Ode to a Tip Jar A ringing noise upon my ear tells me that an email is here, so, I look to see, and sure enough a WordPress logo, bold and tough. Oh, perhaps has someone read my tome? I wonder aloud as I start to roam my way around the website’s format, hoping to find a like or comment. But look! Oh no! It bears bad news! No, not a troll with too tight shoes, no, not a bot trying to sell me a cruise; it’s the company telling me it’s time for my dues! But woe is me, I’m out of work, and what little is coming is already marked, so, what is a writer-girl to do when her tip jar is empty and her wallet is, too? Shill yourself, honey, sell them a book! Better yet, a Patreon subscription-those are off the hook! Or if they really love you, the tip jar they will find… to the very right of the blog page, no waiting in line. See, usually it doesn’t matter, I get by on what I get, but I lose quite a chunk if certain needs are not met, like the webhosting bill that comes due every July and makes me suddenly want to vomit and cry. So here I am asking a favor of you, my dearest readers, I hope you come through, and offer to me maybe a buck or two, so I can keep this site running for me and for me and for you. Ok, now that my rhyme is done, I’m off to pen some delirium, because I just got a new notification and it has brought great exasperation. So hopefully you find some happy in your day, because mine is slowly ebbing away, and I urge you please to consider a donation, so I can keep on writing these quotations.
Open a dictionary. Pick a word. Now close it.
Open it again. Pick another word. Close it.
Now, write a poem using those two words.
This is a fun little game taught to me by my favorite local poet, Justin Karcher. Back in January, I discovered he would be doing a workshop at the Just Buffalo Literary Center, and my mother was kind enough to purchase me a ticket. It was in May, so it was a long wait. There were only 9 or 10 of us, but it was great…to me at least, who had never been to a writing workshop of any kind.
One of the first questions he posed was what poetry meant to us. It’s a simple concept, I suppose, but if you don’t have a grasp of what your craft means to you, then what are you even doing? I responded to this question with a poem of my own, naturally:
Poetry By Brigid Hannon Poetry is my voice, louder in word than in action. My pen on paper. or my mouth and teeth and tongue, no different from each other. Each meter should lift darkness into light. Each verse should move a heart to break, each stanza another gasp from muted lips- poetry is power and opinion and might- the never ceasing beat of our living hearts. Now, a lot of Justin’s stuff has to do with our shared home of Buffalo, NY, which may be why I love it so much. I have long held a hope to write a collection of just Buffalo poems, so when he said we would be writing poems about “home” in some fashion, I was delighted. I started free writing some thoughts down, and eventually I took those bones and pieced them together into a skeleton of a poem, which I took home with me to work on further. I knew it wasn’t the sort I could pound out in an hour-long class. I did, however, write this little guy as well, which I have no intention of doing anything with, so I might as well share it with you here:
Safe Shoes Also by Brigid Hannon No flip-flops today; no sandals. Sneakers? But no... laces come untied. Little ones, so scared, and yet prepared, and I cannot choose a shoe. An adult counterpart, I've no active training. "Where's the exit," I ask myself, looking to the black sturdy Sketchers I picked out, with rubber soles and no laces- shoes that keep me safe, like I keep little souls who find me, willing to sacrifice for such. She tells me she likes her school; she feels safe: "We hardly ever have a lockdown." Hardly. Look to the ground to keep from crying, seeing only sturdy safe shoes- shoes that make me RUN. Anyway, the workshop was lovely. I went home and worked on my main poem for a bit, and when it was done, I emailed it to Justin to show him. A few days later, he got back to me and asked if he could publish it in the June edition of Ghost City Press, which is the mag where I published my first poem, so, I mean…yeah, dude. Of course. So, in honor of that, I made a TikTok for it, which I will share at the end of this post. It is a poem about my city, but also about my grandparents. We were supposed to write about what home means to us, and my city is my home, where I would not live were it not for my grandparents, who gave me this wonderful home without even realizing it. Finally, I tried to write a poem using the dictionary game, and I tell you, friend-I have failed. I have been drowning in the words “solicitous histrionics” for weeks now, because those are the two words that noodled their way out of the book and into my brain. Eventually, I will write that poem-it will probably be a weird one. So, that’s all for today, I think. Happy Monday!
I didn’t post on Thursday, because I didn’t feel like it. Simply no excuse…just wasn’t in the headspace to write. Plus, the only thing I wanted to write about was something that hadn’t happened yet.
Back in October 2019, pre-plague, my dear friend Beth (whom I had lunch with yesterday, coincidentally, and therefore has already heard this story,) went with me to a monthly poetry night at a bookstore near my house that I like. I wanted to read one of my poems during the open mic portion, but I was terrified. She sat by my side and encouraged me, and I was able to do it. I was very proud of myself that night, for overcoming my anxiety of not just attending a function full of strangers, but for reading in front of them.
Come February, we had a problem, and that problem was a pandemic. Poetry night kind of moved online for a bit, and while I would love to say I’ve watched every episode (because it was very good,) I honestly fell off when I started working on the novel. I pretty much fell off poetry all together, then. But now, she is in editing, and that bug is biting, and here we go again.
So I inquired a couple of times at the bookstore once they reopened as to when they would be bringing the night back and they kept telling me “soon.” Then one morning my father tells me that an old buddy of his is hosting the return of Poetry Night! I was ecstatic, and not at all anxious to attend.
When I got there, I sat by a woman and who seemed to be her boyfriend, and also a woman who appeared to be her bestie, and bestie’s husband. Woman A, whom I came to know as Mary, seemed very nervous, and as I unintentionally eavesdropped on their conversation, I learned that she was going to be sharing her poetry for the very first time. She had brought her reinforcements, as had I, and was probably so anxiously awaiting her turn that she barely even heard the key speaker…at least, that’s how I was that first night.
She had the courage to go first, too, once the open mic started. And it was good. Her poetry spoke to me, because guess what? They were about chronic and mental illness. I sincerely hope my poems spoke to her as well, but as per usual, I flew out the door first, because mingling is still really hard for me. I’m going to push myself to do it next time, though, so wish me luck.
In other news…yes, this is a two-parter, to make up for nothing last Thursday.
So, I decided to do a book giveaway, for funsies. I figured I would do it on Twitter, where all my reading/writing friends live. Out of my nearly 7k followers, 82 whopping people saw my giveaway tweet. No one responded. Ergo, Twitter’s algorithm is a steaming pile of garbage, yet again.
So, I roll over to TikTok, where I get better views, and I got a couple hundred. A few folks commented, hoping to win the book. I picked a winner, and emailed them. A day went by with no response, so this morning I hop on and browse their page to see when they were online last.
It’s a kid. It’s a literal child.
Now, my book doesn’t really come with a content warning because it’s not really graphic or anything, but there are some choice words and definite adult themes. So, I emailed the kid and told him that I was sorry, but I couldn’t send him the book. Also, he would have to give me his address, and it isn’t cool for me as an adult to encourage that, or safe for him as a child to do so. I feel kind of bad, because I should have specified you needed to be 18 to win. I hope he isn’t too disappointed.
Anyway, I have moved this giveaway over to my Facebook page, now. So, if you’re not already following me there, I encourage you to do so, especially if you would like to win a book today! I will be announcing a random winner tomorrow morning, so this offer is only good for you folks who are reading my blog on Monday the 28th. Go follow me now!!
Anyhoo…that’s about it. Happy Thursday, my friends. I’m off to watch a bunch of TV, which might sound lazy, but is actual research for Thursday’s blog, I swear.
All day yesterday I was without a topic. I tried all day, I swear, but nothing came to me. That is, until right before bed when I saw a Facebook post from Amanda Gorman about World Poetry Day, and did a literal facepalm.
So, if you’re a constant reader, you know that I share poetry on this day with you. In the past, it has been my own, but today I have something special. Today I am redefining the word “poet,” and I am including everyone.
Since October, three folks have shown me something they have written that they asked me to take a look at and perhaps give some advice about. For me, editing poetry is just as fun as writing it, so I of course said yes to these three. What I discovered is that you can absolutely be a poet, and not know it.
The first poem I would like to share can be found HERE at Pink Plastic House: A Tiny Journal. It is by far one of my favorite mags, and when my friend Audrey asked me to take a look at her October-themed poem, I immediately thought of the journal’s Halloween poetry countdown as the perfect vehicle to get her work out there. She sent me a rough draft, and I polished it up for her, and when she was pleased, I sent it off to the editor at PPH. Audrey has written plenty for herself over the years, but this is the first piece she shared with the world. I am hopeful that it gives her to drive to continue to pursue her creative talents.
Next up is Kevin. Back in his day, Kev was the best freestyler I knew…he knew every word to every rap song, but on top of that, he made his own music. I always loved listening to his beats, but when he would flow over them was always my favorite. When he and the guys would hang out and take turns coming up with ciphers, his was always the best. So, when he sent me a text one day with what he called “a poem,” I was excited and surprised. He doesn’t often write down the stuff he comes up with, but when he does it’s pretty cool. So, he sent me this piece, and I formatted it for him, and now I would like to share his pretty cool words with you.
H2O by Kevin Henry While I sit stoic, smothered in stinky sea fish, the sight of society succumbed to solid selfishness- my subconscious steams like that of a shellfish. Everybody now walks like zombies on Zofran and barbiturates, In 2021, a walk in the park might mean mask mandates and manipulators, a society sculpted in supreme science, overpopulated with particle of plastic. Seems we're swimming in a sea of synthetic sickness, an ocean of sadness. I sit stoic, smothered in stinky sea fish.
Then, my husband, Mark. Mark is not a writer by any means and will tell you so…he’s the math brain in this relationship; I handle the words. But one day, he had a dream, and he wanted to capture it somehow, so he tried to write it down as a sort of poem. He came to me for help, and we gussied up the words and changed the formatting, and now he has this:
Awakening, by Mark Falcone Awaking under my blanket, winter beckons from my window, daring me to come outside. Sadness holds me there, frozen. I rise and dress for weather and wander down and out, with my protective clothing. Pressing cold on my face, he beats me down, but I trod on in the snow- another day. Until finally, home, I wrap myself in my blanket, hide from him again.
What my point? I’m a poet. They’re poets. You’re a poet. Poetry lives inside of all of us, if only we are brave enough to let it out of our hearts. That’s where it resides, deep inside your soul, sleeping and waiting to be released. So why not let it out? Don’t be scared. What you make is beautiful, and if you don’t think so, no one else will either. (Also…I am totally free to help you edit, should you want to make it a little shinier.)
So, Happy (Belated) World Poetry Day, to all us poets!
Today I went to check on my chappie on a whim, just to see if maybe a review came in that I hadn’t noticed. I haven’t checked in with her in a while, so suffice it to say that when I saw she was now listed at 25% off, I threw a hissy-fit.
My immediate thought was whose pocket is this money coming out of, and it had better not be mine! Second thought, what do I do now? Well, God bless Google, because apparently this is an oft asked question and it led me to several forums and articles about what to do when your book price drops.
Now, I have been assured by a few sites that the money is not deducted from me, but I’m not 100% sure who is footing the bill, be it the publisher or Amazon. I just know it ain’t me, and that’s fine. Many sites suggest buying up your book when this happens so you can sell them at full price by hand, which is not a terrible idea…right now it would only cost me a couple of bucks a book, in the long run, and I would have stock to do a signing or something. Still, my writing funds are low-I only use what I make writing for my writing. It’s a career that supports itself, at the moment.
Alas, that kitty will grow if I can sell a few of these ladies at their new rate…so if you haven’t yet grabbed a copy of A Lovely Wreckage, I invite you to CLICK HERE and get it while it’s 25% off.
I think that if it drops lower, and I can scrape together the funds, I will buy up whatever is left. The reasoning for price droppage that I found was either that Amazon determined it will sell better at that price point (no, not out of the goodness of their hearts-they want to make that money,) or they have a stock they are unloading. Either way, if it goes lower, I’m snatching them up. Then I’m finally going to try to figure out how people end up with signings and such.
Soon, I will hopefully also have single-run limited edition copies of my minichap, and ideally, I’d like to be able to sell the two of them together. Alas, I am waiting on my editor to get back to me. A month ago he said we were almost there…then nothing. I sent an email a few days ago, but I know he is busy not only with the press but also the bookstore he is opening. So, I will bide my time and hope.
Speaking of hope, I just remembered my other minichap…did I tell you about that one? It’s about nature through the lens of depression.
You know what? Let’s save that for another day. Like the day it gets picked up. I don’t want to rain down any bad juju on it.
Anyway, go get a copy of my book, so I can get some copies of my book. Please, and thank you.
I didn’t update yesterday because I woke up puking at 2am. A quick jaunt to Mercy told me I would be waiting for several hours, so I went over to St. Joe’s, which is in many ways my preferred hospital for my situation. Mercy is close and has all my history, but it’s always 100 patients and 10 nurses, whereas St. Joe’s has this weird reputation for being crappy, so the ratio is completely flipped. I’ve never received poor service there, however, only the best. And yesterday they ushered me in quickly and had me medicated and calm within half an hour.
Anyway, that was not the first visit to the ER this week. Hopefully, it was the last, but now today I still feel weak and out of it, and am vaguely surprised I’m even sitting here writing right now. I don’t really have a topic, either; I just want to talk about Patreon.
Patreon is the single best way for me to earn a monthly income through writing. A monthly income means a website that never goes down, and ad funding for my books. What is Patreon, you ask? Well, it’s a monthly subscription service connecting you to creators. If you visit my page, you will see I am creating poetry, short stories, essays, and more. Now, there are three subscription tiers, and should you decide to subscribe, you should ABSOLUTELY DO THE CHEAPEST ONE. I mean, it’s super sweet if you want to send me extra money (PS this blog has a tip jar over on the right) but I don’t know how to work the extra features so frankly, you won’t get what you paid for. Do the 5$ subscription. I will be plenty grateful and you will have access to everything.
And what is everything? Well…we have poems, stories, book chapters, chapbook excerpts, vlogs, essays, newsletters, and cover reveals. At least a piece a week unless I am laid up, I try to provide my subscribers with an insight into the writing process for me as well as my life as a writer. Everything is unpublished, new, or raw at the time that I post on Patreon, and it’s the only place to find my fledgling videos, The Vociferous Vlog (which I really have to work on this weekend…oh please don’t let me get sick again.)
All I’m saying is that if you like me, and you like what I write, and you’ve got 5 bucks a month…I will happily trade you some words. I really enjoy doing my Patreon, and I am hoping it picks up a little not just for monetary purposes but because I like the platform for connection that it provides. There isn’t anywhere else I would be comfortable sharing the first chapter of my WIP, or starting out making vlogs.
I’m editing the page a little later today to give possible subscribers a taste of what is being offered, so there will likely be two or three pieces available later, but there’s a lot more available once you subscribe. Either way, I hope you check it out and consider subscribing.
That all said, my shoulders are killing me. I’m headed back to the couch for a bit. Happy Friday.
Back before the world got sick, I forced myself to attend an open mic poetry reading at a local bookstore. Then, that ended because of the pandemic, and I retreated back into my little anxiety shell and didn’t come out for a year and a half. Then, last week I saw an ad in the paper for a writing workshop. There were only a few slots available, but I figured what the heck and threw my name into the hat. Two days later I received an email saying I was registered. Turns out, it was also a free event, so I was even more pumped because in case you were wondering, poetry collections are not best sellers.
But then, as it does, my stomach came out to play on Friday and sent me into a tizzy. Saturday, the day of the workshop, I felt better physically, but terrible mentally. Firstly, I did not take my meds the night before because I was fearful of throwing up again. Secondly, they pumped me full of the strong stuff at the ER and it was still wearing away come Saturday afternoon.
At 3pm, I was near tears, scared to go, unprepared, rushed…all the feelings of anxiety that like to stop me in my tracks. I was even a little sick to my stomach, which made me all the more worried. Mark did what he always does, and that is get me through it. He remined me how excited I as when I got the registration email. He reminded me how badly I wanted to get out into the world again, and he reassured me of my talents, as he does every day. So, I got dressed and drank some coffee and got in the car and went.
Awkward at first, as always, I was maybe the second person to arrive. I settled in and we got a box full of goodies (photo below) with a notebook and a journal in it, along with supplies for making tea bags. First, Julio (whom I met once before at that bookstore, so it was a little easing to see a face I knew in the room,) gave a talk about the histories of tea and the cultural and religious significances, and then discussed the tea flavors we had and what they symbolized, which was very interesting. I jotted down my combinations I wanted to try: hibiscus mint for mom, lemongrass mint for Bernie, and lavender chamomile for me.
After our selections, we took to writing about our flavors. I didn’t get anything very good, because I was writing longhand which is just TORTURE in my opinion. But I of course typed it up and then cleaned it a little, so you can find it below. Everyone else shared their pieces, and they were lovely. I like open mic style things because everyone’s flow is so different. You have free form, traditionalists, rhymers, alliteraters, slam poets…so much variety.
After the journaling and sharing, we put our tea in the bags and decorated tea boxes. Then, Bianca, who seemed to be the one in charge, gave everyone a personalized cup (and you just know I love stuff with my name on it.) We had a little open mic, where you could share whatever, and I read Sick Since Sixteen because it was the first poem that came up on my phone. It was a good choice though, because I received both snaps and “mmmh’s” which is like a standing ovation in the poetry world. Then everything broke up and most people started heading over to The Gypsy Parlor across the street for an iced tea tasting, and that’s when my brain screamed “NO. GO HOME.”
So, I gathered my things and thanked my hosts and left, dejected.
See, the mingling bit was the part I was looking forward to the most. I barely know any local writers, and it is so hard for me to get out of my shell and find actual humans. And my stupid brain said no, then triggered my stomach to agree with it, causing me to gag on the corner of Grant and Potomac. Sometimes I feel like that stupid brain-gut connection is truly ruining everything good and exciting in my life.
Anyway, I went home. I made my tea, and it was delicious. Soothing chamomile and destressing lavender. Very helpful. Then I typed up what I wrote in my journal, and texted Sahar to tell her of my woes. She suggested I try to network virtually, which I don’t know if I would be better at. I decided to follow the hosts of the events fb pages. Hopefully that will keep me on the radar for upcoming things.
Julio is having an ugly Christmas sweater open mic, which seems pretty cool, but who knows if anxiety will let me attend. I will try, though. I will always keep trying. In the meantime, I shall sip my tea and write in my journal and hope to make a new friend that I can talk about the business of words with. Someday…
4pm Gram was British, so 4pm meant tea time. Our cups, filled with cream and sugar, (honey and lemon if you were sick.) Biscuits were a necessity, though mother would say “It’s too close to dinnertime!” “She’s already overweight!” No mind paid by Gram, tea and cookies at 4pm. Rose Red tea, so I could collect the porcelain figurines, and terrible shortbread from a blue metal tin, She would have been one-hundred on Saturday, but I lost her when I was eight, her body as cold as the cup of leftover tea on her nightstand.
One night, I was managing a show called The Last Meeting of the Knights of the White Magnolia at a tiny bookshop in downtown Buffalo. I could fit maybe 15 people comfortably in there at a time, but this particular evening at least 20 folks showed up, one in a wheelchair. It was my job to handle the crowd while they were in the small space, and so I did what had to be done. I stood on the stage area and announced we were all going to play a game of Tetris. The crowd laughed. I then comically rearranged all these strangers so that everyone could sit comfortably, and so the woman in the wheelchair could get a spot in the front row. For five or ten minutes, I just riffed, no problem. In my head I thought, what is this, if not acting? I mean, it’s basic improv. I’d been onstage acting for so many times in my life at that point, that it was just natural.
Now, I don’t believe I have lost this ability, but technology has altered it. As it turns out, I have no stage-fright, but I am painfully camera-shy.
I never liked having my picture taken, and with the advent of the selfie I was very cautious. But now, things are changing again, and it is videos that rule the world. And I just can’t.
I’ve made a few. The ones where I introduce myself and read a poem are best. The one I made for the suicide walk didn’t turn out too bad, but I stumbled a little, and my palms were sweaty, and my heart was racing. Then came the Patreon idea.
On my Patreon, I have The Vociferous Vlog, where I read a poem and then talk about the inspiration behind it. In theory, it’s a really good idea, but as it turns out, videos are not my strong suit. I should have realized…I’d always rather read the article, y’know?
The first one I made was ok, but E and I did it together and couldn’t quite get the angle on the camera right. I was far away and not as clear-sounding as we had hoped. The second one was worse, because Mark tried to hand-cam it and shook the whole time, which wasn’t even obvious until I uploaded it to the computer. Then, it looked terrible. I looked good, but I also kept my eyes down the entire time, which is something I will have to work on.
You would think I would be better at this. And also, I’ve done plenty of Zoom calls during the pandemic, and never felt this way about those…perhaps because I’m talking with someone? PLUS, my Patreon is just starting out and only has a few subscribers, so why am I bugging over people I KNOW seeing me in a video?
No really, I’m asking. I have no answers.
I know that you could drop me in the middle of a stage and I could entertain for an hour. I know it. But to get me to film myself doing five minutes of poetry talk on my own? Nope. I try to summon the theater person deep within me but I guess she’s sleeping (likely due to some SSRI’s,) and won’t be coming to my aide today, at least.
I shall try again tomorrow.
I’ve been sitting at the desk for half an hour. I wasn’t sure what to publish today because I had three topics in mind, so I did a poll on Twitter and in 5 minutes its’ going to tell me people want to read about the Twitter experiment I did yesterday…and they will. But I’m in a contrary mood and gosh darn it, it’s National Poetry Day. How can I not write about my favorite form of expression?
But that leaves me with more choices…share some poetry, as I have in the past-my little outliers who have no homes? That’s what I usually do. Alas…she is mad at me, and that is all I can think about today.
She…is my book, A Lovely Wreckage.
She’s a year and a half old and we are already in an argument. She doesn’t think I’m doing enough…she wanted things like a signing or a store shelf to sit on, and I couldn’t get her those things, so she said I was a terrible mother and shitty writer and slammed the door in my face. I tried to coax her out of her room with the discovery that she was now for sale on the Walmart website, but this was fruitless. She is angry and refusing to sell.
Thing is, she knows she could do it. She knows she’s a lovely little debut that would have been much better received were we not in the midst of a pandemic at the time and ever since, and she’s bitter about it. And she’s not wrong…she shoulda had somthin’.
I wrote a blog called Schrodinger’s Chapbook about her and she liked that attention but then she never sent a royalty check so who knows…children are so moody.
All kidding aside…I really need to sell some books. Everything I’m reading tells me that I need to be shoving my book down the throat of every person I meet, and honestly that is not something I’m capable of. I wish I was, truly, so that I could give her everything she deserves. We have worked so hard. We are so tired.
So, today, on National Poetry Day, I will give you a poem. One of hers. My favorite of hers, actually (my mom’s too!) And I hope that you love it, and I hope that you love her…lord knows I do.
Even when she calls me a hack.
Dead Nerves I quit smoking but this poetess needs her hit, her puff, her drag and I can still taste nicotine on my fingertips like the sweat on your skin but it’s a phantom sense like the tingling in my toes- Dead nerves. I put on black nail polish and an old flannel because I feel like sixteen again when the wind whips my hair up into the tornado that hangs over my head. Rain clouds are for amateurs and I build weather formations to hide my intentions. I dance with demons and dummies but it’s all the same as being young and in love, before needles prickled at my skin and left me numb and frightened. These little bits of a broken heart, these sharp shards that leave faint pink lines on my skin keep me from second guessing my silly self. This itching in my fingers is a reminder of bad decisions and salty storms, that youth betrayed me. Dead nerves in my hands like dead nerves in my heart.
The absolute last thing I want to write about is how I feel right now, which is crummy. Not sick, per se, though my tummy is sad, but that’s only because the rest of me is depressed. There’s this whole brain-body thing happening where my depression and anxiety aggravate my digestive system and also my achy back and then I feel like hot garbage all morning. That’s where we are right now, with me typing these words by force and also trying to figure out how to get myself into the shower at some point today.
Major Depressive Disorder at it’s finest, folks.
Now, I’m not worried because this sort of thing usually only lasts a few hours to a day, and the doc upped my Xanax so I am well equipped to deal with any issues. Alas, I feel like crap. But, I must solider on. Bringing me to today’s blog, where I discuss a couple of endeavors.
It’s been a few weeks now since I stared my Patreon account, and I have two very excellent subscribers right now. They are extremely biased however, one being my aunt and the other being my mother. But then, they are probably also my biggest fans.
So right now, I am creating content for them but also for new subscribers, who would have access to everything I’ve done on there so far as well as something new on a weekly basis.
If you’re not familiar with Patreon, it is a platform for creators to earn a monthly income. It’s a subscription service, so, for example, you would pay 5$ a month and I would send you subscriber-only content each week, including poetry, stories, essays, newsletters, videos, and more. If you want to check it out, here is a link to my page. Just sign up and click “Become a Patron!” But don’t go crazy…it has you set up tiers so my price goes from a 5$ plan to like a 15$ plan and i strongly advise you go with the cheap one, especially if I know you personally. As I said to my mother, don’t pay for what you get for free.
So today one of the tasks I must complete is the making of this week’s content, which will be a vlog about one of my poems, which Mark and I are going to shoot as soon as I get myself out of the aforementioned shower.
In other news, I had a poem come out this week, and I have posted it below for you, because it was just a one-day run. Pink Plastic House, A Tiny Journal is one of my favorite lit mags and they are doing a countdown to Halloween with spooky-themed poetry. I was day 56, with a piece called The Squirrel that’s about the change of seasons. It’s one of my “story” poems. I don’t do them often but when I do, I always love them a little harder.
Speaking of “story” poems…I’m on pins and needles over here. This is me, putting out into the universe, that my editor needs to email me back, because I’m freaking out here. Last year they accepted my piece and I didn’t hear anything for months, and when I finally did, he said we could go at my pace…well, my pace dropped edits in his inbox a month and half ago and I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve sent follow-ups. I tried him on Twitter. Nothing. NOTHING.
Impatience is my worst quality.
So that’s what’s going on, writing-wise. Just chugging along. Obviously, my personal life is a shambles because I can’t even get myself into the shower. But maybe I can do something else. Afterall, I just finished this blog. One less task to complete, and it didn’t kill me. Perhaps now I can take a shower?
Nah. Probably going to take a break.