For those of you in the Maryland area, I will be visiting Chesapeake College on April 16th for a Poetry Panel. Myself, along with two other local poets, will be taking part in numerous poetically themed events throughout the afternoon.
I will be presenting numerous pieces, including ones from my upcoming book, I Am. You can check out the trailer for that here.
I hope you can make it out to the college and meet me!
If you’d like more information, please contact me and I will answer your questions.
3:30 AM
and I am awaiting the hallucinogenic memories
that slip into my dreams
like we slid,
slick, hot bodies,
across the yellow vinyl of that ugly couch.
3:32 AM
and you are my gateway drug,
the little pill I pop under my tongue
while the shadow growth on your face
rubs a passionless rash
across my cheek.
3:35 AM
and I am as flat and stiff beneath you
as a carcass under the steady,
sharp beak of a vulture,
I pull away from you,
scalded by your touch.
3:48 AM
and your breathing has deepened
to the steady rhythm of slumber
and I dream of yellow vinyl couches
and the first time you slid,
slick, hot body, and shattered me like an ancient mosaic.
I just finished a book, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve, and without spoiling the story for you, because it is amazing and you should read it, the main character spoke numerous times about passion leaving a relationship as the time past. It inspired this piece, along with the wordle from MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie.
I hope you enjoy my new book trailer for my upcoming book, I Am! More info to come soon on a pre-sale date!
Remember to sign up for my mailing list, if you haven’t already for a monthly newsletter with exclusive information on my upcoming works, submissions, sales, signings, and other cool stuff! For a limited time, when you sign up you’ll receive a free downloadable coloring book.
A little while back I threw myself into a project that terrified me. After multiple attempts at joining my writing with another’s, and being burnt every time, I once again gave it a shot. I wrote to a woman here on WordPress, someone whose poetry was unspeakably beautiful, and asked to write a duet with her. I could only be speaking of the wonderfully talented Hastywords.
I didn’t get burned in the process. She was amazing. In fact, you can see our masterpiece here on her site.
By the time this was finished, I had both of her books on my Kindle and she had mine and we were happily diving into the world each other had painted.
I had to start at the beginning. I picked up Darker Side of Night and went through my nightly routine.
Fill the bathtub.
Pour some wine.
Soak away all the crap of the day.
Focus on someone else’s words instead of my own.
A couple of hours later, with stone-cold water and skin that was wrinkled past any redemption lotion could offer, I stepped out from the tub smiling. Page after page of beautiful prose, heartbreaking honesty, and a braveness I envied. Her words swept me away and carried me long into the next day.
I thought, not for the first time, that I should be proud of myself for being able to keep up in that duet with her. I had a complete and utter fan girl moment, the delight of reading her words, becoming a friend with someone capable of making every line of prose a praise to the love of words.
And then I read her second book.
Let me say, before I even begin talking about Depression’s Dance that I am not a great person. Truly. I have moments of failure just like everyone else. My mother suffers from depression. I’m not always as supportive as I could be. There are times when the caustic words, “Are you taking your medicine?” slip from my mouth. There are times I roll my eyes, or turn my back when she is falling apart and doesn’t know why.
I think, I know when I am sad. I know WHY I am sad. How could you not know? How could you just wake up sad? It doesn’t compute. Doesn’t make sense.
I told you I’m not a good person. Understanding is a fickle thing. You see, unless a person has lived through/with something, they can never really understand. Not truly.
In Depression’s Dance, Hasty gave a voice to depression. She allowed her reader a chance to snoop and spy. For a few hours, I was permitted to sit down at the table, quietly listen to a conversation that has probably played multiple times through anyone’s mind that suffers from this disease. Her words allowed me a moment to really, truly listen. To hear. Perhaps not to understand, but to at least feel empathy.
She taught me empathy.
And so I hope that others will pick this book up. I hope they will take a moment and allow themselves to listen to this conversation. I try to remember it now. I keep going back to it. I need to keep that lesson in mind. I need to keep my empathy close at hand.
I need to apologize to my mother.
To friends, to anyone, who hears this voice inside them. I am sorry.
Like I started the other day, I am sharing the reader’s choice from my second book, History of a Woman. Enjoy!
The Check
The check came once a week and on it, in the tiny, informal script she could see the statistics. She saw the demographics, the signatures, the dates, the times, the dollar signs and the cents. The sense. Pay to the order of the single mother, the broken hearted, the lost and struggling. Pay to the order of that bitch who walked out, that gold-digger, that useless leech.
Twenty dollars and thirty-two cents. Thirty-six dollars and seventeen cents. That was the breakdown. That was division at work. That was the price tag, per child, per absent father, per paycheck, as order by the court.
So her son was worth $20. 32 a week. He was worth one pair of sneakers, plus tax. He was worth a family dinner from KFC. He was worth two Wal-Mart brand t-shirts and a pair of jeans with the little buttons inside to adjust the waist so they wouldn’t fall off his thin hips. He was worth one pack of the good brand of nighttime pull-ups and a fruity flavored Tummy Yummy.
$36.17. She was worth fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents more than her brother. And why was that? Because she is the older of the two? Because she came first? Because she was left behind first? That extra fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents makes her worth ice-cream at school for an entire month. She is worth two of those scarves from Target that she wants, because all the other little girls are wearing them. Thirty-six seventeen means she is worth one new dress and stockings to match. She’s worth a movie date with her mom and maybe, just maybe, she’s worth popcorn with extra butter.
She stares at the names and the dates and the amounts. She pulls out her calculator, because she’s logical, because she’s sane, because she knows there must be some algorithm in play that dictates the price attached to another human being’s name, date of birth, and social security number. Somewhere inside her children’s DNA is the bar code that is engraved with all this information. That’s why she couldn’t find it. That’s why the numbers never came out right.
One month is $81.28 and $144.68. That’s school supplies for both, new book-bags and lunch boxes, and for her daughter, that means she’s worth a new pair of dress shoes where her toes won’t hang over the edge.
One year makes them worth $975.36 and $1,736.16. He is four, so that means he’s worth $3,901.44. She’s six, so it’s $10,416.96. Right? That makes sense, she figured. I mean, by the time they are grown, their price-tags will be immense. They will be worth so much…so very, very much.
And that was the game. It was all a gamble. They had set the bet and she had called. Not only had she called, but she’d raised. She’d raised and raised and raised. She met each of their bets and doubled and tripled them. She’d paid in her part, and not only with money, but with her time. With her kisses, her late night wake-up calls, her trips to the family doctor, her white hairs, her once a month new toothbrushes, her story times.
So when those men would show back up, she’d be able to look them in the eye. She’d be able to say, “Hey, I figured it out.” She knew her child’s worth and she’d raised the bet. “It’s on you now. Call or fold.”
Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!
Remember the contest is still going on until December 15th! Visit http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page for your chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!
I recently asked some of my readers what their favorite story or poem was from each of my books. After figuring out which was the most popular, I decided to post that choice here.
But that’s not all, because that would be relatively boring.
Not really…but this part is more exciting!
I’m doing another contest!
CONTEST CONTEST CONTEST
Yep. You could win a copy of one of my books…I’ll even let you choose. All you have to do is find me on Facebook (http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman) and LIKE my page. Yep. That’s it. I’ll gather all the new names and on December 15th will draw a winner. That’s only a few days! So get on Facebook and click that Like button!
Now, for the reader’s choice from my first book, Wake Up a Woman:
This is an Uprising
I need your attention
for just a moment,
a minute,
an ounce of your time
and you better give it
’cause I’ll only say this once.
I need you to know
that I’m okay.
I’m alright.
I’ve settled my accounts
and I know who I am,
and I’ve accepted that.
I have a firm grip
on my identity,
and what you think of me
is just as true
as what I think of me,
and that’s alright.
You hear me?
It’s alright,
’cause I can handle
the way you describe me to your mother.
I’m an artist,
a student,
a tutor,
a writer.
I actually read for fun.
I’m a Goddess of the Household Duties:
the Queen of the Laundry,
the Ruler of the Dishes,
I can make bread,
fry bacon,
boil eggs,
and bake a cake,
all the while
showing my dominance
over the hills of coffee grounds.
And I’m alright
with the way you talk about me
to all your friends.
“She’s a freak in bed,
got an amazing ass,
and gives the best head.
Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like my,
my sweet,
my baby,
my doll,
my love?”
And all those other sweet,
choke-on-the-sugar
words you spill in my ear at night.
I’m a “cunt,
a bitch,
a whore,
and a slut,”
whenever you’re pissed,
and that’s alright.
I’ll be that,
as long as you get to be
a “douchebag,
an asshole,
a dickhead,
and a bastard.”
I’m the Master of Imagination
and I make one hell of a Mother.
So, you promise your own
a herd of screaming,
wailing,
red-faced babies,
and that’s alright
’cause I’ve done it before and
I’ll do it again.
Ain’t nothing to it!
I’m a taxi driver,
a short order cook,
a night owl,
an instant human,
just add coffee,
an amazing
baby-making machine.
I’m a cow with a pump
hooked to my chest
and I’m feeding the world.
I’m a woman,
a daughter,
a sister,
a mother.
I’m a friend,
and enemy,
a lover,
an ex –
I’m a woman,
so at times
I’m PMS personified.
I’ve got every limb I need
to kick your ass
and might just have
the strength to do it!
I have been stepped on,
stepped around,
and I’m stepping it up.
I’ve been trampled,
I’ve been beaten,
bruised,
and scarred.
I’ve been raped
and forced,
pushed
and pulled.
I’ve fallen down
and got back up.
Sometimes, I just laid there
and took it.
I’m weak and frail,
but I’m not porcelain.
I’m girly in ribbons and bows,
but I got a pair of nuts
to make Chuck Norris jealous.
Are you listening to me?
I’m telling you I’m alright.
I’m okay.
I can look in the mirror
and know every day
just who I am
and who you think I am,
and that’s alright too.
I am unknown,
uncaring,
unaffected,
unemotional,
and in charge.
I’m the leader of this pack,
the glue that holds the family together,
and I’m only out in the open
screaming at the top of my lungs
when it gets to be too much,
too often.
I don’t drink
’cause I’ve got a low tolerance
and one of them would have me
on a tabletop somewhere,
losing clothes
like I’m losing hair.
I dance like a white chick,
all elbows and knees.
I sing like a wounded cat
and play drums on my steering wheel.
I’m a woman so I can’t drive,
can’t parallel park
and can’t reverse.
I’m run into
and away from
and around
mailboxes,
ditches,
people,
responsibilities.
I like language
and can’t master my own,
but I’m a true professional
at the Art of Sarcasm.
I say, “I’m fine”
when I’m not,
and “nothing’s wrong”
when everything is.
And “whatever” is the equivalent
to a nuclear warhead
landing on your face.
Do you understand me?
‘Cause I’m a woman
and I want you to listen
as much as I want to talk.
I’m me.
I’m alright with that.
I’m okay.
I’m stoic.
I can look in the mirror
and I know who I am.
I’ve been stabbed
and poked
a million times
by needles of every shape
and size.
I treat my body like a canvas
and here I am,
a work of art.
I dye my hair
like I change my underwear.
So you can take
a new girlfriend to bed,
red,
brown,
blonde,
black,
blue,
purple.
Doesn’t matter,
I’ll be what you want.
It’s amazing
what a little
Revlon,
Maybelline,
L’Oreal,
Vicadin,
Exlax,
cocktail can do to a woman.
I am Cosmo,
Maxim,
Playboy,
and Good Housekeeping.
I wear skinny jeans
on my fat days.
I wear pantyhose
to streamline
a beeline
straight to my boobs.
I wear a bra
’cause some man said I should,
even though
I got nothing to put in it.
So I’m thankful for Victoria
and her Secret
gave me something to expose.
I’m a model,
a calendar girl,
a rockstar,
in my mirror with a hairbrush
and I’m belting out the tunes
of punk rock,
oldies,
metal,
and the classics.
I’m a country girl
with an affinity
for hip-hop.
I am tuneless,
tasteless,
careless,
and passionate.
Are you still here?
Hang on,
’cause I’ve only just begun.
I’ve just got going,
just got started,
and I’m not there yet.
I’m equipped with high tech
plug-ins.
I’ve got a vagina,
a pussy,
a cunt,
a hole,
and it’s been stabbed,
and poked,
prodded,
and stretched.
It’s bled,
and pushed out life.
I’ve got an attraction
and you can’t deny it.
It’s dress and silk in the day,
and leather and lace at night,
And I don’t get it,
I’m confused,
but I roll with it.
‘Cause you want it,
and I can handle it.
I do.
I’ve seen myself do it.
I am uptight,
upbeat,
upchucking,
and this is an uprising.
This is an acceptance,
of who I am,
and who you make me.
And that’s alright.
It’s okay.
I’m telling you I can handle it.
I’m allowing,
alluring,
and an illusion.
I am me.
I am woman.
And I’m alright.
Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
Normally, I struggle to get to sleep. My brain instantly becomes awake when I lie down and suddenly all these fantastic story ideas pop into my head. I could have used that last night, but instead I was wrestling it to just get it started with the project I needed to begin. Last night began the first official night of NaNoWriMo…I’d like to sound prouder of myself than I am, but I only managed 844 words. However, those were 844 of the hardest words I’ve ever written. I actually started at the beginning of a story, something I never do. I always start at some random place of action in the middle and work my way out to both ends. It’s terrible. So I forced myself to start at the beginning and 844 later…I’d done it. Now, 49,156 words to go.
No sweat. <—Sarcasm.
We took the monsters trick or treating last night, and we always walk through the town with a lady who was their day care provider, and who knows everyone and everything about everyone in that town. It is super helpful.
Because then there are situations like this:
Kids run up to funky house with grass that is like a foot tall and grab candy out of a bucket sitting on the porch.
Miss I Know All in This Town: Take that from them when they get back. I meant to stop them before they got there.
Me: Oh God, why?
Her: Lots of drug issues in that house. Someone OD’ed there not long ago.
Me: Oh…lovely.
The kids come running back and I grab their buckets, dig in and pull out the candy eyeballs they grabbed from that house.
Ninja and Merida: Mama! What are you doing?
I’d like to take this time to say that the dregs of society that make me fear candy in my child’s Halloween bucket have a special place on my If-I-Ever-Become-Friends-With-A-Mobster list.
Just saying.
Then there are those people who are just so kind, and wonderful, you want to share them with the word. Like this lady, who constantly goes out of her way to promote others across her blog. She chose my Halloween story for yesterday, which you can see here:
Laura A. Lord 