hungry?

My very naughty poem, Lock and Key, can be found published here, in The Hunger Journal’s inaugural issue. I am delighted and humbled to be included with these breathtaking pieces.

stirring

Every woman has a secret.

Mine lives in a fairy glade,

dancing with the willow daughters

around the maypole,

dragonflies and marigolds in her hair.

sunset locks undulating over

pale moon-white shoulders, bare feet

glancing off cool night grass

voices raised

hands beat on drums of weathered hide

song swells above ribbon branches

ash, oak, birch, yew

kissing the stars – and me –

with saccharine uncertainty

she whispers to me and

my peter pan admires

the soft fingers leaving traces

of fairy dust, shimmering

and I have come full circle.

With a capital “A”

I’ve been writing ever since I could write. When I was a little girl, I wrote stories and silly poems. They weren’t necessarily any good, but I always had a rumpled, half-filled notebook jostling around in my backpack.

I began writing in earnest when I turned sixteen, lovelorn and angst-ridden, and discovered I had a bit of talent. My mother once said to me when I was younger (and heavy into young girl witch and magic power stories), that my ability to express myself with words was more important and influential in the world than magic powers would be.

I should have been writing this whole time. My daughter was born 7 and a half years ago, and I’ve only written a handful of poems since then. As a stay-at-home mom for almost that long, after the little ones were carefully tucked in and kissed goodnight, I defaulted to the mind-numbing decompression in the form of Netflix binges and pints of Haagen-Dasz ice cream. I regret the number of years that consumption of media was more important than creation of art. I’ve realized that the art is important, whether or not it’s your meal ticket.

My mother once asked me if I wanted to make a career out of writing. I was a teenager at the time, and I told her vehemently no, I did not. I wanted to write for the joy of it, for the love of the words and the satisfaction of the “post” button on my blog. I didn’t want to hang my hat on having to meet the deadline or not be able to pay rent. I felt that relying on my writing to pay the bills would suck the joy out of it. But now, I’m looking at things a little differently. I’m almost thirty, and no closer to having a marketable skill that could earn me a good career and a lifetime of security as I was when I was fresh out of high school. But I’ve always had writing in my back pocket; I’ve had the skills and the desire just simmering on the back burner, waiting to be brought to the fore.

And so, at the beginning of March this year, I began submitting. I have sent out 4 or 5 poems at a time, and some short stories I had socked away from years ago. I also wrote a couple of new pieces, inspired by the literary magazines’ themed calls for submissions. Five or so rejections later, and one of my stories has been accepted!

Guys!! I’m going to be a PUBLISHED AUTHOR! I mean, I was published in the anthologies put together from my summer stints at writing camp, but this is different. This is an editor, reading dozens of submissions, came across mine and chose it on merit alone! How lucky am I! My story will appear in an anthology that gets published at the end of May, and I will receive a hard copy in the mail. I cannot wait.