lusty liar

There you stood

feet on shifting ground

gesticulating maneuvers perfected

in the art of manipulative entertainment

one fine distraction after another

and another

and another

ultimately stained by the turbulence of your conscience

it was counterfeit love to the jugular

three doors down from the last lie you told

and lust makes one final request

to slit honesty’s throat

once and for all

pretty tales and polarities not-with-standing

reality makes a corpse of your personality

for a funeral where grief is optional

drama, the dirge

Advertisements

Life

Those four letters above are pregnant with meaning. We all have one with breath and a beating heart. We will either attempt to hide it or share it depending on our experiences and choices. We love to read about and explore the sordid lives of others, a shameful type of voyeurism we indulge through tabloids, reality television and the occasional memoir. What are we looking for in the misery of others? Is it a distraction that makes us feel superior because we are not quite as fucked up as the person we are reading about or viewing? Or, do we secretly  hate those who expose their wounds for all to see/read/hear?

Recently I sent a query to an agent for a book I’m writing. The story could be about any event in my life but I specifically chose this because it has some serious potential to positively affect the lives of battered women and children. I sent my query to a female literary agent because she has a good reputation and of course her bio states that this book is something she actively seeks. I have been down this path before, querying for two other books, sending out dozens of emails to various agencies in both the US and Canada. I sent this particular query Friday, received and  automated response and forgot it. However, yesterday she promptly responded requesting clarity to an already very concise query. Her email was depressing but not because it was a rejection (that came the next day) no, it was her complete lack of respect for the content of that query and the suffering that myself and other women have endured that disgusted me. She clearly skimmed over the text then emailed to ask me what format the book was written in when I had addressed that, if she had bothered to read my words. When I replied I cited the paragraph and location, expanding once again on a very clearly written summary of the book with even more background included. Her response? A very terse ‘not interested’ with absolutely no reason given although deep down I do know why and she should be ashamed. When Ms. W from F agency takes her next shopping trip through Walmart, I want her to stop and look at that wall full of faces of women and children and know that her cavalier fuck off email to me was tantamount to spitting in their faces. When your ego is enormous and your courage absent you miss opportunities to do good things for the vulnerable. She fucked up. Nuff said, venting done, over and out.

 

 

 

In Light Of The Recent Twitter Debacle…

I felt this deserved a repost.

Bitter Twitter Brokers

Query agent

Query fail

Stamped and sealed

Sent by mail

Still no one

Will buy my tale

I send them literature

A bright red rose

And in return

They thumb their nose

In spite of all my overtures

Not one  will buy my prose

They say they have

What people need

They say they know

What people read

But art is not their thing

They’re expertise is greed

Don’t make them angry

They will tell

The black list long

A deep dark well

So keep submitting

To publishing hell

What do they really do ?

Besides make writers bitter

And where are they now?

These contract knitters

I’ll tell you where

They’re all on Twitter

Digging For The Mother Lode

That guy up there and I have something in common.   Okay, we’re different genders and I’m way cuter and younger, but he has the fever and so do I.  He’s digging and panning for gold and so am I.  His thirst is quenched by a yellow precious metal and mine is quenched by seeing my book in print.   It is for this reason I bid you adieu until next week, while I labour over my little story in the same spirit of optimism as  a miner 49er panning in the river.   Until then, be good to yourselves and spread the love and good feeling to other struggling and toiling scribes who hanker for a wedge of that publishing pie.  Au revoir mes amis, à bientôt!

Pondering The Depths Of My Empty Bank Account

Broken Piggy Bank, © Images.com/Corbis, RF, Banking, Bankruptcy, Broken, Budgeting, Business and commerce, Coin, Coin bank, Commercial art and graphic design, Conceptual, Container, Crime, Crying, Damaged, Debt, Design arts, Economic issues, Empty, Facial expression, Finance, Illustrations, Investing, Loss, Mammal, Money, Nobody, Open, Personal finance, Pig, Poverty, Robbery, Sadness, Saving money, Social issues, Tears

 

Okay, the pig is on a serious diet,  my pockets are empty and it’s getting harder and harder to imagine I’m going to make it to publication.   Everyday you hear about another newspaper going under in the US and here in Canada it’s not much better.  Publishing and the way in which we communicate our ideas is undergoing some serious and painful change.  If this is a sort of artistic  renaissance  by way of economic collapse, then it had better be an amazing period of enlightenment for this writer.   Even when the economy is fat and happy, competition for spots in literary magazines is damn stiff.  I’ve decided to ride it out by blogging, submitting for clips not cash and pray the day job feeds and shelters us for another year.  If the poverty becomes deep and ugly it will be sort of like writing in the sand:  Meaningless and washed away by the wave of need.    Either way, I’ll keep writing because it’s what I was born to do, paid or not.