Possible market

Pseudopod, a horror audio zine that pays

Also has a sister site for fantasy and science fiction: The Escape Pod

Love the play on podcast. :)

Day 48

Minimum Goals
100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

Finished my class paper and it helped me meet my goal.

Day 45

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

I'm finally right on target! Nothing like a deadline to get things caught up.

Title: Mustard

My sister calls him
“vampire kitty.”
You can’t even see the scar
on her face now.
And he twined around her legs
while she sat on the couch
with a dishrag on her face.
She didn’t tell us she was bringing her dog.
And he knows dogs aren’t guests.

He patrols the yard with a passion.
The neighbor’s dogs
--Labador mutts triple his size--
who dig into our garbage
have learned to run in fear.
And tails really do tuck between their legs!
while his orange-stripped
waves proudly in the air
stalking around the boundaries of the yard.

He knows my car
though I confused him
after I wrecked my white car.
I know because he hadn’t left
the kitchen window watching for me
until I walked in the door.
Now I see him as I pull in the driveway
and wave at him before he jumps down
to meet me at the door.

I didn’t raise no lap cat.
But he’s not vicious,
no matter what my sister says,
just standoffish.
Pet me on my terms
is his attitude.
He sists in front of the monitor
and headbutts my chin
and I know I’m loved.

People scratch their heads
when I say his name.
“He’s orange not yellow.”
Why Mustard?
That’s the name he had bestowed
by the drunk in Jan’s after Mustard the kitten
jumped in my truck.
The drunk gave him to me and
I took him to a better life.

Reading Diary 11

Spoon and Tree


What gladdens her is the spoon,
with its tiny saucer of remnants,
its slender shaft, scrubbed last—
and now the kitchen's clean.
Clean are the knives and forks
all akimbo in their drying cage
at the window. The spoon
leans alone toward light,
a backyard limb reflected
in its sunken belly, so a
liquid darkness tongues
its curves and bends
along its slender neck,
making the one tidying up blush
at this bed she's come upon—
refractive, gleaming, the old
dream of coupling
here portioned out
in such a strange
supper.
When the light is gone,
the immaculate house hushed,
she puts down her book
and returns, barefooted,
waking the wood planks
to the kitchen. The cupboard,
too, sighs, its ascending note
sliding wind-clean. And even
before shaking whole grains
into her midnight bowl,
she has reached out,
across the ticking, low-watt
world, her warm mouth
clamping itself wetly
around the cooled,
hard truth
of the spoon.

Sara London
http://www.poetrydaily.org/poem.php?date=13684

I don’t know why “Tree” is put in the title, since it doesn’t appear to have any bearing on the poem. I feel sympathy for the woman character in it. I live alone, hate doing the dishes, and know the satisfaction that the kitchen is finally clean.

Okay, I think I found the tree in the spoon’s reflection. I like those lines suggesting both the amorous and the functional meanings of “spoon.” The second half of the poem confuses me. It’s still about the spoon, but not about the tree. Just about the relationship of the woman and the spoon, and not much of one either. No issues with the imagery; I can see all the actions.

Strix Notes

Human family of a vampire; I like the two characters I have in this slot, they're fun. But having just rewatched the first episode of Kindred the Embraced TV show recently and I think I know where I was inspired to throw that into my mix.

The writers of the TV show were horribly inconsistant in the first episode (and they wonder why it only lasted a season?). Luna, vampire prince of the city, explains that his oldest grandson has died. He had a son before he was embraced and that son filled the valley with grapes and children. He's heartbroken as much as a vampire in charge of a city can be. Okay, maybe the guy was his favorite grandson. Then Luna's great-granddaughter shows up and they all treat her like she's the only descendent left. So what happened to the rest? What happened to all the black-clad disapproving people at the funeral?

Still I like the dynamic and want to do it right.

Day 40

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

Three poems today. And I finally got through all my feedback from the class. The short ones feel incomplete to people and I don't have anything left to say in them.

Title: Oh Go Ahead and Sulk

This is no telepathic link
between us.
Have I ever been able to read your mind
in thirty years?

Sorry, nobody gave me a memo
to a) carve the time in stone
to b) call you and dictate the plans
to c) exclude my sister who I thought wanted to come.

Besides I stayed up late
(reading Harry Potter 7)
and I have the right to sleep in
on Sunday, the day of rest.

I came in with a time we could go.
You’d rather lie in bed saying
the whole world hates you.
Chief of all your family.

You’d rather ruin my good mood
from a satisfying conclusion
from fitting into size 16 jeans again
from a beautiful day to spend time with my mother.

I can only throw up my hands.
Oh, go ahead and sulk
If that’s more fun than Hairspray.
Go ahead and sulk.

Title: Need Three More Poems

Need three more poems
for the assignment
What to write about?
Anything and everything,
doesn’t mean that
I want to write about
anything and everything.

Losing weight slowly
Fear of stroke
Fear of losing my mind
Fear of diabeties
Fear of dementia
Fear of death
Haven’t I been depressing enough lately?

Tribute to a book
Tribute to an author
Tribute to Harry Potter
Tribute to another obsession
Introduce a webcomic never heard of
Chant my love for Monster Squad
Do I want to frighten with my fangirliness?

I have to finish the assignment
Need just three more poems
Just three more poems
But what to write about?
I can’t decide
But none of the topics call to me
So you get a poem on the need.

Title: Metabolic Syndrome

My body betrayed me
Selection picked all the crappy genes
It’s not your fault
But my body betrayed me

Medicine will help
Take metformine for the high sugar
Take phentermine to supress the appetite
Take more of this, take less of that
But the medicine will help

Diet and exercise
Atkins, Sugar-busters, South Beach, measure
Walk the track, swim a mile, weightlift
You do realize even yoga hurts?
But diet and exercise

Lost ten pounds in a month
I need to lose alomost a whole me
How did a nearly whole me seak onto me
Where does it hide
But I lost ten pounds in a month

Biker Mice Wars Are Won series plans

While I was pondering the state of writing life found over in the Intentionally Left Blank post, a question came to mind. I have often said that the Wars Are Won series is over thirty stories long and I have only written five of them. So just how many of the stories are really necessary for the Wars Are Won series arc?

I found the story list with my original notes and found the series had 28 stories total. I was able to combine two main thrusts into other stories that strengths the plot points I want to make and eliminates two stories for the count. I took one out completely for the current series. It may go back in later depending on how many questions I get asked about a new character. Did some switching around of story order and what year they were set in and now have 25 stories of various lengths. Some titles may change.

1995

1. Shatter Your Illusions
2. Put Me Back Together
3. Reunions
4. Family, Friends, and Foes
5. Let Us Give Thanks

1996

6. Turbo
7. Sacrifice of Happiness

1997

8. Can't Keep Hard Rock Down
9. New York, New York or Heir of the Foot Clan

1998

10. Laissez Bon Temps Rouler
11. Blind

1999

12. The Race
13. Death of a Star
14. Tala's Freedom
15. Time Manipulates Your Heart
    1. 1947
    2. 1999
    3. 2019
16. What Was Lost

2000

17. One and Only Promise I Can Keep
    1. What I Will Do For You
    2. Never Give Up, Never Surrender
    3. Let Me Promise
18. New Hope
19. Plutark's Enemies
20. Invasion of Earth

2001

21. Baddest Mamajammers of the Millienium

Day 36

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

584 words in the Educator's Guide. And except for formating and editing, I think that section is done.

Also did a lot of handwriting today while waiting on the stupid program at work, but I don't count until I type. But judging to my response on the topic, I may just need to do it. It's been a tough summer, trying to work through emotional crisis and subjected to the poetry. I don't see it as a step back but more a plateau before the next uphill climb.

Day 32

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

Title: Not Your Fault, Poetry

I haven’t been fair to you, Poetry.
Having to blame the one who never did the harm.
Eyes and memory cleared from false impressions,
and realized writhing under laughter’s lash
can only stop when I laugh back.
And that’s not your fault, Poetry.

I felt stupid and embarrassed in class with you, Poetry.
Laugh at it, let it go, start again.
There is no cosmic checklist
marking down my every mistake.
Festering humiliation poisoning my attitude.
And that’s not your fault, Poetry.

How many years have I denied us, Poetry?
Laugh at it, let it go, start again.
I’ve had enough of all that.
Laughing at it, letting it go.
I am sorry for ignoring you, Poetry.
Can we start over again?

Day 30

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

I'm still not caught up with the 100 Words. But I also have two reading diaries I need to write for this week before I can turn to fiction with a clear conscious.

Title: Enough

Sitting at my desk,
squirming under facts I preferred to ignore.
But there they are, painting a horrid view of me.
Black words on white paper
I’m not too stupid to misunderstand the truth.
Tiny, insignificant events blown out of proportion
Again
Again
Again

ENOUGH

There is a monster in me.
A screaming banshee
once unleashed frightens me.
But she hides the other monsters in me
The subtle seducer
proclaiming I’m worthless
and everyone can see it, laughing at my humilitation.
The vaporous procrastinator
avoiding everything
rather than prove the worthless charge correct.
The drama queen
wailing at and for the seducer and procrastinator
feeding off my inability to stop them
unleashing the banshee to wreak havoc.
Because if my life is ruined, everyone should share the pain.

ENOUGH

But I have only seen the violence of the banshee
All the other monsters speak the truth
It must be true because I can’t write
so I’m stupid
so I’m a failure
so I’m a fool
so I’m worthless
and I must hide it from everyone.

My friend is right.
She says I have an ego problem
It needs to appear to be the opposite of everything the seducer says
and look out when I can’t measure up.
“But I’m a fucking failure! I have to hide that!”
“No, you make mistakes.
And you beat yourself up over them.”

ENOUGH

I can’t live like this
I can’t work like this
I can’t pursue happiness like this
I can’t fear all this

“Fear is the mind-killer.”
The drama queen, seducer, and procrastinator blink.
“I have had enough.”
Heads turn to exchange glances of confusion.
“I let you have power over me because
I didn’t believe in me.”
Confusion shifts to fear.

ENOUGH

Of the insecurity
Of the fear
Of the paralization
Of the hiding
Of your poison.

“I believe in me.”
Swing the door shut—the heavy steel door
blocking the voices of the drama queen
the seducer
the procrastinator
the banshee screaming I need them.
Who thought the jailer could be free?
“I believe in me.”

Notes: Finally done. Confession poetry is good for the soul. And I wasn’t going to do it because it seems like the stereotypical MFA “victim story” and I want to entertain readers. But I couldn’t work on anything else until this was written out. It was supposed to be the sequel to “I Don’t Like You, Poetry.” Maybe now I can work on that one.

Part of my problem is admitting that I’m human. I brood over my mistakes, convinced that I’m damned and doomed. And I avoid going back to the things that damned and doomed me. Instead of laughing and letting go og my embarrassment and moving forward, I refuse to read poetry so I won’t feel or appear to be stupid. It’s time to admit that, and finally let it go. And let it go everytime I do it.

And I'm caught up with 100 Words and homework! (I still need to comment on other's work for class but I can get that done tomorrow and Saturday.) Posting the Reading Diary here and then getting started on fiction!

Reading Diary 9

What About the Light on the Window?

I mean the bounced back light
that mirrors my own face
looking in, my body cast
on the dark outside
of the hotel window
like something not quite
developed, a man still
in the midst of transmission.
There are spaces, places you
can see through my body
to the parked cars
and pillars of the downtown
cloverleaf—what a beautiful word
for everyone hurrying, for the tangle
of traffic that travels my shoulders
and chest. What a shame
for the light to stream so far
and be stricken on a hotel
window in Albany, New York,
and me in the spell of my own
vain moment, as if I contained
what hurried behind me
and where they were going
and even the mechanical surf
sound of car wheels on concrete.
And even the skyline—spire,
wedge, thicket of aerials.
What a vague shape a body
makes when you're looking in,
barely more than a window
itself. What a slim thing
for the light to bounce back,
having washed so far
in little packets and waves.
I could look a long time
at the steadiness
of parked cars, the flourish
of blown paper that proves
the wind, the traffic navigating
the cloverleaf in my shoulder,
through my shoulder, the skyline
of Albany like a city inside,
but not really inside, whatever
light grants as it goes.

Max Garland

http://www.poetrydaily.org/poem.php?date=13690

This poem is one big image that no one ever talks about, what you see through a reflection in a window. I like how it goes from the wonder of that image and the cityscape seen beyond it, to feeling sorry for the light. It fits in well with the worship-the-sun poetry I was reading a few weeks ago. One of the last quotes in the book basically said the sun is responsible for all life on Earth and how badly do we take it for granted. The poet takes what could be a vain stance “I have a city in me” and transforms it into something granted by the light in the last line.

Day 29

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

Educators' Guide again. I'm hoping tomorrow, since I've got hours before my doctor's appointment, I get some poetry and fiction done. Homework comes first though, which means poetry.

Day 27

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

In the Educators' Guide. I'm pleased with it, since I lost time to dealing with pharmacy stupidity and then having to research.

Day 22

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

I got all the comments done for my homework assignment, but I really can't count those as writing. What I can count is a new draft of "I Don't Like You, Poetry." I'm still not caught up yet, but the sequel poem I decided to do for this week isn't gelling together or it is moving into another direction. It will probably take longer to figure out.

Title: I don’t like you, Poetry

I don’t like you, Poetry
You’re fine for reading alone
enjoying the images and the word play,
but together in a class?
Seeing the visions of poets tearing out translucent hair
and wondering what kind of fool scholars be we.
You remind me of all the jabs from professors:
“Why is this significant?
What does it mean?
What is the Author saying?”
“Maybe exactly what is written is what was meant.”
My answer was never right; I was never right
No, Poetry, I can’t like you
Not as long as you make me be stupid

So I will never understand the greats
surely I will understand my peers
new writers,
learning,
growing,
struggling—like me.
Their words are within my reach.
Poetry, you didn’t defend me that day as I gushed about the imagery.
As I sat in the desk with cheeks aflame
The old dead greats can’t laugh at me when I’m wrong.
My peers; how they smirk. Laughing with the lesbian poet I tried to compliment.
Is it my fault I don’t look for sex in everything?
I feel like a dried-up, prudish, spinster who will never know the joys of sex,
surrounded by Playboy bunnies.
Is it my fault that spelunking is just like lesbian sex?
Militant feminist lesbian—I’d leave her in a non-metaphorical cave somewhere!
Militant feminist lesbian—aren’t I your sister too?
But she and Poetry shut me up for years after laughing at my naïveté,
mocking my innocence instead of understanding.
No, Poetry, I can’t trust you

Day 19

100 Words for 100 Days June 13 - Sept 20

Progress Bar from Writertopia

Alas, most of it on homework, and today is another homework busy day. Hopefully for Day 22, I will have some edited or new poetry to share.