Premiere of Roundtable Wednesday
Welcome everyone to Roundtable. The object here is to introduce you to someone on Prose who writes, and also to gain a bit of insight of who this person is.
Every two weeks, I will choose someone randomly, so beware, you may be next!
But, be the Proser already established or new here, look at it as a way to know a little of the person behind the words.
At the end of the interview, is a piece of writing I selected at random for your reading pleasure.
In this, the premiere of Roundtable, we have: Undermeyou.
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Please, give us a little insight on yourself.
My real name is Emily, and I’m from the Chicago-land area. I’m going to be 28 in March, and I celebrate my birthday all month long, so get ready for that. I don’t have a favorite genre to read, but I like anything that makes me think. I enjoy writing poetry best because it is most natural for me. Aside from writing and reading, I love to paint. I work out at least 4-5 days a week. I don’t know that either would be considered a hobby, but I love getting tattoos and seeing live music. My username comes from a poem by EE Cummings, “I Like My Body Best When It Is With Your” - it was the first poem that I ever read that made me want to make others really feel my own writing.
The always big question put to any writer is how long have you been writing and why do you write?
I was put on an accelerated reader program in first grade, and I started writing as soon as I knew enough words to string together a story. The first thing I ever really remember writing was a story that was inspired by me reading “A Wrinkle In Time”. I don’t necessarily remember the storyline, but I do remember that I had a character named Silver and one named Gold and that they showed up in a field during a storm. I could probably write an entire book about why I write. The simple answer is that I write to let all of the busy buzzing out and make it something tangible. But. I think what creates that need to let the buzzing out, for me, is that I want to let others know who I am. Especially the darker parts that most people are too afraid to talk about or share. I think it’s really healthy to let that out and let others know that it’s ok to let it all out as well. I guess I write because I can’t help it, but I want my writing to make you feel everything. And I want to leave you wanting more.
Who are your favorite authors and please; give me a few names?
I love Chuck Palahniuk, Capote, EE Cummings, Michael Faudet, Ray Bradbury and Stephen King. Additionally I’m a Harry Potter and an Alice in Wonderland fanatic, and I love E. Lockhart’s newer YA. And I don’t know if song writers count towards authors, but Laura Stevenson, Damien Wong, Dan Campbell, and Jordan Dreyer can create stories with their lyrics that I would listen to even if I hated the music. And if I couldn’t stand the noise, then I would at least read their words.
Do you have any literary work on tap for publication, or have been published?
I have a novella I would like to get published during the first half of this year. My initial goal was the end of March (as some Prosers already know), but I posted awhile back on Prose and had some users look it over and give me some suggestions and critiques, so structure has changed a bit. With that being said, I am a constant editor and have allotted myself some extra time on that personal deadline.
Is there any one particular book you have read you would recommend others to read?
I just posted recently that I am not big on book recommendations as I don’t really feel that literature is one size fits all, but I would recommend “First, We Make the Beast Beautiful” by Sarah Wilson. It’s about anxiety and other mental illnesses, and it does have triggers and is a bit scattered at times, but I think it has a very important message not only to people with these diagnoses but for the people they surround themselves with.
When you aren’t writing, what do you do that pays the bills?
I am a Process Instructor and an Integration’s Office Management trainer for a 1,000 store; 20,000 employee-based MSO. Which basically means I travel the country training people on process for the company I work for. We are a collision repair center, so I train on parts, estimating, accounting, and office management and admin as well as culture. I sometimes paint and do photography on the side, but I have to admit that it’s hard to find time for it between work, family, and friends.
Can you shed some light about yourself that other people here can get a feel for who you are?
Over everything else, I am a mom. I have two boys, 4 and a week shy of 9. I am slightly obsessive, determined, and usually a bit of a controlled mess. I think before I speak, and I take one day at a time. If I didn’t I would never be able to make it through life with my anxious thoughts. I love words more than I know how to properly express, and I think my favorite is probably “ephemeral”. I don’t know that it means anything to anyone, but if I could do anything with life, I’d buy a big, historical house for myself and my family, restore it (I love house projects!), and spend my free time writing, reading, and painting. I also probably drink too much coffee. But who’s counting?
Are there places as far as social media accounts, perhaps your own website you would like Prosers to be aware of where you can be found?
Yes! I love staying connected in as many places as possible. Sooo … other places you can find me:
Instagram - @undermeyou.poet @undermeyou @avox11
Snapchat - emilyann3623
Lookbook - lookbook.nu/undermeyou
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/undermeyou
How long have you been on Prose?
Nine months give or take a minute.
What is the single most thing you like?
I’d have to say my kids. But after that would be a tie between writing and painting.
What one thing do you really dislike?
People who do not respect others enough to listen and cast aside their own opinions/beliefs to hear what’s actually being said.
If you could offer up one piece of advice for other writer’s, what would it be?
Write every day. Even when you don’t have something brilliant to say, write anyway. Eventually something worth reading will be born. And, I know you asked for one, but I can’t help myself - PROOFREAD AND EDIT! If you read back over what you just wrote and you can’t make it through it yourself with the current grammar, punctuation, story line, content, character/plot development, or spelling then don’t expect other people to make it through it easily either.
Lastly, your favorite quote?
I don’t know that I have a favorite quote. I have several tattooed on me, but I’m not sure that I prefer any one over another. On that thought train, though - my first tattoos were on my wrists. I got them for my grandfather when I was 19 because they were the first tattoos that he got when he was 14 (he got them on his knuckles, but it’s a bit hard to find a good artist who is willing to tattoo a 19-year-old girl’s knuckles). I have “Love” on my right wrist and “True” on my left. When I was small he told me the story of why he got these. He was hanging out with some older kids, and they were tattooing each other with a needle and ink. Everyone was getting “love” & “hate” on their knuckles. When they got to him he said he didn’t hate anyone, so just put “true” on the other hand. He said that he got them on the hands that he got them so that he could always remind himself to be looking for true love and to remind others to always love true. Even when I was small I thought that was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard. Anyway. Keep reminding yourselves to be looking for true love and for the ones that love true.
Thank you Undermeyou/Emily. It has been a pleasure.
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Butterflies by Undermeyou
Suddenly your mouth is not enough. And the moment that hits me, I become desperate. I yearn to eat you up. I yearn to destroy you. My left-hand curls around your neck as my right reaches down your throat. My fingers close on beating, struggling mass. And as I pull your heart out past your teeth, my own grows all but insatiable. Yet still yours beats. Mouth-watering, belly growling. My fingers, wet with blood, daintily drop the entirety into my gluttonous mouth. A rhythmic pulse crawling down my esophagus. And I know I’ve made a mistake as it scorches the fleshy pink of my throat. It hits my stomach with a dull throb. And as it lands it bursts into legion. A myriad of you crawling around the unsatisfied pit of me. And the nausea hits all at once. It is infinite. I can feel them growing inside of me. I can feel their wings. They tickle my stomach lining, whispering your name. I tear my hands across my rib cage. Scratching and clawing. Longing to pull you from me. But the wings still flutter. A light and foreign ripple grazing my veins. I jam my fingers down my throat, still raw from your slow descent inside of me. Vomiting, the only relief I can imagine. And the sickly creatures rush out in a bloody torrent. Small and wet. Sticky crimson and bile ceasing their poisonous flight.
Nothing to Cry Over (Repost for my 100th Post)
Do you know what it’s like to look at the china afterwards? When the light catches the gilded edge? You scrape off dinner, and underneath are those little painted shells. You look at that flawless, bone-white plate or the dish with the rosebuds. You look at your hand-thrown bowls with the faux cracks buried beneath the glaze. It’s all broken, and you want nothing more than to shatter it. It’s ephemeral, and it’s permanent. The scalloped edges and the machine painted leaves. Every vessel stripped down and unable to do its job. No more containment. It’s haunting. That ephemeral dish sitting so permanent. Just reminding you. Once she was here. Once you ate your meals together. You shared this table. Her feet resting in your lap. You can see her hair fall across her eyes and her smile when you catch them. And you want to destroy every reminder. You want broken glass. The metallic flakes in the glaze scattered across the floor. Nowhere to put the food. Just the debris and the wreckage. Raw glass and glittering, sharp edges. And no more reminder. Just you and the broken pieces and the floor and the empty table and the empty house. And it’s not permanent. It’s ephemeral. And it’s gone.
