When Natasha and I spoke about her doing a guest blog entry on my blog I was very excited to have her voice speak through this conduit. She’s always been energetic and thoughtful about her approach to writing in the year I have known her. She has a video series on Youtube as well as your usual social media outlets. I suggest you follow her because she is bursting with ideas, and enthusiasm, which can be quite contagious.
Why the Literary World Needs Fantasy
By Natasha Lane
It’s no secret that when it comes to writing being considered literature, fantasy gets a swift kick in the head. Often so far stretched from reality, many snobs out there don’t consider any fantasy novel worthy of being called literature. “Lord of the Rings” is one of the most renowned book series in the world, some would even say it set the foundation for epic fantasy adventure, yet there are still those who would never equate it to works like “Pride & Prejudice” and Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.” Continue reading →
While waiting at the fast-food restaurant drive-through there was a young couple in the car behind me and this came to mind:
There were summer days, the car windows down and the smell of that old ’71 Bonneville and its aging flecks of fabric and a thousand layers of Armor All, all dancing around in the wind. A bored Saturday at a fast-food restaurant and then the mall to look at and touch things we wouldn’t be able to afford for another ten years. Back in the car a hair-band ballad swayed us and we would both smile.
You said you loved me then. You took it back later. Much later. But sun-drenched summer days don’t lie and no matter what followed, in those moments you were either a liar, or you loved me.
WHERE: Glenn Dale, MD – Marietta House
WHEN: October 7 @ 2:30pm
WHAT: Historic House Tour, Reading, Signing, Costume Contest (with prize!), Refreshments
October 7th – come join us for a supernatural afternoon of readings, refreshments, and tour the historic home. Are there ghosts? You tell us!
Marietta House Museum’s “Author’s & Playwright’s Corner” presents supernatural fiction with authors H.L. Brooks, and Dea Schofield. This event is a great opportunity to support independent women authors. Continue reading →
I once wrote a poem about myself as a river. It was convincing, I think. And I felt it. Powerfully.
Maybe it’s smaller, like a brook. A small meandering gentle flowing place to dip my toes and wash my blues away.
Smooth river stones. Winking diamond reflections as the water moseys by.
I feel small. I feel herded, funneled, mined by corporations who only know me by what I buy, watch, listen to.
I just want to float. I want to feel free enough to catch the rays as I float on by all of the glut and greed. I only need enough. Enough love. Enough money. Enough creativity. Just … enough to sustain my spirit and body. Enough to help the people who need it.
I need rest. I haven’t had rest in months. I haven’t had a vacation of any kind in years. I need rest before my spirit gives up. Before my body gives out.
I also need to find out where I dropped my faith and hope. They are stones in the brook, somewhere. I’ll keep looking, before it’s too late.
I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to Beyonce and Jay-Z for opening up their personal marital struggles to the world. So often we look at celebrities and we only see the money and the beauty without the struggles the rest of us seem to face. They are breaking down those barriers by talking about stuff that is, well frankly, freaking embarrassing as hell. Being cheated on. Breaking vows. Giving in to baser desires and hurting your loved ones. This is deep stuff we are all looking at here with the release of Jay-Z’s 4:44. Continue reading →
I will hold you, quietly. I can be still long enough to listen to your pain. I’m not good at being still. You know this. You know. I think that’s why my embracing still moments mean so much to you … because you know.
I had an epiphany about myself yesterday. A realization. And it was such a simple answer, I was certain I must have realized it some time in the past. I thought about the times I’d been embraced by somebody, only for them to get close long enough to see my utter humaneness, and then walk away. I thought this meant I was bad at love. Now I realize it’s more about the ideal of me not matching up with the reality of me. And you never did that to me. You always understood. It’s amazing to be truly seen that way.
The essence of it all? You understand why the things that matter to me–matter to me. You also understand that I am an embodiment of celebration. Even my quietness can be a spectacle. I think that comes off like obsession, or possessiveness, to some people. And in all truth, I was possessive in my first marriage. I was jealous in that life I once led. I was a teenager when we met. And that was a difficult twenty years. I grew in that time, particularly starting around my early thirties. I know the difference between excitement and jealousy, between celebration and possession. I know it for myself, even if others don’t. And you know, maybe that’s why I can appreciate the abundant trust I am now the recipient of, because I know how rare it is.
I’m trying to get over that fear of being misunderstood. You really help with that, did you know? Because even though I’ve read that Anaïs Nin quote a million times, it really sunk in yesterday. It isn’t that my love is wrong, it’s that my love is viewed through the filter of others. It’s about the way they experience my love that makes it work, or not work. Its about their past relationships and what they learned.
Maybe at some point I can stop writing and vlogging about being afraid to be misunderstood, and that will be the measure of when I am cured of that concern.
You pluck an ancient string in me. The chord vibrates. Resonates. You think it’s maybe bad. Sometimes I wonder about that, too. So I hold it up to the light, to look at where to cleave it–a master lapidary of emotion.
“I don’t want to cause you pain…”
Oh, sweet torture … here she goes, listening to Amy Winehouse again. Calling herself a whore. But that’s an ancient curse. An irrelevant self-flagellation. I step out of that gown and leave it on the floor as I walk away, more naked than any whore.
I like the waters a little turbulent. Smooth seas make for poor sailors. Navigating complex emotional waters has made me a captain of the HMS Cosmic Goddess. I know how to cut through the waves now. But some storms are enough to leave me listing … for a while. And it’s been awhile.
I want an inch of black eyeliner ringing my eyes. My lips painted dark and glossed, to invite a kiss. Or a bite. The cosmic goth queen in me gets restless sometimes. Where does she come from? Her white spidersilk hair, finally relevant. Older. Wiser. Wanton. Wild.
I hope whatever part of me you can have will be worth something to you. I gave her to you freely because you asked. If she doesn’t fit, send her off on the waves and let her float away … I don’t need her anymore.
Sometimes I say it here, whatever it is. It’s a whisper into the wind that maybe catches an ear or two. It’s of no real consequence. Ok, maybe it’s of little consequence, but only to me. But I need to…well, at least I find it helpful to, write things down. Helps me work it all out, ya know?
I wonder about words like “whore” and “wrong.” About what the measure of success is. Where the concepts of grief and jealousy came from. Is grief learned? Or is it born into the ancient parts of our brains? Jealousy feels so primal, like it’s hardwired into our DNA, unless you’re one of those miraculous people who does not suffer at the gaping maw of jealousy. People who don’t watch themselves aging and wondering if it matters enough to try and recapture youth, or just let things happen naturally. If you do fight it, what exactly are you fighting? Being seen as old? Losing your sex appeal? Sex and love is for everybody – not just for the young and thin among us.
It was an up-down sort of night. Emotions were observed, like cards in a deck. Choir singing, lost friends, found adventures. Smiles and stories from the young and old alike. Laughing friends. Storytellers. Moments my heart listened to – either for the better, or the funny little hurts that inform it.
I’m so sleepy. Going to try and go to bed now. Off you go, whispers–see if you can find an ear.