Under the twilit motes
with barefoot miniatures
across the asphalt deserts
of their play.
Under the twilit motes
with barefoot miniatures
across the asphalt deserts
of their play.
When the drums struck
the alarum was the force
of dark eyes bleeding through the shade—
the cold hangs from every leaf,
the brush and stroke teaching
every motion how to breed
claws appropriate to the man-shaped
trails carved into the wood
She parallels without red capes
some wanderer left to packs
shunned for pale skin thickened
behind world-inked fur—
the lines, if only they knew the lines
time had bundled to Her breast
holding in pieces of Her
as She bloodies Herself in details;
haggard is the fall
but sharp the tongue,
curled up the spine as She bends
low, low, savoring the texture
of the wild on Her paws—
low, low are the drums
to the primal song of Her.
The time has come! All weekend long, eBook copies of my fantasy novel, The Hollow March, will be available free of charge through Amazon’s Kindle store. My birthday gift to everyone else.
Enjoy while you can!
As many of you know, this weekend includes the day of Mothers, or at least the United States version. It also includes a lesser known holiday, much more compact and dedicated to many less shinies than the former: my birthday. While I’m not a big pusher of my own holiday bliss, it did seem a good time to take the opportunity for a giveaway, so here I am with writer’s cap in hand.
All weekend long, eBook copies of my fantasy novel, The Hollow March, will be free to anyone interested in revenge-filled, character-raging, backstabbing, magic-dealing (can you even handle that many qualifiers?) literary goodness. Copies can be picked up through Amazon, and with luck, if there’s some book love going on there, the lovers will kindly poke other lovers of fantasy, or some fantasy loving mothers, and so on and so forth, starting a chain reaction of poking that either overload and implodes Facebook (sorry Facebook), or puts a smile on one little writer’s face.
Need a reminder what it’s all about? Check out The Hollow March-dedicated page on the right side of the screen.
And if you need any gift ideas, I’ll let you in on a time-honored secret among writers: reviews are the best method to a fellow’s heart.
Meanwhile, the first stage edits from my editor (For the sequel, At Faith’s End), are nearly all integrated now, and that just leaves a couple more beta readers and another round of editing (consequently, I’ll be seeing Mr. Hartley again this weekend), between my side of that literary venture and completion. Is it time to start thinking cover art once again? Most probably. Stay tuned.
There will probably another arms flailing reminder of the giveaway on Friday, but I’m told it’s good to plan ahead. And now I leave, as ever, at your mercy, oh gurus of the Internet.
I may have mentioned earlier in the week that the poetic muse was striking me again (it has been some time since our last encounter). Perhaps it’s all the sun, perhaps it was the drama of nature’s power on display a few weeks ago, or simply life being in a sustainable position at the moment. It could also be the steady march the next novel’s taking to completion–got initial edits back from the editor a week or so back, and it has set my creative mind into a furious spiral of scribbles (or his own rather strikingly wonderful bits of poetry he shared with me at the time–mark my words, he’s going places). So much to do.
Regardless of the source though, a frenzy followed, and numerous works were penned this week. So it seemed only good and right to toss out a sample this weekend. Thus I give you the short “Poetic Measurements”…
The weight of a poet
lies perched upon a strand of hair:
a breath could shudder out the shape of it
yet the light could scarcely lay it bare.
Its power crawls in shadow
a textured investigation of the fall
clinging fractions of humanity endow,
wriggling whispers beneath the mortal pall.
Good morning, gentle viewers!
Oh, I'm so excited.
If you've been around these parts for a while, you'll remember a series of posts about SuperWomen. Ever since I was a kid, I longed to see female superheroes, but as we all know, they're rather thin on the ground. After my recent post about superhero clothing and the sexist attitudes toward women displayed by the creators, I got to thinking.
Water. Water everywhere! While many things have been occupying the eyes of the nation this week (and rightly so–many tugs of the heartstrings have gone to many corners of the U.S. these past few days), but locally, nature has been at the forefront of things.
Michigan, my home, is a land of water. It surrounds us. It pierces into the very heart of our state in its many rivers, lakes, and ponds. This is, truly, the Great Lakes State. Yet this week the state has been rocked by record rainfall. The end result: flooding. Massive flooding. And when I say record-breaking, don’t mistake me: the Grand River, in western Michigan, was predicted to hit a 24.76 foot crest today. Compare that to previous floodings here, as listed from the Grand Rapids Press…
Flooding is not new here, but bloody hell, this one takes the cake. Large swaths of the city of Grand Rapids and western Michigan are going underwater. To prove that point, I took a little photographic adventure. Here are just a few things to show you what we’re dealing with up here. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
And the real kicker? More rain is expected to come…
For those who met my announcement a few weeks back with scorn, derision, or at least a quirked eyebrow or two, let it be known that the issues of technological explosiveness have since been corrected. After a few days of hyperventilating and making crude gesticulations at the fickle computer gods (You, Microsoft, are nothing if not Fickle; don’t ever tell me otherwise), the problem was identified, the cause rooted out, and my files secured. Also, a neat little back-up program was to (hopefully) prevent that terror from happening again, but it is what it is.
So what now? Well, more writing, certainly. Despite my moans and groans in our previous meet and greet, the scribbling kept up strong during the last few weeks. Note pads and journals–they are a writer’s friend. Several new short stories (mostly comical–an odd binge for me–some dark; some sci-fi, some fantasy) have arrived, along with ideas for a stack more. Where they came from, who knows, but when the muse dances a jig on my back I certainly don’t complain. Likewise, I’ve dispatched another batch of those scribbles to some SpecFic mags, whilst my editor drums his way through to the final notes on At Faith’s End.
Also amongst the good news:
Suffice to say, they’re needed boosts. While the computer thing was a blow this month, there’s other things lurking behind the scenes as well. General joblessness is enough to stand anyone’s hairs on end after a while, but when you toss in medical things (yes, some are related to the recent poem), a person starts to feel like their day is nails on the chalkboard. Another doctor’s appointment in a few hours that will (hopefully) lead to corrections of at least one of this brand’s downswings, though.
I realize there’s little physical substance going along with this article, but it’s an update piece–mostly wanted you all to know I hadn’t quite dropped off the face of the earth. With luck, I shall be doing some lurking about in days to come, and will have some more substantial posts to come. Meanwhile, hope everyone’s spring is gearing up (Wednesday, fools) for a better opening then it is here. In Michigan, they’re predicting the next four days shall be given over to the snow.
Point of reference: at this time of the year last year it was 80 degrees. Winter is determined to stalk me.
is far afield of degradation—
any soul what calls them indivisible union
is part and parcel to a different communion—
no, you should not call it vice
if its only purpose is to excise
because, sweet child, that pill
may look back at you like some foul shill
but if we’re all dying in leagues
that intrigue will only lead to grim fatigue
and in the dying—we’ve all done it—
would you not ask for every trick or wit
in the hopes that one might cry sanctuary
salvation from death’s actuary?
Oh, you’re a noble crusader
you are, you wall, you sacrificial trader
willing to give all for some
but none for your own sum
when it’s a little thing, such little thing
could be the hope for which to sing,
instead participating in a self-castration:
questioning virtues of moderation.
Apparently technology knows when you’re back on a horse, reaching for stars (in this analogy I suppose the horse would also have to be a Pegasus, but I’m actually alright with that). After a very sorry attempt of a southern trek Friday, having encountered horrendous roads and some nasty bits of lake effect snow, I returned this weekend and burrowed myself in some more writing. Encountered big scary words last night, in the midst of said writing.
It was everyone’s favorite: Hard Drive Crash.
Not just any old affair, either: it was blue screen of death quality. While most things (remain) relatively intact, in checking through my external memory bits, I have found a number of major things that did not survive. Anything accomplished in the last 3 weeks, for example. Thank goodness I sent out copies of At Faith’s End on Friday, for example–otherwise half the edits would be lost to the darkness. All the new writings I had begun, notes, ideas, as well as dear sweet Photoshop, and the most recent copy of my resume.
That, suffice to say, hurts. A lot. It’s not as bad as it could be, but for someone that’s been struggling with writer’s block and a fitful, uphill struggle in general with their creativity for a while now…it’s still disastrous. Religious folks might take it for a sign, I suppose. Divine or Alien presence trying to tell me something.
Well. I’ll no doubt head back to the drawing board. But those ideas are gone. I’m wavering and reeling and it’ll take a bit. I’ll go back, but for a while, blogosphere (and I know we were just getting to know one another again), I’m probably going to recede.
Here’s hoping your week’s starting off better than this silly little scribbler’s.