Attack of the Cutes. Imagine, if you will, the song “Baby Did a Bad, Bad Thing,” by Chris Isaak. Add to that one five-month-old bebe that’s just learned to sway back and forth to the music. On top of that, add momma lying on the floor next to her, close enough for bebe to reack […]
Responsibility. Sometimes I get tired of being a mother. It’s the responsibility. (Can you see the looks on some of my relative’s faces? “Ha! I knew she’d never be able to pull it off, the flibbertygibbet.” Of course, being all-American, all-Christian Midwesterners, nothing would be said. Nothing, not even, “How can I help?” Especially not
Jealousy. I’ve decided that reading Mecawilson is a bittersweet experience. Bittersweet? That’s not the word. If there’s some word combining the tang of pickles with the acidic, gut-eating taste of jealousy, then that’s the word I mean to use instead. “Bittersweet.” He’s funny. I’ve seen a lot of good writers on the net lately, good,
Oven. An update of my progress in editing “Feather” would read something like this: Crap. And you know what that means. Let’s have a nice learning experience, eh? I’ve finished the first go through the manuscript. I now have beats, which each of them have a beginning, middle, and ending; the story is now twice
Modern writers. The term “modern” gives some people the hives…yet all it is is a sophistication (although perhaps an over-serious one) of the moment when the vaudeville actor leans into the audience and winks. While “modern” poetry seems to be all clever renditions of the song “doom, despair, agony, and woe…WOOOOOE”* (i.e., T.S. Eliot), “modern”