Sunday, July 21, 2019

Annointing up in Sleet Magazine and other

New publication here Sleet Magazine  

And cute pic of Jack, the greatest showman

And excerpt...

Ro was a good boy, Josi felt.  She never believed Josiah when he called him a  sinner, or a demon. “He needs an exorcism that boy,” he’d say. Josi hugged her brother tighter, prayed he didn’t understand. “It’s not true,” she’d whisper to him. Eventually, Josiah stopped calling Ro by his name, referred to him as Boy. 

 The sky was red, a blood moon. She was eleven-years old, budding, silent and sullen.  Don’t you look up, girl, Dottie warned. She was always warning her, Get your nose out of that book. Get your behind over here. This night Dottie was all hair and bosoms, sitting on the metal glider, rocking back and forth on the front porch, cicadas loud and shrilling and Dottie set down next to Josiah, who was propped up against her, slumped and dumb, a, a bottle of something on his crotch. Beef stew wafting from the crockpot. 

Thursday, July 11, 2019

summer publications and novel updates

Busy summer with new publications here and there...see links to my most recent publications and acceptances below:

"Near Miss" flash fiction here Wilderness House Literary Review 
"Annointing" flash fiction slated to appear in summer issue, soon, here Sleet Magazine 

Nonfiction articles, "Ode to a Midyear Grad" here TreeHouse Arts

And last but not least, my Hartford Courant letter--
"Trump's Salute to America"

As for my project, the 5 year work in progress novel:  I returned to third person, sticking with it, new title and setting, a few character names. I am on a roll. My goal is to finish it, seek agent, small press.

thanks for the visit.

Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Back to first person pov

I am back to first person pov, as it works best. (maybe) So back to the drawing board.

I have a son, I remind myself, bore him at midnight, Sirius was bright in the sky, and Timon, he suckled for months, and I recall it now to feel lucid and present, and then I switch, decide I am at risk, and Litchfield Hills and Headfort Home, even the sound of it, is menacing, unforgiving, old woods, ancient, familiar only in some lurid sense, lush, teeming with furtive creatures lurking in crevices, dashing here and there, and I see them now from his perspective, as if I were his eyes, the tall window, deep in there, shadows playing, dashing like woodland gnomes or fairies, and even behind a closed window I smell the fecundity and deference wafting upwards and outwards. One could get lost in one’s mind, just considering the depth, these woods.  Trembling, I can’t help pining for Tennessee, even if the air seems thicker, suffocating, at times, but still the  paths were finite, reasonable, led to a crick and Emile was always there, my Emile, waiting, and if I strayed, Emile saved me, and it was always Emile saving me from this and that.

Saturday, March 2, 2019

Simone de Beauvoir and domestic martyrdom and Sartre

Rereading Simone de Beauvoir (SdB) for Josi’s Exile   the marriage section in The Second Sex– and I recall well domestic days, horrid cleansers, fixation on stain removal, returning dirt, those sacred cleaning rituals. Now, I’m all green products and clean spontaneously when the need arises. But I know that frenzy, desire to wipe away,  achieve some obscure glory from a clean house, and the prize…what?  Once,  I was a homemaker, domesticity was my charge. It was a mindless task, infinite. That’s not to say anyone expected it, that love or affection rode on it. But I do think it was more an internal drive, as SdB suggests. And still some part of me is convinced a clean and ordered room reflects one’s mind and mood. How can one think straight amidst clutter? So I have removed most clutter  (with the exception of books) by tossing out nonessential  items that are of no practical use. One might say I’m a pseudo-minimalist. Interesting, too, how SdB alludes to a a sort of masochism to a woman’s cleaning  and I’ll add martyrdom. Suffering the pains of domestic chores, seeking perfection, an escape from self, from…? I’ll admit I never knew one should clean beneath bureaus or clean windows in the spring …happy to say. Spring cleaning for me is merely dusting a desk, removal of clutter, extras, a new idea, or manic pursuit.
Love many quotes from SdB but here’s one:
“Housework in fact allows the woman an indefinite escape far from herself. Chardonne rightly remarks: Here is a meticulous and disordered task, with neither stops nor limits. In the home, a woman certain to please quickly reaches her breaking point, a state of distraction and mental void that effaces her.* This escape, this sadomasochism in which woman persists against both objects and self, is often precisely sexual.”
Hm. Not sure about all that. I wonder what Freud might say?

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Featherwing published in Wilderness House Literary Review et al...

Update on 2018, work in progress  & publications.

"Featherwing" is now published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Winter issue. (line below) and I'm thrilled it is in the right place.

Nonfiction--I am currently at work on essay (final tweaks today) on asceticism. (emerged from my novel, narrator, Catherine, and flavored, more recently, with adjunct musings) I will send this one out soon.

Fiction--still working on my short story, one in collection, Josi and her feral brother, the boy, tied in the barn. I have not returned to it in a few weeks, and l'm looking forward to it. I added a new character, neighbor, Emil Schwinn, and decided on the ending. (no spoilers just a snippet below)

I will be returning to my novel 40 Days of Asylum shortly.

Letter in the Hartford Courant "Pithy and Smirky" regarding Paul Ryan and his discussion on CBS related to grand tax overhaul. Link below.

Wilderness House Literary Review ..

Hartford Courant 

Excerpt from latest story: The Boy (tentative title)

He was sick, her grandpa had said, and he was dangerous to himself, and run off too much, he had told her. "I damn near broke my hand on that boy," she overheard him say on occasion. "That boy got the devil in him. Bad seeds just git worse and worse, never can train them types."
“I had a second cousin like that too,” Dottie Loyd, said “She was like a wild cat that one.”
 Josi despised Dottie, the way she sretched out wild, inflected her voice, smiled when she said it, demure-like, even though she had wrinkles around her mouth when she smiled, like old people, and sagging skin that shook under hear arms and chin. Josi was quiet, hidden in the far corner of the room, up against the wainscot; she listened to these talks about the boy (they called him) all the while wondering why he had to be left alone in the darkest corner where no sun ever reached and not even the company of Daisy. Maybe if he could have been tied up closer to Daisy, at least, and not far off in the corner of the barn, in an obscure dank place, where the spiders and beetles crawled, where a prisoner might be held. She had lain in bed awake for hours imagining herself in that corner and even though she shook and cried, she ruminated, and she was the boy, and she kept her body still, curled up tightly atop her cover, shivered, like the boy. At dinner, she pretended to eat, scooped most of it into her napkin then emptied it underneath the table where Clementine was waiting. I could get in a little closer she decided--no harm. 

Monday, November 13, 2017

Featherwing publication

Thrilled to hear Timothy Gager, fiction editor of Wilderness House Literary Review, has accepted my story Featherwing for a winter publication.

Thursday, November 2, 2017


She watched Gram recede, wearily. No time for her. No time for that. She turned back to him. Soon he'd be far and unreachable. Long drives on a Sunday for fresh eggs. The swell and swerve of country roads. The way he winked, took his hand off the stick shift, reached over and squeezed her knee. She giggled. Time was boundless.

And now in one strangled moment--Gram praying in a pew, organ music resuming, the sun illuminating The Last Supper and Jesus and his Disciples, a kaleidoscope of colors spinning like the Holy Ghost in a whorl of dust overhead--Cecilia became like him, like stone. She was convinced if she stood there long enough, stared at his hands, she might rise up into the spiraling dust, to look down, to see herself and him, poised, both of them, in the final scene.

marion and last days excerpt from 40 days of asylum

Marion spared me, stared at me so deeply as if she could siphon out the unsaid. If only Tad said my Catherine like that, I used to opine, before the letter, before the mistrust, if only he could be so intensely curious about me, not make assumptions. Never mind that Tad was usually right. Still, there was the gnawing twinkle of curiosity in Marion’s foggy eyes, that slow pulling out of a thought, the introspection, laborious, maybe, but more searing and sensitive.

Annointing up in Sleet Magazine and other

New publication here Sleet Magazine    And cute pic of Jack, the greatest showman And excerpt... Ro was a good boy, Josi felt.  She n...