loose leaf and spiral bound

I can often feel the itch to write, just nagging at the ridiculously hard to reach point between my shoulder blades. The frustrating part of this is when I can't rope one single idea out of the clear blue sky and let my pen run with it. So, that's when I fall back on the talent and creativity of people in my circles and use one of their creations as a writing prompt. David Quinn is a talented award-winning artist based in Co. Mayo Ireland whose piece titled, "Necklace" serves as my most recent creative inspiration. He's ever so graciously permitted me to link to his work here (what a lovely guy!): Necklace, David Quinn, 2007, Mixed media on board, 70cm diameter View this piece (and so many beautiful others) on his website So now that you've had the opportunity to fall in love with this painting like I did, here's the poem I wrote: Lady Like It hurts to remember you Your laughter feels like tiny bursts of flames licking across my skin ...

I found a writing prompt generator on the interwebs and the prompt it spat out at me was, "write a poem of 10 lines, each line starting with I say ". Sometimes it's just as simple as that. (When I say "simple" I actually mean the exact opposite.) This took me far longer than it should have. I just couldn't seem to make the words fit together on the page. It's was like trying to solve a tangram with one of the shapes missing. (Don't know what a tangram is? Google it.) So, without further ado, here is my "I say" poem. I say things that make you laugh I say things I don’t mean I say that sometimes life is plain shitty I say that sometimes life is as shitty as you make it I say what I feel more often that what I think I say white lies are contagious and necessary I say I won’t be mad, but I really will I say you listen but you don’t hear me I say I love you every morning and every night I say you are my favorite person because I mean...

Well, this is awkward. It's been three (...and a half) months since I've written anything. Not just talking about a blog post, I mean I haven't written ANYTHING. Not even so much as a stanza. It's pretty pathetic. Sorry. No excuses here, just apologies. I've been in a rut/slump/funk and am extremely disappointed in myself. Alas. If you've been a frequent-flyer to this blog, you know how much I love to use pictures as writing prompts. This time I asked my friend Thomas Brown to supply the photo. (Seriously, if you're ever in need of a photographer in Arizona...look him up. I very much enjoy his fine art photos.) I tackled this writing exercise a little differently. I gave myself only 15 minutes and decided that I would post to this blog that piece EXACTLY as it was, with NO EDITS. Gotta be honest here and tell you that it is so damned hard to put this up without any tweaks, changes, edits, or rewrites. But, I know how I sometimes wish I could see other poe...

I have used the past few days (or if I am being honest, the past week) to focus on reading instead of writing. Sometimes you need to refill the gas tank, right? Right. What did I read, you ask? Well, I'll tell you...I read the Hunger Games trilogy (yeah, I finally jumped on that train), then I re-read "The Summer of Black Widows" by Sherman Alexie, "Bite Me" by Christopher Moore, and then I devoured "The Gargoyle" by Andrew Davidson (so good!). It's true that only one of those books is a collection of poetry - - but to me it doesn't matter the genre, only that I am reading. It seems imperative to expose yourself (heh, not like that you dirty bird) to as many different lives, dreams, opinions, and stories as possible. You'll never experience everything all on your own, sometimes you've got to hear it from someone else. After all, isn't that one of the reasons why people write?  To share their story in hopes of connecting with som...

I took a round about way to fixing my mental block and asked a very dear friend of mine to please send a few pictures that I could use for writing prompts.  He quickly recognized the importance of this request and graciously acquiesced.  What a good friend, eh?  So, here is the photo... Photo credit: Zachary Chipps 2012 And here is my accompanying piece of poetry, aptly titled:  Between a Rock and a Hard Place ... There is more to living than just growing. Thriving, defying, gaining; becoming something stronger. This is bold. It is not how you surround yourself.  Protect yourself. More than that, it is where you put down roots. How far you let them go. How deep. Not delicate.  This one, blooming in full sun. Throwing its petals out, face up, and owning the heat. Feeling the glory. A small victory at every sunset. A new defeat every day.

I've been struggling with the quality of my writing (or lack thereof) for about a week now.  I still haven't totally climbed out of the dreaded vortex of writer's block and the things that used to be a "can't miss" for inspiration are not even showing up on the target.  Clearly, inspiration is indeed a fickle mistress.  I feel wrong trying to ply her with alcohol.  Even worse when I play songs only for the express purpose of getting her to dance.  (Read: drinking frozen pouches of margaritas and dancing around to INXS will not always bring forth your muse.)  Don't get me wrong, I'm still writing and "dear diary-ing" like an angst-riddled teenager, but I haven't put anything down that gives me the tingles.  It seems like the new thing to try these days is one of those one-a-day challenges pertaining to your specific medium of choice.  But I don't think I want to jump on that bandwagon.  It seems a bit intimidating.  Perhaps I should ...

Let me tell you about how miserably I am failing at writing poems of substance this week. I AM FAILING MISERABLY AT WRITING POEMS OF SUBSTANCE THIS WEEK!  (So. Bad.)  Folks, I have reached the point where I would rather dig my eyes out with spoons than open up my notebook and do nothing more than stare at blank pages.  Or, open my notebook and force myself to start writing, only to find that I am writing total crap.  I mean, some of the lines I have been churning out read like stuff I would have puked up in the 9th grade after being dumped by a boy with better hair than I, followed by listening to my Lisa Loeb and Cranberries CD's on repeat.  Ick.  Let me tell ya, that is not a good head space to be in when trying to write decent poetry.  At any rate, I'm going to wrap up this little jewel of a blog post and take the rest of the day off from reading and/or writing poetry.  Perhaps tomorrow will prove more fruitful.  In the meanwhile, im...

Dear readers: I have come to realize that there are not many things I fear more than seeing a completely blank page.  Terrifying.  Full body shudders. Honestly, the things I fear more than this are legit fears - - something awful happening to my husband or daughter, losing my ability to churn out sarcasm and witty retorts  - - you know NORMAL fears. The more I think about it - - it's probably not the blank page that actually scares me - - it is the idea that I won't come up with anything to put down on said page.  Being completely unable to fill it up with meaningful words.  THAT would be friggin' horrible.  Would make my life just DANDY.  (Note: sarcasm is still intact at this point.) I am guessing by now you have probably realized that I am going through a bit of a "dry spell" with my writing and that this little nugget of a post is me working out some psychoanalytic shenanigans in hopes of getting my groove back. with frustrated eye rolls ...