We are still months away from NPM and poetry discussions are abuzz. I love it!
I’m not even upset that one “genre” is dissing the other – I am just happy poetry is being discussed.
I clicked on a link/interview that was shared with a member of the Horror Writer’s Association and then BOOM I was knee deep in reading, searching and lurking a dozen other sites.
I [honestly] never considered a genre when writing poetry and probably couldn’t categorize if my life depended on it. But [speaking of dissing] I’ll share Thoughts on Writing from Getting Me Back.
Thoughts on Writing (The Requirements of an Author)
Desire: A congenital need to tell the story.
Determination: It is not enough to walk a couple of blocks or run five miles on a treadmill, come prepared to hike the Himalayas and explore the abyss.
An exoskeleton: A thick skin will not suffice — no indeed. Colleagues and critics are apt in the sadistic art of shaving and burning the thickest of flesh; their tireless wheel of pumice leaving the toughest callouses raw and bleeding. They will thin your skin; get beneath it and prove your vulnerabilities. Like a flesh eating bacteria they will consume you — kill you if you let them.
A poker face: Never let them see you sweat.
Gratitude: Because no one owes you anything!
Grace: For the rise and the inevitable fall.
Pills and booze and smoke: Because it is a hard and hateful world and you are not a god-damned ant.
I was wading in the surf on Matagorda beach one warm, sunny day while exchanging dialogue with Clara.
I had known Clara for about ten years and I have to admit, conversing with her was like pulling teeth. I don’t want to say she was dull, but she was too quiet and a tad introverted.
Don’t get me wrong, Clara is a lovely girl. She is smart and pretty and sweet and kind, but she was just too darn nice for the most part. Too calm, too reasonable, too… dull! There, I said it!
Anyway, as I was wading in the surf, dragging my feet (literally to scatter the sting rays) I was thinking how I might kill her.
I know that must sound horrible, we had been comrades for so long, but she wearied me.
Her unspoiled, hoity-toity, prim and proper,everything by the bookpersonality made me want to send her sailing face down with the outgoing tide. I think she knew it (she has that sixth sense thing, you know).
I didn’t expect Clara to fight me; it wasn’t in her nature. She had been so silent and distant; it seemed she had given up on life and maybe she wanted to die?
I had mulled it over and over in my mind for weeks and finally I had come to terms with my decision. Clara no longer served an identifiable purpose and she must be done away with.
Suddenly the voice of a perky little blonde caught my attention; she was running down the beach waving and shouting,
“Hey y’all, wait for me.”
Oh my lord,I thought, while trying to ignore the thin, tanned Mississippian’s approach.
I have to do it now – get it over with.
I hurriedly pushed Clara toward the incoming wave but she didn’t budge; her feet were planted too firmly.
“Don’t make this difficult!” I coaxed her, “just relax and go with the sea. It will be over and we – I can move on.”
I filled my lungs with sweet, salty air and dug my feet into the sand.
I was thinking, I’ll push her outfar enough forthe current to carry her away. I knew where the current was rushing dangerously below the surface, just past the sand bar.
I grabbed her shoulders and pushed, harder this time. And again, she did not move! Worse than that and to my surprise the quiet, zest-less little mouse pushed back!
“Hey! Hey!” The Mississippian yelled, “What the hell are you doing? Leave her alone!”
I’m not sure why I obliged this person whom I had never met, but I stepped back.
I studied Clara, standing there quiet and unshaken. Her eyes fixed on mine and oddly, I no longer saw her as the timid, boring little thing I wanted to kill. I recognized the quiet strength she had held all along.
“Do you know her?” I asked, referring to the woman approaching us.
Clara shook her head slowly and smiled, “No but you do. You met her on a trip to Biloxi once.”
I was speechless.
“Hey, I’m Maggie,” the lady smiled as she looked past me and held out her hand, “you must be Clara.”
I suppose it’s true that opposites attract. I watched Maggie come alive and in doing so she saved Clara.
*This is a story about a story. Clara and Maggie are safe and sound (for the most part) inside a fictionalseries.
I have to do it now – get it over with. 
