Monthly Archives: October 2012

things, pt. II

So…This is an old book I found on one of the shelves at work. LMAO. JUST. What. There’s one picture in the whole thing, too, which is hilarious. Just thought I’d share what 1911 had to offer in the way of reading. (I have to say, though, I’m tempted ; ) )

Speaking of books, I finished this one this week. It’s the second book by Poppy Z. Brite I’ve read (the first was Exquisite Corpse) and I liked Lost Souls SO MUCH BETTER. I liked all the little ways her vampires were different from the cliches (the fact that they’re a different species entirely and that their race has evolved since the beginning is really cool). I can’t believe this book has been out since the early 90’s and I never read it, doh. Anyway, key points: Ghost was badass, I think I was a tiny bit infatuated with Christian (who was totally my favorite character) and I thought it was fucking hilarious how Molochai kept stuffing his face with Hostess. My image of him was hysterical in general. SPEAKING OF WHICH. When I went looking for fanart, which is the logical thing to do right after you finish a good book and are having withdrawal, I was incredibly disappointed. 1) there’s next to no fanart for this book, and 2) a lot of the characters are not drawn how I visualized them at all. (i.e., Zillah. Why does everyone make his hair platinum blond?? Caramel is like…dark, brownish blond. Besides, I pictured it in a ponytail like that one Uruk-Hai had in the LotR movies. *awkward silence* What? hahaha)

One of my favorite things about this time of year is how it stays dark longer in the morning. Reason being, when I have to get up earlier, I at least get to see the dawn, which I’ve always loved. This is what I saw when I arrived at work one morning this week ❤

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stop editing yourself.

Tomorrow is the end of the world.

And because of supply and demand

We are praying and


Tomorrow is the end of the world

And because of supply and demand

We are praying and

Just dancing around in circles


And because of supply and demand

Tomorrow is the end of the world

Just dancing around in circles

Beauty is a fucking train wreck


Tomorrow is the end of the world

We are praying and

Beauty is a fucking train wreck.


Stop editing yourself.

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I bought a bunch of new chocolate items the shop I work at is selling. It was worth every penny. Especially that decadent s’more. mmmmm. Up front is an extremely dense peanut butter cup. In the back is a coconut patty, a chocolate covered smore, and then the foil-wrapped dude in there is a chocolate covered oreo. I also got and tried chocolate covered potato chips for the first time. Everyone was telling me how great they are for something-something years, and I never fucking listened. I am so stupid. NEW FAVORITE THING (I have so many years to make up for, god, my cholesterol)

This week I finished J.K. Rowling’s new book (now I’m excited to watch interviews with her again :D). I personally really liked it (on Amazon the reviews are controversial to say the least, haha) and I hope that this book dispels any belief on the part of stupid (what??) people that Rowling doesn’t write well because she wrote HP in a simpler style. It also proves she has a hell of a range. As always, I am super impressed with her character building. I’m not going to give out any spoilers on this book except: for those that read The Casual Vacancy (and I recommend that you do), I dare you not to picture Howard as Uncle Vernon. Bam. It cannot be unsaid (or unthought for that matter xD)

I might be the only person I know who has flat-out LOVED how many rainy days we’ve been having lately. I love rainy days ❤

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reading inside on a drizzly night

when I am riding past any house in the slow-gathering night,

in the spaces between trees, I spot the yellow glow,

a square-print sign of other life,

maybe just barely moving—

that soft glow-limned postage stamp above the slick, wet brown exterior,

the secret keeper standing,

door closed—

a safe haven from the rain.


in there, they are leaning against one wall, book in hand, I think,

just like me,

only I cannot see them. And then the urge comes, the excited

stirring, to be passing my own mellow square at the same time as

I sit huddled warm in a blanket

in some other reality and I will know


I have arrived.


me, in the static light watching time pass,

me in the crowded dark outside, passing

with it.

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time for some embarrassing facts, re: editing & I


It’s the bane of many a writer’s sordid existence. In fact, I’ve tried to get around it for years. Yes, you’ve read that right. It’s understandable that when I wrote my first stories, I didn’t edit them at all: I was all of nine years old. But when I started writing poetry the summer after high school ended, I decided poetry was a different beast altogether. Poetry struck me in inspirational little lines scribed in the back of my head, and so was exempt from all the natural proceedings! Poetry was a gift from the gods! Poetry was certainly ABOVE editing; it was too lyrical, too abstract, too confined to the moment. I suffered from the impression that the way the words flowed out of me was the way they should stay; otherwise, I’d be untrue to the feel of the moment, and poetry is always trying to capture the feel of a moment, or several moments.

Obviously my writing suffered from this, though I didn’t think so at the time. I learned the value of rethinking line breaks (or thinking about them at all, which it’s hard to do the first time around), and noticed that when I wasn’t in the rush to get everything down before the mood or inspiration faded, I could afford to find word choices that might *gasp* EVEN BETTER describe what I was feeling at the time. If I wrote the poem down well enough the first time, I could retrieve the mood in which I wrote it and live in that place while I edited. My poetry editing became two-fold: I’d write the poem down as it came to me, when it came to me, and then I’d let it sit for a day at the least. I’d come back to it again the next day and if I still liked it well enough, I’d write up a copy on my laptop, this time inserting final line breaks and shifting my words about, and even deleting/adding sections as I saw fit. Poetry editing had lost its negative stigma for me; now I can’t see how I ever went without it.

I treat novelling different than I do poetry, both in the way I write a book and the way I edit. When I write a story, I feel as though there must be massive changes made, somehow, to the structure of the thing, before I can concentrate on grammar. There’s ALWAYS a better way I could have put something; my inner novel editor, unlike the one who edits my poetry with me, is a picky bitch. I can’t sweep through a chapter of a novel, only covering grammar and spelling mistakes, and feel I’ve done a thorough job. Therefore, while I can go through a poem once or twice and feel it has been editing to its best, it’s not uncommon that I NEVER feel my novels are properly polished.

I’ve recently begun to wonder why this is. Do others have this problem? Does anyone else who writes both poetry and prose feel that editing one is easier than the other? Maybe I should look at my novel more how I’m looking at my poetry: take it in pieces, look for discrepancies in plot and character, but pay attention to the wording in the way I attend to the rise and fall of the words in poetry. I hope for, one day, my two internal editors to become one.

For now I’ll go back to working on editing a book that totals 214 pages in Microsoft Word, and try not to cry about it ; )

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adventures in editing


Coffee is essential.


as is a good fall scent.




He helped (distract me xD)

Editing is my worst part of the writing process. Too bad it’s also the longest. The least I can do is set the atmosphere a little, right?



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there is time for everything

the crackling of an orange, over-intense mass of heat
throwing passion into a collected sky it cannot touch

the heat in my chest,
me grappling with the cold of stone patio at my fingertips,
staring up at stars like dew, caught
in the intricate, secretive mechanisms of a spider’s web,

the star-spider’s web (and I could believe this too,
up there where no one goes and existentialism dies on its feet,
just floating up there,
frozen with a million captured birds, a million points of heat so far away
we think them cold.)

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