Spellbinding stories of mystic love and soulful hope . . .

Posts tagged ‘prose’

You are mine and I am yours, dear Reader: how I love you.

002What shall I do with my gift? For I am not quite sure what direction I want to take with a new novel. Unfinished work sits in my computer. For I imploded my life over a year ago–I exploded it–I ripped it asunder–I left my marriage and my life on the mountain. I pummeled myself stupid with one decision after another until I sat dazed for months. Now, now I am ready again.

But I hesitate. Which one? Or a new one? “Listen to your heart, Kathryn,” the cliched voice inside me rages.

Once, years back, I printed out my novel and held its heaviness in my hands, and as I read, I loved Virginia Kate all over again, but I wondered if there were more I could do to her: make her shorter, tighter, smaller, for I’m told readers have a short attention span now and expect things to be more dramatic, to move faster, to have more and more tension and action and –is this you, reader? Are you really like that? Where you expect things to be fed to you so fast, crammed down your throat, where you expect quick-reading works that can be gulped down like fast food, or, do you sometimes enjoy the dinner at a quiet nice restaurant, where each course is served to you gently and with full attention, each course a delicate taste, but with undertones of spice and heat and with the hint of something dramatic to come. Each course comes just a moment after you’ve finished the last one, and in that moment, you savor what you have just completed.

I am smiling at you, smiling with imagining you reading my words and how you would think this is something different, yet something quite familiar that you are reading. Something to take to the back porch, to the beach, to a rocking chair.

I have so much to tell you all, dear readers! So much! My mind won’t be still and there are times when I want to hush it up, to tell my thoughts to stop its mad rushing about! When I think I shall go insane with all the words to tell you.

How do I reach you all? I could put my novels away and concentrate on other things to show you, and then one day, when I am ready, I will come to you, and you will not forget me. I could write what isn’t in my heart to capture the market and perhaps place much needed funds in my bank. But I hesitate. For when I tried that before, it felt so wrong, so alien, so rubbery.

213I have a restless mind. I have a mind full of images — bones of dogs attached to leashes while the old man calls to me to write him, for he is lost, and he needs me to find him, and there is a boy, a dark-haired boy who parts the bushes, parts the thistles, and sees the bones, and a voice comes to him and says, “I am near, too, come find me . . . .”

And there–a group of women, all over sixty, crossing the street, and two of them help one who is weak weaker weakest, while three more are a bit ahead, chatting about anything but their youth, because they do not care about those days any longer, they have stories, so many stories to tell, and as I watch them cross the street, I hear their words, and I hear the inner words of their story and I must tell it! Words slam into me, and I take them in, bam bam bam bam bam slam.

And there is the woman, who wakes up beside her husband, and goes to the bathroom, and as she relieves herself, she stares at the stain of the night’s sex on her panties, and sighs, gets up, washes her hands, washes her faces (yes, faces), and tries not to look in the mirror, but she does, accidentally she looks into the woman in the mirror, and all the days of her life slam into her, and she pushes back her hair, and listens to the loud breathing of her husband, and suddenly, suddenly, unexpectedly, the world tilts and rearranges and she becomes the woman she was meant to be. I think about this woman, and she thinks about me – for she knows I will have to write her story and she waits, staring into that mirror, turning away from that mirror, out of the bathroom, down the hall, out the front door, down the sidewalk, her feet slapping against the cement–where is she going?! I have to find out! Words. Images. Ideas. Characters.

Whispers – is that the wind, or a character speaking to me? Last night, my legs were restless under the covers as I held a book of short stories. I opened it, and read and enjoyed and wondered about the author, what they were doing and thinking and if they knew how beautiful they are, and that at that very moment, I was reading their words and they’d never know me, never know I smiled, and then closed the book with satisfaction, turned out the light, and dreamed of my own words on the page. Deam. Dreamer. Dreamest.

008 I will never again be the same because you, dear readers, have touched me and read me and come to know me through my books. I can never go back to how I was in the days before this happened. I am yours now. I have no choice but to give you more of me. For anything less feels wrong and empty. My life wrong and empty without the words and language. I love this writing, my characters, the idea and reality of you all holding my words and loving my characters, as much as I love my arm, my leg, my tiniest of baby toes.

Stay with me. For I need you.

——————————————————————–

51dZqZYheqL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-v3-big,TopRight,0,-55_SX278_SY278_PIkin4,BottomRight,1,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_Touty plug of the day. My very first published book. Tender Graces, the first in the trilogy. Where I introduce to you my beloved Virginia Kate. It is one of my most popular books, with only Sweetie being just as popular.

‘Bad’ Poetry Sunday from a Non Poet

10398086_10152474576124176_3232207411175342070_n

 

yes, ‘bad’ poetry from a non-poet Sunday is back – ha!

 

 

IT’S ALL RANDOM

 

1.

The giant she’d become

Pleased her

She passed a church singing

Tore off the roof

Because she could

(see all the people?)

Singing silenced

Tiny people looked up

At her giant mooned face

They thought, she thought,

She is God.

 

2.

A fine morning

She found fifty-two emails

Oh how fifty-one adored her!

But that one

Who did not

Would not could not chose not

Caught in her throat

Tore at her brain

She read the words

Once twice thrice

The words bloated

Sagging heavy in the middle and outward

She walked to town

On slippery feet and happenstance notions

But the words fattened ever more

Bloated fly words, blue fly shoo

She ran home, slipping on the grease

Of oozing words; hid in her bedroom

The words found her, weighing

Down down the bedroom roof, down

Down sagging upon her poor sore head

Until that head bowed in supplication

The heavy heavy words grew bolder

Split the roof asunder

And all the bloated oozing words laid

Atop her—writhing lazy

A lover could not be as complete

—so was spent the last day

Of her life well-known

 

3.

He liked to break things on purpose

Cell left in pocket off to the washer

Oh dear I dropped your camera

There’s his hip, hop, hip

bump against the table

Comes crash and splintering

Of beloved glass memories

“I burnt the teapot, my love;

was it a favorite?”

Once the car ran, until it did into a tree

 

she doesn’t know why she didn’t see it coming

 

4.

 

 

Her life is an ellipsis . . .

. . . inside each tiny little dot

she lives . . . and even in the pauses . . .

between them she could be found

. . . but no one tried . . . .

 

-kat magendie

Morning Coffee . . . how we create – how we write – how we don’t self edit our work because that’s the death of it

10364033_10152476299144176_4680787522175960798_a1011253_10203243524002060_658622034422461467_nLawd, y’all — I am behind in my posts, but insomnia has ponked me upside my peahead most undeliciously . . . so, again for now, until I can gets me shits together, I will post here the last Tuesday’s and today’s video from our Morning Coffee series. We’re moving into more “themes” here instead of random chaos, but for me it’s always about chaos – haw haw!

 

Hope you’ll join in live on Tuesday mornings at 10 ET, but you can catch us on YouTube – muwah!

Today’s ‘show’ – creating from random words – how we create – how we write – how we don’t self edit our work because that’s the death of it – and Papito joins me in my closet.

 

Last Tuesday’s “show:” where I was completely low-key – I was! believe it or not – my insomnia gripping me harder that night and thus that morning the shadow of it was all over my personality – I was actually subdued! Dang! We chatted about writing/creating about Place – Home- Geography.

 

Y’all join in now, ya hear! :D

 

 

Shoveling it (writing it)

snow storm 2014 cove walk and shovel 004

*UPDATE! : Can anyone tell me “what’s wrong with this picture” here to the left? *laughing* — Let’s make that around 10 inches on my driveway. *dumbass me* Yeah, the stick is upside down and the big numbers are not inches. Teeheehee.* There has to be a metaphor/analogy for the writing in this :D

Gawd. What a winter it has been. Ice, snow, sub-zero temps — my cove once dove to minus 8.5 degrees. This latest dumped fourteen inches on top of the driveway I’d just cleared 3 inches from. Welp, good, cause at least I didn’t have to shovel 17 inches. Huhn. Right? Riiight. And, as I wrote on Facebook (where I’ve been uploading photos of the snow and the beauty of Western North Carolina), how does a 111 pound 5’2″ woman clear 14 inches of snow from her longish driveway in less than 2 hours? One GD shovel at a time. I put my head down and did the job. I didn’t whine. I didn’t complain–no really, I did not. For what good would that have done? Just made me irritated and negative about it. I shoveled and I didn’t think about how much was left before me. I shoveled and I didn’t stop except to drink some water and stretch out the kinks. I shoveled and I didn’t think about my worries or my troubles or what lay ahead or what I would do next or if it were boring or if I’d rather be doing something else–nope, I kept my mind to he task. I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled some more. Until, at last, I had a pathway for my Boopmobile to clear out of so I can get out snow storm 2014 cove walk and shovel 028this weekend, and then, just to be sure, I shoveled a bit more–a sort of SO THERE! kind of thing.

snow storm 2014 cove walk and shovel 026I thought, at the end: Okay, Mother/Father/Grandm/f Nature, you bitch – I’m a bigger bitch. I’m a badass bitch. I’m a toughass kickass mountain woman, stubborn, too much pride at times, determined. I had a goal. I completed it. My arms were shaking afterward. My back and shoulders protested. But those things actually felt good because they felt like work; they felt like progress; they felt like I was in the real world doing real things; they felt like, actually, that Mother;/Father/Grandm/f Nature and I were at a truce. Oh, I know Nature can dish out some more if it wants to, and it could take me to my knees. It has done that to many of us–storms, and floods, and snows, and ices, and tornadoes, and hurricanes–and what do we do? We “shovel” out from under it one “shovel” at a time until we are done with the job.

Just Do It

Just Do It

Often people ask me: how did you write so much in so little time? What is your writing day like? How do you keep writing? I am pretty prolific. I have had published five novels and a novella, and published myself through Amazon some short stories, and I’m writing under two different pen names — one is C.W. Pomp, and the other is a secret. And you may be guessing already what I’m going to say after reading the above: I write one word at a time. I put my head down and get the job done. When I am working, snow storm 2014 cove walk and shovel 028I don’t think ahead or how much I have done or how much more I have left to do. I don’t worry about the future when I am working. I am a badass toughass stubborn determined novelist/writer bitch. When I am done, I may be shaking a little; I may let those worries creep in; I may falter because I don’t know how it’s all going to work out or if people will love my work; I could be taken to my knees by disappointment (and I have been!). But, then . . . I sit down and do it all over again, just as if it snows again, I will pick up that shovel and dig myself out from under what is dished out to me.

1461250_496657083765127_1387255473_nNow, I do not want to hit you good people over the head with this – my pride and my sense of “not bugging people” often have gotten in the way of me talking about my books, but, if I want to keep doing what I love, then I have to promote my books at least sometimes, and the sometimes is usually when I have news or deals. I thought The Lightning Charmer would be off its $1.99 sale, but it’s still hanging on – shhh! maybe they forgot to take it off! ha! So, if you haven’t tried my work, now is the time, or if you have and liked my other books, then give T.L.C. a try. I will love you for it – well, hell, I already love you all :D .

three set_edited-best_edited-1As well, my little short stories are on Amazon. I don’t talk about them much because they’re just little story snacks – things you can read quickly. Simple little things. I adore the artwork on the cover.

Okay, that’s enough of the car salesman pitch *haw!*

MUWAH! y’all. Pick up that shovel (sit down and write) . . . get busy.

Our Rose & Thorn Journal: Saying Goodbye.

Join us on R&T's Facebook page!

Hello, gentle readers & contributors:

It is with great regret and sadness that we are “closing down” production of Rose & Thorn Journal after nearly 15 years.

This decision did not come easily, as it is always hard to let go of a long-held “labor of love.”

We truly appreciate our wonderful volunteer staff. (You made each issue shine!) Likewise, the talented contributors of art, prose, and poetry. Your works filled every R&T edition with offerings for readers to enjoy. Thanks also to our supporters, fans, and friends.

Our last issue will be the spring issue in May.
We would love it if you would drop by our R&T Facebook page and leave a note.

Thank you all.

dsc08287Angie Ledbetter & Kat Magendie

Linky Love: Rose & Thorn Journal: we heart you!

snow in maggie valley cove at Killian Knob

Good Snowy Morning Y’all Wonderful People!

My linky loves will be focused on R&T this morning, because the Rose & Thorn staff, where Angie Ledbetter and I are Publishing Editors, are working hard to have our winter issue go live on January 15th, which is this Sunday.

We also have been working on the newsletter with our wonderful newsletter editor, and as well, along with our Managing Editor (who also works very hard to have the issue go live without a hitch – doing much of the website uploading and things Angi and I go ‘ungh’ about), we are making some much-needed and much-anticipated changes to our journal.

We hope you will stop by and peruse the fall issue before it goes bye-bye (although it will remain, along with the others, in our Archives/Past Issues page). And then, we hope you will stop back by this Sunday the 15th and peruse our winter issue, which you can enter by clicking on our Featured Artist’s art, which will change once our new issue goes live Sunday. You may also find the prose and poetry by clicking on the “buttons” – “journal” and then “current issue.”

The next issue after winter will be in May. This is part of the changes we are implementing. We will be uploading the newsletter contents onto our Rose & Thorn Blog, where we have our Back Story–the people behind our prose, poetry, and artists, so stop by and read up on the exiting changes to the journal, and peruse the other wonderful posts there! Or sign up for the newsletter and receive all the news in your inbox!

We Heart You all – our readers, poets, writers, artists. Please feel free – and we are most sincere – to contact us and let us know what you think. As well, many of our writers, poets, and artists love hearing from you and provide their emails and/or websites/blogs. Give them some Love!

That is my linky love for today. Next Friday, I will be back with my regularly schedule links. Now y’all have a wonderful weekend, and remember: Gratitude is a beautiful, Gratitude is the key. Practice it and soon, as you do any “habit,” you will feel it enter your marrow and give you the life-nutrients you require.

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