Time Frame

Remember reading Egyptian love poems
That read like Romantic complaints
And Greek letters to family friends
that were reminiscences
about good old days


I Write For Me

I Write For Me

“I write to capture silvered words,” some say.
“I write to a higher purpose,
I write to pray.”

But I,
I write to pin down butterfly wings
I write to put a mark on the moment my soul screamed
I write to satisfy my furrowed eyebrows
And the speeches I give in the dark
I write to give room to the stirring bird in my hollow heart
I write for candy
for the convulsion that comes from wanting
I write for fire
For the steam that rises in my throat and chokes me
I write for listening
And if I’m not careful,
I write
for the ghost between my mountains
that becomes me
when one moment’s dead and emotion is a memory
I’ll write the scenery
I’ll forget the life that made me write
and write the seasons of my mourning

“Realize that your inner sight is blind…”

In all the struggles I have had with writing, my biggest complaint is that I am not allowed to see where I am going, so to speak. The seven words that make up the title of this blog provided a sort of catharsis and a poem was born. It is a sister and a part two to Writing the Plot: When What You Want Doesn’t Matter, so I would recommend reading it if you feel a little lost (don’t feel bad, I always do).

“Realize that your inner sight is blind”
and paint it black
like ravens
like your memory
Inspiration is sitting on a mushroom eating apples
and looking at you with white fogged eyes
smiling darkly.
“I will never give you stories if you use your eyes to see
and with me, no eye is welcomed.
All the dark you can find is mine
and I will give you what you need.
Let’s begin with what can you hear
now that you know you cannot see.”


The moral of this story? Maybe one day I will learn not to argue.



Which Would You Like to Read: A Sneak Preview

Dear Readers,

I am asking for your input. Below are excerpts from three of my stories. I want to know, based on these excerpts, which of these stories you would prefer to read first.

Please comment by saying A, B, or C or the first, the second the third or 1, 2, 3 or whatever would indicate clearly to me a specific passage.

This is Story A (or 1, or the first)

Story 1

Alright, let that soak in. Take a drink of water, cleanse your palate…


This is Story B (or 2, or the second)

Story 2

Take a deep breath. Clear your mind. Think about misty mountains, puppies, cold winter wind…


This is Story C (or 3, or the third)

Story 3

Now, take it all in and choose.


I look forward your responses 😉

Yours Truly,


A Neat Little Packages That Implies the World

In life, you can be three things: The magician, the audience, or the trick.

The magician knows it all, does, it all, says it all. It is magic, but not mystery.

The audience sees it all, hears it all, but knows nothing. The pleasure lay in ignorance.

The trick listens, the trick responds, the trick works. It is in limbo, with aspects of both the audience and the magician. It knows a little, but can’t do much. It sees a little, but can’t see all. There is magic in it as an instrument and awe from it at what it can do.

The process of writing has these elements: the magician, the audience, the trick.

There is someone who knows all, does all, and says all. There are people who see all, hear all and know nothing. And there is always, most vitally, someone who knows a little, but can’t do much, sees a little, but can’t see all, and is an instrument and a tool in awe of its own uses. That someone would be the trick-better known as the author.

From Alice’s Ocean

From Alice’s Ocean

I didn’t want to write and so I wrote this I will always marvel at the beauty of the struggler Of the person, up til 4 in the morning trying to write and writing badly til, with a ping, their mind snaps and makes a poem out of their struggle to create

I will always be amazed at the muse who makes their writer go all around the mulberry bush looking for rabbits and rare worlds
only to have them craft a poem about the sea of tears they’re now standing in

I will always be thankful for the times my mind snaps and for the muse who bothers to bother with an obstinate struggler
I am thankful for salt stained gifts
I am thankful for hard-won sentences

It Takes One to Know One

I have discussed the ways I’ve met inspiration before. How I’ve seen it tipping its hat to me in a back alley, or had it wait patiently outside my door while I pile books and boxes and sticks and cats up to keep it out, or smiling at me while it kept one finger on my writing hand. But I’ve never discussed what it feels like to run headlong into someone else’s moment of inspiration.

Anyone who has written fiction themselves can  probably can recognize the moment where inspiration steps in and asks them to write something outrageous. It’s those instances where inspiration tells a writer to make their staid and reserved lead character break out into song in the middle of a boardroom meeting or to spontaneously begin speaking French without prior reference to them being bilingual. And while I have had those moments myself, it is interesting to get a taste of another writer’s strange moment.

The best example I have of peaking in on someone else’s inspiration detour comes from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. The moment comes  at the end of the confrontation at the hotel and contains a subtle sort of disturbance in the flow of the story-one I could neither say was wrong or right, but had to pay attention to.

“After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel.

‘Want any of this stuff? Jordan?…Nick?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Nick?’ He asked again.


‘Want any?’

‘No…I just remembered that today’s my birthday.’”

When I read this for first time, I remember literally dropping the book, folding my arms and waiting for the text to explain to me why we had taken this turn.  And I may be wrong, but I believe this is a moment the author was not expecting.

I believe this is a situation where the character, Nick Carraway, had something to say that even his creator, F. Scott Fitzgerald, hadn’t been aware of. It is a sense of honest revelation to both the characters and the writer that makes it the perfect candidate for a creation of inspiration.

Now, that does not mean that my opinion is at all truth. I have never done any research into the matter and am not sure if Fitzgerald would have admitted it if he had been surprised by his own writing. But I do know that sometimes one recognizes “the glance of a curious sort of  bird” because they themselves have been that bird. And it’s in those incredible moments that a writer can find solace in the midst of the eternal struggle between what wants to be said versus what needs saying.