Even now I should be writing more on my new novel (a literary/magical realism), but instead I find myself here: reaching out to the blogging community, others on their own road through already over-crowded slush piles and discourse of other writers with similar stories to tell. Whether those stories are of rejection after rejection, and constant critique of their little darlings, or of their triumphs over adversity–to the top of an agent’s list. Those are the stories i wish to read, and, likewise share. it’s the food of us writers after-all! Poets and novelists alike. How else would we be able to see over both sides of the fence, if we hadn’t stood on both sides, fully immersing ourselves inside both the verdant Kelly green, and the dry parched earth, too barren to support any life? that brown shit is the fodder for our wordy belly fires…and the green, our ever expanding highway.
I love that I’m a word-geek who used to choose reading Shakespeare in my bedroom alone at twelve years old, over kissing boys behind the school like my friends. There are no lips like those of Romeo’s, nor truth more potent or secretive than that found inside Hamlet’s breath.
So if you find yourself on my road, stop in a Kristi’n tavern, and stop by for a beer and a chat. I’d love to hear your stories.