Writing

All posts in the Writing category

IN SEARCH OF A HORSE

Published April 14, 2018 by Nan Mykel

 

 

 

The horse should ideally pull

the cart. Agreed? But if the horse

is not in sight you’re left with

the cart part, and must envision

what kind of horse will pull your

poem into the light of day.

Problem is, most cart-pullers are

tired, worn out and hacknied, lacking

sufficient strength to bear the load.

Love, death, flower, tree, even Trump

won’t do it today.  The backside

of an eyeball? Ingrown toenails

seeking freedom? The charley horse

that sets you dancing? Or the rat

poison under the sink?

What’s common to all of us?

Hate? A drag.  Sorrow? Too close.

Hope? Delusional.  Denial?

Not me!  Revolution? Not yet.

Pain? Love my oxycodone.

Truth? But doesn’t that depend on

where you’e standing? Reality!

Let’s hear it for reality!

Really?  I’ll vote for Make Believe:

 

Two golden butterflies pull my

cart through rainbows in the sky.

Oh my! Curly tresses, rosy cheek,

music charms when ere I speak.

 

 

A published author!

Published May 4, 2016 by Nan Mykel

It has been more than a year since I published my first book, FALLOUT: A Survivor Talks to Incest Offenders (And Others), plus her dream journal and drawings. Watch my April, 2015 author interview on Kaleidoscope:

And don’t forget to check me out on  Goodreads badge add plus.

MY METAPHOR

Published January 25, 2016 by Nan Mykel

Come jump into my arms, you furry-feathered verse!
I’ll know you when I see you, either wordy or terse.
Let your metaphor roll in like an occupying force;
sit up high in your saddle on your literary horse!
A shining black stallion, he snorts and passes by
leaving a desolated mule who gives a piteous sigh.
My metaphor has four legs and is not a happy guy.
He does not jump into my arms or even give a try
but nuzzles me as though to say,
“Thanks for waiting for me today.”

HOME IS THE WRITER

Published January 23, 2016 by Nan Mykel

My computer desk is not well lit. I don’t know why, unless it’s to keep company with my flailing vision. I know it’s “failing,” but if a writer can’t have a little fun, who can? Surrounding me, floor to ceiling, are remnants of my former craze for genealogy.  In the new digital robotic age, nobody cares, not even me. If we should meet ancestors in the sweet by and by we can introduce ourselves, surely!

And my books! They say writers should read, but… three copies of a book because I like it so much?

So much personal history! Who gives a hoot, as the old owl says.  My old report cards—with comments from teachers— Mrs. Arvesons’ two A-pluses on my term paper in ninth grade, my  National Honor Society certificate from high school and my tennis team letter, not to mention a drawer full of Christmas cards and correspondence from friends and acquaintances for more than 50 years;  at least 100 videotapes shot by me for Public Access line my shelves—many shelves.   Last week I came across a letter of congratulations for a forensic evaluation I did 25 years ago, which brings me to the question of why am I in two writing groups and maintain a busy blog and volunteer for public access when I need to spend a year dispensing with my junk?

Given my propensity for hoarding, how can I write anything, you might say?  Well, it has to do with escaping the melee I have created and continue to create. And oh yeah I forgot to mention  my blind deaf cat who requires his sanitary floor sheet changed daily.

After having an earlier computer fine-tuned at Staples, I lost it when I put it on top of my car and drove away. Now I have an hp  guaranteed to last a year, most of which has expired. My huge blonde computer desk sits more or less inside a vacant closet, whose doors are stuck under my bed in another room ..

Self-publishing three books last year was a step forward; I had file folders full of short stories, journal entries and info from the last job I held, so I published them to get rid of them.

Due to short cords and other unknown factors, I have to type—such as I am doing now—with my keyboard in my lap. As I survey the top of my computer desk I see the dregs of a glass of a cocoanut rum mixture, reading glasses from Dollar Tree, two new pairs of socks that are too small for me, a pack of hearing aid batteries, 4 paperback books, three flash drives, a screwdriver, a Diet Coke bottle top, a computer cord that I don’t recognize, an antique toy rolling pin I bought as a gift but never gave, and a green pair of pliers left from loosening  a recalcitrant   bottletop. Oh, then on the pull-out lap computer shelf there is a banana peel sans banana, a checkbook,  a journal and a free copy of a book by Bill Cosby.

I do love to be able to start writing at midnight  if I like, or groggily tap out a dream early in the morning.  See, it is 1:15 a.m. now.                                                            Nan

 

 

 

Quote re Writing

Published November 28, 2015 by Nan Mykel

To write is to awaken counter-voices within oneself, and to dare enter into dialogue with them. As consciousness trapped in bodies,  communicating with the imperfect tool of language, we often use stories to convey information to reach toward some sort of truth–and yet because we have no objective access to other consciousnesses, what we are left communicating are stories about ourselves. We are all one self full of countervoices telling stories and seeking truths. (From “Embracing Disgrace: Writing from the Dark Side,”  Paul Williams  New Writing: International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing, 2014 Vol. 11, 2, 250, quoting   Atwell, 1992, quoting J.M. Coetzee.)

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