song of my sorrows
i twist a crown of thorns onto my head
and dress myself in a purple robe.
hail, queen of hearts,
carrying her own cross
and the heavy sorrows of her sisters.
how can you impose such a burden on your body,
they ask.
i respond:
how can you impose this on someone else?
i cannot watch others bleed out for me if i am capable of suffering for the world plus myself.
they remind me that the world did not place me on trial;
i remind them that we all make mistakes.
i am my own judge
for the rest of this solitude,
this duty i cradle between my shoulder blades.
call her therapist,
they say.
this is an emergency,
they whisper with urgency spilling out of their shaking palms.
predictably,
my first fall back to reality
and i suffer casualties as i chant my lost psalm:
i,
an emergency.
terrifying.
i,
an emergency.
satisfying.
my mother weeps in my peripheral view.
i correct my crown and carry on,
picking up her tears, too.
there is nothing else i can do.
do i desire pain?
they watch me,
and when i wheeze
my father advances towards me
and heaves my cross over his bad back.
i beg him to stop his reckless actions,
but he refuses to step down.
he will help me until his brittle bones crack.
it does not take long.
i do not ask my believers
where the people i've healed are at.
i do not ask why there is only one girl
walking beside me,
when i have cured a hundred broken pagans.
she does not mention my humility,
but she tries to wipe the sweat from my face.
instead,
i wipe the dripping mascara from hers.
i fall again
as they ask if i can do this.
how long can you go on like this?
how long will you try?
my future is unknown
and i am tired.
i still need to write my gospel,
but i drag forever
up from worn lungs
and continue to crucify myself.
Obvious
"Look at me," she says,
ink dripping from the pen like
blood from a wound.
Across the paper winds the story,
and her anger rages like the
sea in tempest.
She cannot say it to him.
No.
To utter the truth would be
to render her vulnerable.
Defensless as a chick
fallen from the nest.
But she writes the hateful words
and waits for him to read
the pain that binds her bones
like tiny sinews.
If she can just write it,
they will see her
they will know.
If she can just paint the words
he will see the truth and change
this hateful episode forgotten
in the wash of relief.
But dawn comes
and still he cannot read
the words that she
cannot say to him.
Nothing changes.
She drowns in the silence.
Cowardice struggles on.
So, you’ve written a book. What now?
“I wrote a book.”
This statement does not define your career as an author. It is the point at which your career really begins.
As indie authors, we all are in the business of selling. It’s not just about writing a great book. It should not be a one-way street. Give and take is golden.
There has to be humanity in this “social” media world.
Practice makes practice, like a doctor who practices medicine. They do their best but there are no guarantees. There is no exact science in marketing a book. There is no “perfect” because we are human, which makes us vulnerable to making mistakes. All we can do is our best. There is something notable about that.
Being an indie author leaves us vulnerable.
We put so much of ourselves into this and so much of it we can’t share with the people closest to us. Friends and family who want to hear about the books are rare. It can feel like “my books” are a dirty subject. Writing is still our job, but you can’t really talk about it. It’s not unlike having an elephant in the room. Most people work jobs where they are asked about them. In our case, most of the time the subject is avoided and it is intentional.
Sad but true.
What I have learned ever since I started marketing my first book is don’t expect your friends and family to be interested. Expectations will lead to disappointment.
...
For the full article by novelist and returning contributor, Brenda Perlin, please visit The Official Prose. Blog later today at: blog.theprose.com/blog.
“Why Prose.?” -Rolando Hernandez
It began for me very early—writing in my awful cursive small stories on index cards and leaving them in library books, waiting room periodicals, and the phone books that would hang from phone booths. Some were confessions, others were love letters to the natural world, but most of the time I used the small blank paper to capture the quiet observations of my travels.
One such example was a card I left in the San Bernardino library in a book called “Expect the Unexpected.” I can’t imagine it still being in print, as I remember it being quite terrible, but I was smitten with the message and I left a missive about taking cabs in downtown Colima, Mexico and bailing on the fare. At 7 years old, I was pretty much an asshole. The point of the story I had left was that, for the entire ride, the cabbie thought he was getting the better of me but, as we arrived to the park in the center of town, he never saw a mop of black hair move so fast while laughing.
Expect the unexpected, indeed. My warning to the world that I was out there.
Time went on and the same impulse to use words as keys to open worlds was the only thing that ever could save me. I was floored by the imagery in Galatians (in the fullness of time) and Romans (dead to sin) far more than the promise of a risen Christ. I never begged a day in my life while in the years I was homeless and wandering the states, but I would write poems for food.
Not only did words unlock wallets and charity, it also unlocked doors to people’s homes. In Casper, Wyoming, I met a secretary in a fast food restaurant who bought me lunch and let me crash on her couch for a week in exchange for a haiku. The immediate connection between what I wrote and its recipient was intoxicating.
Words would beat down the walls and doors my fists could not.
...
Tune in to The Official Prose. Blog for the full article by Rolando Hernandez (@rh) later today at: blog.theprose.com/blog.
Reaching Your Audience
I want to write.
No, that’s not right.
I need to write.
I’ve heard that the noblest writers write for themselves. I do write for me. I’m not so narcissistic to think that I’m fascinating. Sometimes, though, like many of us, I enjoy sharing stories. Since I was 12, it’s been a goal of mine to publish two books. One would be a novel somewhat inspired by the realities of my struggles, and the other would be a book of my poetry.
I want my writings to have an audience.
Making money would be great, but it doesn’t compare to having a legacy. Learn from my mistakes. Know that you are not alone.
I want people to know I’m honest, emotionally unstable, but able to make it through life-so far. I’ve struggled because I’m not an ideal anything. I get physically anxious. I’m not charismatic. I don’t like to dance around the point; I’m too lazy and I’m not a good dancer. I let you know what it is, and you decide from there if you agree. I know I’m good enough, and if you give me a chance, I’ll prove it to you. When expressed verbally, it sounds rougher than I mean it. I’m not good at selling myself, but somehow, I’ve been able to change my career path.
Cue cheesy book cover: If I Can Do It, So Can You.
I also believe in the use of writing for the catalyst of change. From Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, to Richard Wright’s Native Son, to Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, writing is an important start to change. Can you imagine writing something that leaves a lasting impact? It gives me chills just thinking about it. I’ve always been an activist at heart and use writing to express that.
I stopped actively writing years ago when I realized (1) I didn’t have much of an audience for feedback, and (2) my student loans were asking to be paid. One would think writing would help clear my mind. Going to school and working full time has actually made it harder for me to write because I feel like some creative portion of my brain is blocked by the everyday bullshit.
Now that I’ve graduated, my mind is clearer and I’m writing more.
...
Stay tuned for the full article by guest writer and Proser, Migdalia Estrada (@Miggie), later today on The Official Prose Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.
The Struggles of Being a Full-Time Author
I’ve only had two formal jobs where I wasn’t my own boss: Airborne Ranger in the US Army and a scientist at various universities.
Otherwise, I’ve been an entrepreneur in several different fields, including writing and editing books.
There was a time when I wrote and edited the work of other people whose books were published by Simon and Schuster, Random House, Harper Collins, etc. And some of them ended up on the New York Times bestseller list. And the “authors” of my work got all the credit and royalties. That’s fine with me, ’cos I prefer to be behind the scenes.
Nowadays, I am published by a small indie publishing firm. The money is less sometimes . . . the liberty to do what I want is off-the-charts more . . . and my life is sooo much more productive and fulfilling.
To say I am struggling is relative: my Dad still thinks I’m broke as hell (he’s a multi-millionaire. My friends envy me because I make all the rules, set my own schedule, take long vacations to places like Africa and Afghanistan . . . and usually I make good money, certainly enough to live on and play with.
And, no, Dad does not support me financially. I take care of myself quite well.
Most people do one thing for many years, get good at it, then retire. Afterward, they may write about it, or try to write about something they love but don’t know much about.
That, to me, is the greatest struggle: trying to write without having had the experience behind it.
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Look for the full article by prolific Prose Partner, author, and poet Rio Ramirez (@rioramireznovel) later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.
Rules Are Dumb, As a Rule
I read a lot of blogs about writing.
Something I’ve grown really tired of is the “how to be a writer” blog - as if this is something that can be conveyed in a few paragraphs. It isn’t that I don’t think there are aspects of writing that can be taught. I’ve taken writing classes and found them beneficial. But a one-size-fits-all list of dos and don’ts that you stumble across on the internet is something to be skeptical of.
If there are rules, they apply to everyone differently, depending on your audience and your specific writing goals.
How many times have you been warned not to use adverbs?
Tell that to JK Rowling. Or better: don’t. Adverbs have their place as does every other bit of language. A better suggestion would be to use all your words consciously, to understand where the rule came from and break it with that knowledge.
But even that makes me uncomfortable. It ignores the fact that there are writers with natural talent who don’t need to know the why of it.
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For the complete article by author and blogger Katie O'Rourke, tune in later today to The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.
Being a Writer is to be Cursed with Remembering
the funny thing is
that in an hour
this moment will be long
forgotten
but i will remember
every inhale
every heartbeat's stutter
in full technicolor
it will flash before my eyes
as i hit the surface of
the ocean
but i will not die
by drowning
i will die
by fire
and you will feel it like the heat
on your dashboard
like walking barefoot on
the rooftop
of my apartment building
and it will be blistered across
the soles of your feet,
the sun whispering
urging that
you should have kissed her
more, you should have paid
more attention.
