Me, being me

I’ve been reading a lot of books. Some have been recently released and others I’d heard about but never got around to reading. Vox, by Christina Dalcher, The Glitch, by Elisabeth Cohen, Trout Fishing in America, by Richard Brautigan, Fates and Furies, by Lauren Groff, and currently, There There, by Tommy Orange. What I’m finding is that checking books out of the Erie County Library helps get them read. Who knew deadlines work? Well, I did in regards to zines and contests, but I haven’t been paying attention to writing deadlines lately. I’ve also been doing editing for people I know which is adding another insight into what works in writing and what doesn’t.

The last few write-ins at Spot Coffee have gone into a new book. I’ve been able to sit there and write over a thousand words at a time toward it. It feels too easy, so I’m not trusting it – or working on it otherwise.

I do feel this is more of a “filling up” time in my writing life, and I’m fine with that. The two pieces I’ve finished writing have been speeches. One I’ll deliver at the next board meeting. The other is below…and here’s where it gets tricky. I’d like to keep the few friends I have, so stop reading now if the topic of abortion is something you’ve made up your mind about. I won’t change your opinion, you won’t change mine, so thanks for stopping by for the read!


Here’s a picture of a deer gathering out my kitchen window.

















(I’m serious. That’s all the creekside reflections I have for you today.)














(Honestly, there’s a bit of male bashing, too. Go on. Stop reading.)












(Here’s a heron walking in the creek. Isn’t that neat? Last chance! Bye, bye.)








Fine. I’m not playing nice anymore.



Me, being me, needed a break from blogging. Besides the usual allotment of year-end form rejections, a lot of interactions have troubled me. Some hurtful things were said during a family visit – not the first time this individual was insensitive – but upsetting accusations and backhanded “compliments” nonetheless. The library in its infinite wisdom – after the idiot John verbally attacked yet another woman – decided that instead of dismissing the abusive man, two people needed to be on a shift instead of just one. And then there’s boys I went to high school with on Facebook and strangers writing to the Buffalo News. So yeah, I’m a little sick of opinionated men right now. Here is a response to an alleged “Reverend” in Randolph that appeared in yesterday’s paper, which I plan to send in to the oped page later today. If you feel the same way, you have my permission to share it:

Men without an M.D. behind their name claim to know exactly when “life” begins and how abortions work. Men who are no one’s husband always seem happy to publicly opine about when and where and how someone else’s family should be constituted. A lot of misinformation pulsates from Facebook memes including – and I wish I were kidding – a religious leader convinced that aborted fetuses are being turned into food additives. Perhaps clapping at the passage of the abortion rights bill wasn’t appropriate, what you wouldn’t have done, but let’s not forget the goose and the gander. While I appreciate the fact that unrelated males think they have my best interest at heart when they dictate how my body functions, I’m becoming more and more interested in seeing their choices legislated and curbed. Oh, the horror – how they might feel upon wearing the other shoe, unable to ejaculate under penalty of law. Of course that’s not the same thing! I don’t have the equipment to know what that feels like. Nor do they know how a dead, deformed, or diseased fetus feels inside their womb with threat of prison time if they dare to remove it.

If you consider the above passage harsh, please look up the assault rate on pregnant women.


It’s Been One Week…

The very first thing I need to say is that I’m so proud of my niece and nephew. Their father – Husband’s twin – is in the ICU in Pittsburgh. It’s possible he may pass away; if he lives there will be a long recovery ahead. This past week, those two have faced insane choices and weighed courses of actions with uncertain outcomes – not a single thing has been easy. They are doing an amazing job handling all that they are going through and I wish I could hug them long enough and hard enough to ease their worry and stress. (R – if you’re reading this, I love you so much!)

And while news of this sadness was arriving, I was online celebrating my amazing week of publications. Thanks once again to Robert Vaughan, Meg Tuite, David O’Connor, and everyone at Bending Genres for publishing We’re Toast. Thank you Cal Marcius at Spelk for publishing The Difference Between Us. On Saturday, I Am Promilla, came out, so many thanks to everyone at Postcard Poems & Prose – especially Elizabeth Stark for her amazing “Promilla.”

The disconnect – online and RL – is surreal sometimes. Ben went to the dealer on 30 July and within a week he wouldn’t start – of course. He needed some repairs done, but since he won’t leave the driveway, I, too, am stuck here. Husband had been planning on taking Friday off to celebrate his birthday, but now he’s thinking of going to work. Because he’s the type of person he is, it wouldn’t surprise me if he figures out Ben’s problem, fixes it, the house gets painted and the crash bar on the front door is installed this weekend. Work is how he processes his feelings, writing is mine, but it’s all too sad right now. Things happened so fast…

And now, the waiting is so long. Yesterday, I walked out to the creek and as I neared the edge, a fledgling heron flew up and away from the spot where it had been feeding. Today, it’s a muggy 80+ degrees outside and the labyrinth is too muddy to walk so I’ll be inside, filing, maybe editing, thinking rando thoughts on the essence of being and hating myself for not saying I love you enough.

Sorry for the not so cheery read, but those are the creekside reflections for this week. And a hearty RIP to Bookman who I learned passed away last Thursday. Thanks universe for all the material, but I don’t really want it.