Archive for February, 2012

Signing My Book Contract.
February 20, 2012

What else can I say? : )

So, I’ll close with a little note from The Universe.

“It’s not from the known, but the unknown, that creativity and inventiveness are born.Turn away from the predictable, cliché, and reliable. Brave the void where the darkness is greatest. Trust the quiet, find the stillness, feel the calm. Then steadily think, speak, and move as if you were led. Behave as if your vision were clear. Anticipate the emotional rush that will come with your triumph. And as if by magic, as you raise your pen to write, you’ll find the words have already been summoned, flooded in light that was there all along, in a world that has just as anxiously anticipated your arrival.”

~ The Universe

Mike Dooley
TUT Notes

Your Brain On Words.
February 7, 2012


Magical, delightful, surprising, where are the tissues? That’s your brain on words. Emotional scrape? Words dangle the band-aid. Mental gash? Cry for story person, cry for self. 

Writing is the wing-span, the leap, the soar. The concentration, the distraction, the light, the dark. It’s the sky a writer circles for a landing, the place words return to every winter, the x-marks-the-spot to the centering dot, the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning, world without end, huzzah.

In the middle, in the writing, are possibilities. Mental expansion. Freedom. The birth of ideas into a whole nest of amazing.

Life. With all its rosy petals and dark, unsuspecting thorns. Words. The math of the emotions, the map of the heart.

Writers. We weave words into stringy sentences, braid meaning into ropes for those drowning in their own songs. Words that save, arrange, rearrange, turn on lights, make us smile, make us gasp. Little symbols hatched together, the birdsong of inner worlds so the outer world has a song, a chance.

For Tierney.
February 4, 2012

I’ve been a poet longer than I’ve been a writer. Like little Tierney playing the piano, little Em was drawing pictures and writing accompanying poetry.

Tierney loved my poEms. You know those friends who encourage your art and the hopes and dreams within? One of those people was Tierney. I wrote a few poems for her over the years, to cheer her up or because her spirit inspired me.

And so it’s not morbid or gloomy, now that you know the backstory, to write Tierney out of this mortal coil.

I believe these two particular sparks

will meet and cause a fire someday,

Crackling warmth, laughter dancing up the walls

of this little red schoolhouse of the heart.


For Tierney with love. x0x0

This is not a time to die

But to soar. Just another turn of the

Spiral, not the end nor the

Beginning, but the middle ground

With all its slippery slopes.

One bird, like one thousand birds.

Every breath a raindrop

Dancing off a tin roof.

Love, the definition of never-ending

And a fire burning within

And a place to begin.

It can take one hundred years

To peck off this shell, this

Growing while we’re dying, this

Heart beating for real.

It’s a leap and then a crash.

A sore and then a soar.

A Grand-Canyon-sized ache.

A wing breaking into song.