I came up with the poem below that I submitted. I like that it has a bit of an edge to it. My plan is to write several fortune cookie poems. I’ve already started work on the next one in the series.
Here, Fortune Cookie
Here, fortune cookie, here, sweet cookie
Jump into my mouth and fill me with your wisdom
I’ll listen this time, I promise
A new adventure awaits you this weekend
I thought getting a Brazilian would bring him back
Here, fortune cookie, sweet cookie
Tickle me with your crescent form
I’ll listen this time, I promise
To profit from good advice requires more wisdom than to give it
His wife didn’t understand how much I love him
Her accusing blue eyes follow me in my dreams
Here, fortune cookie, sweet cookie
Crack me open and fill me with destiny
I’ll listen this time, I promise
If you follow it, you realize that insatiable desires don’t lead to happiness
You were right
My married boss is pretty tricky
Here, fortune cookie, sweet cookie
Wait with me while I plot her demise
so we can be free
he’ll come to love me and we will come here
and order General Tso’s chicken and beer
and we will scoop you up, sweet cookie
our ritual complete
You are right
Happiness can be achieved by using your patience
Today is the last day of April and the last day of my celebration of National Poetry Month. I want to thank all the writers who enthusiastically joined in this celebration by submitting poems and reflecting on poetry’s imprint in their hearts. I hope that you have enjoyed meeting them during the last few weeks. I am now making space for more poetry in my life, both to write it and read it. Today, Lynne Favreau, delivers up a poem about a special friend that many of us knew through the online community of She Writes.
Lynne Favreau
Captain Candace, Flight 102, Cleared for Landing
Some patients find courage in the fight
battling back the body’s bedevilment.
Imagining the mutations and invaders to overcome;
recruiting natural defenses along with a battalion
of pharmacological soldiers to advance,
urged to the front lines by IV and portals.
Others seek peace through inner portals,
beckoning the spirits to join the fight.
They summon prayers to arrest the advance,
sing their appeals hoping for the bedevilment
of attacking carcinomas. The insidious battalion-
proliferating replicants, to be solemnly overcome.
Somewhere between, she and I overcome.
We laugh at collapsed veins and clogged portals.
Words we wield into a battalion
distressing some who fear the fight;
our irreverence be their bedevilment,
yet humor sustains us while we advance.
It is clear our paths diverge when symptoms advance
beyond an earlier prognosis. We are overcome.
For one, continuing treatment leads to nothing but bedevilment.
Once eliminated, the possibilities close portals.
We’re armed with resignation, the fight
called for mercy and dispersal of the battalions.
Cries widespread across the battalions
of friends; my liege, I beg we advance,
to stage a final muster but not fight.
Rather a trove of love and peace overcome
to take comfort in a last hurrah. Portals
closed, we reflect on our bedevilment.
The inevitable outcome, to our bedevilment-
cancer that can not be over run by battalions
of drugs, nor breached through vital portals.
We will respect though regret its advance
and shepherd you home, not overcome
by grief but joy in the remembered fight.
Your legacy of words will advance
and gives this writer courage to overcome,
in your name, in this fight.
Author’s Reflection: I belong to the wonderfully supportive online writer’s community, She Writes. One of my first relationships to bloom there was between Candace Coghill and myself since we were both undergoing chemotherapy and shared a similar sense of humor about the whole thing. I completed treatment Jan 4, 2012, and remain cancer free. Candace passed away, Sept 12, 2012.
I’ve been writing since my first college class — English Comp 101 in 2011. I was thirty-five, and had spent a lifetime, up until then, believing I couldn’t put two words together. Since then, I’ve graduated from Union Institute and University-Montpelier VT with a B.A. in Writing and Literature. I am mainly a novelist, but like to challenge myself by writing short stories, the occasional esoteric poem, and overly-long ranty blog post only the most loyal of souls brave to read.
The Practice of Creativity 