Writer Crews

Go time.   I've written my entire life:  journals (aka diary), essays (aka college assignments), poetry, novella's, Nano-Wrimo... I've edited, revised and polished... then done it again.  I've taken college courses to the point where I've debated a second master's degree, I've attended hours of meetings with Willamette Writer's, PDX Writer's, Portland Women's Writers... I've saturated my life as much as I can to achieve those 10,000 hours.   I've written stories upon stories upon stories... only two complete novels and I love them both and I'm ready to pitch.  (That was a run-on and I know it- but it belonged together and I like breaking rules).  The Willamette Writer's Conference is happening the first weekend in August.  I'm ready.  I'm pitching my Women's Contemporary Lit/Romance - beta readers opinion vary on where it lies - the title is "Twisted Disposition".   It’s about a teacher who creates chaos ...

I've done it!  I've signed up for the monthly writing race to 50k words.  I have to admit... I've written way more than that, but I'm a re-worder, edit-crazed, self-doubting author.  It will be a great challenge to begin a story and not stop till I'm 50k words in.  Looking forward to the write-in's... hoping to meet some kindred spirits or at least a few people that are writing group worthy.  Now to go choose a genre, and begin my outline.  Let the journey begin!

Dreaming of Summer Already When summer comes floating in  She’ll bring her carpet bag brimming with a hodge-podge of seasonal honeyed medicines The light of yellow sun will pop out first to shine upon our faces To shine upon problems, those that were stuck in shady places And if I can’t handle the enlightenment she will disperse An umbrella is stashed in her sunlit purse She’s got lotion to soothe and protect me Wind tucked in a pocket to whip-up energy Hot sand for a warm place to ground myself, or warm up with a friend Summer is my mother She comes to tend

~ Writing to Evoke Emotion ~ Hand hovers, hesitates, a shadow on the pale paper below Then dives, a reckless raven into hidden holes, hollows dipping ink congealing into creation Words turn into serrated black claws ripping their way across the white page dark moments exhausting the pen black blood of emotion I should be afraid to write them - but my will is to pull your heart out and show you it beating, dripping, in my pale palm So you may see it feel it perceive the pain that I write My only real fear is that you won't.

Spring Cleaning When the light returns What seeds I’ll plant And then nourish in the year ahead A seed planted is hope born for growth and future treasures The gifted grin bringing forth rows of smiles The melody embedded, creating a day of mindless humming A clean house reaches like ivy over the barbs of my worry, softening, serene A completed project like vinegar on glass gleans accomplishment Time for myself sprouts a happier woman, who in return blooms to enrich the lives of those who pass my garden Fertilizing the soils of my life Tucking in seeds that support my growth Dewey petals capturing life’s succulent essence I flower, I open To nature’s bounty A flower, reflective of all beauty

Cold Change The icicle cracked from the eave Dropped direct Pierced, cleaved Life into two distinct halves Before loss and after Tick There Tock Gone A second to mark a lifetime Lost loved one Innocent sheen on life smothered under a shroud Chill coated skin, Sorrow frosted soul Reality is a heavy nipping cloud A mist that will never rise Wherever you go, whatever you do It clings to you Raw ice

Afternoon and the convention halls are quiet. I’ve chosen to occupy the opposite end of the center, away from all the writers who love to talk. I want to write today. A few whispering women pass by on their way to the restroom, also on my end of the hall. I’m sitting in the “Laptop Lounge”, a cool name for an area with little stools, a long shelf and plugs in the wall. My back is to the hall. I get to face a dark blue wall for inspiration. At least my back is turned, allowing me to avoid all eye contact and feel alone. I like to be alone when I write. But I’m not alone. The bright recessed lighting overhead casts a hard shadow of my own hand writing on paper. My shadow is always there – but usually it contains itself better. I can’t seem to escape the smell of coffee. As much as I try to avoid grouping people and making blanket statements, I’m beginning to hypothesize that the one common thread among writers, beyond the love of words, is drinking coffee. I smell it...