Getting back on that visual arts horse. Here’s a work in progress… excuse the shoddy camera work.
And when you get angry in the night, dear woman, do you find your soul screeching? Do you find your soul screeching that They don’t know who you are?
I know who you are woman. I have always known.
You are the snake in the garden who gave mankind knowledge. You are the beautiful temple where men came to do their wanting and praying.
You have made kings get on their knees before your hot, slick ocean.
You are memory and what comes before memory; the eloquence of God and what tempted the devil.
Woman, you are (and I know).
To me, woman sounds like wormwood. Sounds like something slippery and slithery, a box with a false bottom. Stick your hand in, Brother. There’s a blade in the bottom of the box, a dead rotting thing at the bottom of the well.
Alcohol is the great polarizer, making lovers of us all, making us all go for the throat.
I’ve been the absent gardener these days, I know. I got caught up in life changes, plus the self-imposed pressure of finishing this Mad Scientist book before the year’s out.
I’ve been a busy lady, friends. I work, and type, and hunt for jobs; and I try not to get too sedentary. I’ve been falling hardcore in love with yoga these days. The deep breaths are good for someone as anxious as I am, and I find that as I get older, my flexibility isn’t quite as self-maintaining as it once was.
Also, please check out the wonderful folks at Fictionvale. They’re doing great things with digital anthologies, bringing short stories into a technophilic age. My short story, “The Calligrapher’s Lover” will be available in their next episode, so look for it August 15th.
I have poems to fill you up with, friends, if you’re still here. Thanks for bearing with me while I let the ground lie fallow. I’m back now, just in time for the tail end of summer. Let’s make some more magic.
They call you indecisive when they don’t like the choices that you make.
Don’t fall for it.
I go tender at the sight of new leaves.
Something about such tiny perfection sparks a wave of love and awe in me. Surely, we walk among miracles. I don’t talk about it much these days, but the act of sprouting, the way a seed gives rise to new life, has always been the only proof I’ve ever needed for the existence of a loving god.
I know the science of it, but I find it miraculous despite knowing the explanation. Science is miraculous, wild and weird and wonderful. Our interlocking adaptations, the niches within ecology. There are mushrooms that eat hair soaked with the inky tar of spilled oil, digest it, and spit out life again. It’s beautiful. It’s a miracle of being.
Is it any wonder I find life so sacred? There is so much to protect here.
I felt the need to draw this morning, so I looked up “woman martini,” hoping to find reference photos of, you know, women holding martinis. Instead, I found pages and pages of cartoons of women sitting in martini glasses. Apparently this is a thing. Why? Who finds this sexy?
I have a post I’ve been really wanting to do, about the rise of selfie culture, and why it’s probably not as bad a thing as it’s made out to be. Unfortunately, this is not the day for that post. I want to spend time doing actual research (citing my sources!), so I’ll save it for another week.
I’m slogging through the book, slowly but surely. Yesterday was spent doing almost nothing but transferring my chicken-scratch first draft into a computer document. For whatever reason, I just can’t do first drafts on computers. Something about the immediacy of fingers on a keyboard, I think. I type much faster than I write, but my brain needs those extra seconds it takes my fingers to scrawl out words in ink, to come up with sentences.
I’ve discovered a new world, halfway through this novel. It’s a land called: My Book Sucks and All My Ideas are Dumb and I’m a Talentless Hack. I’ve read articles written by people who have also written novels, and these articles assure me that this is not an uncommon thing.
After spending so long with this idea, I’ve become convinced that it’s utterly uninspiring. My plot seems to make less and less sense the more time I spend with it. I guess that’s what second drafts are for. I can’t wait to get at everything and rip it apart and really tighten it up.
But first, there’s still more heavy lifting to do. For now, I’m just slogging through the first draft, making rough forms of my scenes to be tweaked and polished later.
Dear god, I can’t wait till there’s an end in sight. When I finish this draft, you can bet your life I’ll be celebrating over martinis. Maybe someone will even take a picture.