Thursday, May 18, 2017
This is where I wish I was living, even imaginatively. But I'm stuck dealing with the hassles of publishing my last novel, The Renaissance Club. This is the fate of the Indie author -- the self-published or micro-press published novelist. Nothing is easy, and everything takes up the precious time we need for the slow, slow, but deliciously slow creative process.
So I'm turning to one of my favorite gurus on the subject of publishing to help you navigate, if you're trying ot decide whether to be an India author. Here's Jane Friedman on a new twist in self-publishing: getting an agent AFTER you self-publish. And if you're still trying to decide if you have the right stuff to be a self-publisher, here's Jane on how to make the decision. She's so practical, and that really helps with a highly emotional decision!
As for me, I'm an Indie at heart. I like conceiving of book covers (even if I 'm not an artist), and I like the whole idea of marketing my stuff. I love playing on social media and establishing myself as an author this way. Blogging is what I do to relax, ditto Twitter and Facebook.
I'll see how things go, but I may publish The Romantics on my own. There are so many good reasons to go Indie -- a big one being the luxurious feeling of control. I really miss it. But the cure, of course, is writing something new.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
Apple Pie Order
The hands that cut the apple
are white-fleshed as the silence
between us in the kitchen. Her sob
of breath. Cotton cloths, simple tasks.
Her hands skin and delve
a pale core from each green globe,
slice smiles and drop
them in the dough's lap.
My mother's hands soothe my forehead,
tug and tuck corners, tails, hairs
and sheets. Shove me forward, hold me back.
From their towel-wrapped rigor,
I know cradle and slap. Above
their industry I feel the tears.
For fear of seeing fear
in her, I watch the hands
Make a small, safe corner
for sweet flesh to be sectioned,
layered, sugared, snugged
under thin-rolled crust.
She always knows what comes next.
Her short, round fingers make do,
patch holes, keep going,
though nicked, scraped and scalded.
Ten trudging dough-faced soldiers,
rosebuds furled in flour-scented might.
From Femme au Chapeau (David Robert Books, 2007)
-- For my mother
In the cathedral mountains she climbed
a boulder-strewn peak and found
a coyote slain mid-bound,
entombed in snow.
At her feet lay an empty bone-
shell in the high pass
where wind hones
rock to hosannas of silence.
Resurrected in a pet hound, that wild
child raced through her days,
howled joyful in her mind.
Wild things come to us
and we are drawn to the untamed,
to remember our long journey.
She housed generations of dogs,
made pilgrimages to the mountains
where they galloped through high plains
and life wheeled around her,
voices of sky and earth echoing
long after she came down.
Pairing feral with civilized,
she shared food and den,
as they watched her,
learning how frail yet enduring
the bond that tames us.
from Earth Lessons (Bellowing Ark Press, 1998)