Author: Kiki Writes

Rumored to be a writer. Never hip. Land of Lincoln Cleavage Queen three years running.

Poem–“Frayed”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

We’re almost through National Poetry Month. You guys are such sports.

The theme of this poem from the November Poem-a-Day Challenge was Nerves. A fitting theme at the time because my nerves were, well, frayed.

This poetic form is called a nonce. It’s a poetic form created by a poet for one time use. The rules of this particular nonce is three words a line and nine lines for the poem. Easy peasy.

Frayed

going too fast
on black roads
shiny and wet
glaring like ice
hit the brakes
expect to slide
hope to stop
before I skid
thru the light

Poem–“Careless Syllables”

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Good news! You’re half-way through National Poetry Month and my poetic torture. Our half-way point poem from the November Poem-a-Day Challenge features the theme…Poetic Form. Write a poem in a poetic form. Hey! I’ve been studying for this one for months!

Many of the poems I wrote during November were done using scraps of ideas that I’d jotted down. This is one of them. I just crammed that idea into a tricube.

Careless Syllables

I’ve said things
that dug scars
in soft skin

used too much
teeth on a
tender spot

but for me
it was just
a Tuesday

Poem–“Rube Goldberg Revisited”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

National Poetry Month torture continues with our second poem of the month, which was written on the 22nd day of the November Poem-a-Day challenge. The theme for that day was Machine, so I wrote about the kind of machine I could really use.

This poem is a stornello, which has fast become a favorite form. I have no idea why I like everything lower case in my stornellos, but we’re just going to flow with it.

Rube Goldberg Revisited

i need a machine to make my life easy
the difficulty level makes me queasy
a fan-like device should make it all breezy

Poem–“Hot Flashes”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I regret to inform you that it is once again April, and April means National Poetry Month.

This year’s selections all come from the Writer’s Digest November Poem-a-Day challenge. Every day in November, participants were given a theme and best wishes to write a poem. Eleven of the poems I wrote that month were put into a chapbook at the end of the challenge and submitted for funsies. That leaves nineteen poems with nothing better to do.

Let’s get started, shall we?

The first poem of the month features the theme Fire/Ice, and it’s written in my default free verse.

I’m easing you in, kiddos.

Hot Flashes

ice in my veins
fire on my skin
freezing hot
burning cold
maybe it’s love
maybe it’s menopause

Sorry, That’s Not My Problem–Religious Edition

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Earlier this month I had a patron complain that we held a Meet the Candidates event for the mayoral candidates on Ash Wednesday, and with all due respect (and the respect due him was none because he opted to be a jackass in his complaint), that’s not my problem. Your religious observances are none of my concern.

Your religion is not my problem.

I feel like of all of the public-related things that are not my problem, this is the hardest one for people to fathom. Let me assure you that I respect the existence of your religion, I respect your right to your religion, I respect the requirements, restrictions, and obligations placed upon you by your religion. HOWEVER. Those requirements, restrictions, and obligations are not my problem. They do not apply to me. I am not of your religion.

For example, Judaism, Islam, and some Christian denominations prohibit the eating of pork. I respect that. I would never insist or trick those people into eating pork, and if I were feeding them, I would be mindful that whatever meal I was serving was either pork-free or had pork-free options. However, I’m still gonna eat me some pig. That restriction doesn’t apply to me. I do not belong to any of these faiths.

Like my complainer above. Ash Wednesday is his responsibility, not mine, and not the library’s.

I think it’s the Christians that tend to struggle with this concept the most. Capitalism co-opted a couple of their holidays (Christmas and Easter) to make some bank and now they have it in their heads that their religion should be exclusively catered to. Being the most popular religion in the US doesn’t help their egos, either. If anything, it only encourages them to scream persecution if they don’t get their way.

I’m not persecuting them. I’m not discriminating against them. I’m just not one of them. Their religion is not my problem.

But it seems to be the Christians that work the hardest to make their religion my problem. The “this is a Christian nation” crowd. The “bring back prayer in schools” crowd. The “my religion is the only religion and my god is the only god” crowd. They are fascinating in their disrespect as they swing Bible verses like cudgels to defend their own abhorrent behavior while claiming to love everyone in the name of Jesus. The expect everyone to honor their religion while dismissing and denigrating anyone else’s -or their lack thereof.

It’s just happenstance that Christianity became a major religion. In another timeline, they’d all be beating their Quarans instead of their Bibles, quoting the Islamic prophets instead of the Christian ones. “No, we wouldn’t!” Oh, but, you would. For those people, religion isn’t about faith or spirituality; it’s about power. It’s about their ability to control other people.

That’s the problem we have now. People using their God as justification for control. “The Bible says…” The Bible says a lot of things. The Bible says a lot of contradictory things. The Bible says a lot of things that they ignore for their own convenience (helping the poor, plucking your eyes out, do unto others, false idols, etc.). Ultimately, the Bible says a lot of things that ain’t got shit to do with me because I’m not a Christian. That’s not my handbook.

Your religion isn’t my problem.

Stop trying to make it one.

What Is My Writing Endgame Now?

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I feel like it’s important as a creative to check in on myself and my creative goals beyond just what projects I’m working on and what deadlines I need to meet. I’m thinking of the big picture, the reason for my creative existence, as it were.

Basically, what the fuck is the point?

My answer to this question has changed. When I first started pursuing a serious writing career in my late 20s, the goal was getting published. Getting published enough would translate to a stable, successful writing career. That was the endgame. Having a writing career and supporting myself with my writing.

The means changed in the ensuing years, utilizing self-publishing and Patreon as a means of making money and establishing a fanbase that would hopefully help me gain more traditional publishing opportunities. But the endgame remained the same. Have a writing career and support myself with my writing.

At some point, though, the endgame changed. Sort of.

As much as I would love to have a writing career and support myself with my writing, it’s become evident in the last few years that this goal is no longer attainable. Even if the world wasn’t currently on fire, traditional publishing has changed enough that lowlifes like me don’t have a chance of making a career of it. Publishers are more invested in their own profits than their authors, looking mostly for writers that already have an established large following online that will translate to guaranteed sales and justify their shrinking commitment to marketing and promotion.

In short, I will never be popular enough to get published by any of the big, traditional publishers or their imprints. That makes me a much less profitable client to take on as an agent, which means I’m much less likely to land one.

This is already a hard business to break into and I have handicapped myself tremendously by my inability to be popular and, I think, by my lack of education. Every author giving advice in the pages of Writer’s Digest has an MFA. I don’t even have a college degree. There is the also not small issue of me not writing stories that people want to read. Even if I had everything else, my brain doesn’t produces the tales the masses want to consume.

And right now, I’m not even really that interested in writing those stories. I am working on Stateline, of course, but I haven’t been inspired to write a short story in months. I’m more invested in writing poetry at the moment, and that’s an even harder sell. As much as I love writing it and as much as I enjoy reading it, I lack what it takes to be truly good at it.

So what is my writing endgame now?

Honestly, I’m not really sure. The dream of supporting myself with my writing remains in the back of my mind, but right now, the writing is more for myself and for the small group of readers who’ve been enjoying my work. Right now I’m content with doing what I’m doing.

I know it’s not the endgame, but for now, it’s enough.

“Your Hair Is So Cute!”

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Help me figure something out here.

Recently, I’ve been getting frequent compliments on my hair. Usually, it’s when I’m at work and the compliments generally come from older women (and by older women, I mean older than me). The exchange is typically along the lines of:

“Your hair so so cute!”

“Thanks!”

“I never know what to ask for when I go to the salon.”

“I cut my own hair.”

“Really? It’s so cute!”

I have had a version of this conversation multiple times over the last few months and I am truly baffled by it. Not that people think my hair is cute because obviously it is. But the frequency with which I’ve been having these very similar conversations with different women is curious.

I’ve had my hair like this for at least a couple of years now (maybe, I dunno, I’m too lazy to really figure it out), and have had occasional compliments on its cuteness, but it’s really picked up lately, and I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything different with it. Sure, my cutting technique has refined and evolved over time and as a result my hairstyle has changed a little, too, but not that much. Certainly not enough to garner an influx of praise, especially recently. I’ve actually fucked it up more in the last few months than I have gotten it right, as it were. Too many times when I cut it lately, I was in a hurry and/or wasn’t mindful about what I was doing.

I have one theory as to what has caused the uptick of compliments and similar conversations, and it is a wild one.

I think it’s because I haven’t colored my hair in months.

I’ve colored my hair a couple of times since I got it cut, but lately I’ve been too lazy and not bored enough to bother. Life has been too demanding as of late for me to want to commit to the upkeep of coloring my hair even if I was in the mood. So, it’s back to my natural medium brown with the coppery tinges and the sparkles of silver. Except I’ve noticed that there’s a lot more of that sparkle than there used to be. A lot more. Thanks aging and stress!

Most of the time I don’t think about how my silver hair is viewed by others. When it comes to my hair, I think of it more as a whole entity, as in “Does my hair look like shit?” I don’t think of how the new abundance of silver might be perceived. It catches my eye in the mirror sometimes, but it doesn’t always show up that well in selfies, so I guess I figured that most people don’t notice it.

But maybe they do. And maybe it just so happens that the silver is what this haircut needs to really shine.

So what do you think? Am I on to something here?

Or am I just looking for meaning where there’s nothing more than a pattern I happen to be noticing?

After all. It’s just hair.

Poem–Magnificent Seven–“Goodnight Robicheaux”

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You made it! The last of the Magnificent Seven poems. You all are such good sports.

The last poem I’m posting was actually the first one I wrote. Goodnight Robicheaux is such an interesting character. His exploits for the losing side of the Civil War made him a legend and also damaged him considerably. While he works as a warrant officer like his friend Chisholm (an odd friendship given their opposing sides during the war), it seems that he mostly earns a living from his legacy and Billy Rocks’s skills with his knives.

Goodnight is deeply conflicted. He’s more than willing to join Chisholm in the Seven’s cause and actually cautions Chisholm about his motivations for saving the town of Rose Creek, knowing that they’re more personal than Chisholm has let the other Seven know. He’s got a Southern wisdom that never fails to produce a turn of phrase for the moment. And when it comes to training the men of the town to shoot, he’s an exacting and serious commander.

But Goodnight is haunted by the demons of his past, of the lives he took during the war. He may be a legendary sharpshooter, but it’s come at a great cost. Goodnight believes that if he shoots to kill again, he’ll die. It’s a paralyzing fear that only Billy knows about, and it leads him to abandon the Seven the night before the fight. Naturally, he overcomes the worst of himself and rejoins his friends. After all, if he’s going to die, he might as well die with them.

It was the scene in which he abandons the rest of the Seven, when he was riding away in the night, that sparked the idea for the poem. Because Goodnight is not a coward. He’s a haunted man. And he carries with him a graveyard of ghosts.

This poem is free verse, which is my default, and the only Magnificent Seven poem I allowed myself to write in my usual form. It was also the only poem that got a significant revision. After writing “Jack Horne” and “Red Harvest”, I realized that there was an emerging theme to these poems and I needed to go back and include that into “Goodnight Robicheaux”.

The overall theme of the Magnificent Seven poems is home. Every member of the Seven lost their home in some way, either by choice or by force, and they’ve all been brought together to defend a home that isn’t theirs.

It’s really obvious in retrospect.

Goodnight Robicheaux

He’s a haunted man.
You can’t half-fill a graveyard
and not expect a few ghosts.
He’s got an army of them now.
Waiting. Whispering his future.
He knows that owl following him
will soon swallow him up
and spit his bones into
the first grave he ever dug.
A grave he’ll call home.

Read This If–You Like Beautiful Things

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Sure, everyone likes beautiful things. Okay, to err on the side of caution, an overwhelming amount of the populace likes beautiful things. Of course, this overwhelming amount of the populace has different ideas of what constitutes beautiful.

Well, as the population of one that owns and runs this blog, these two books are about things that fall into my perception of beautiful.

All the Beauty in the World: The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Me by Patrick Bringley- In the face of his older brother’s cancer diagnosis, Patrick Bringley leaves his fledgling career at The New Yorker and takes a job as a security guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. What was supposed to be a temporary solace becomes a second home for a decade. The book offers a behind-the-scenes look at a famous art museum’s inner workings as well as insight into some of the art and artists.

What I loved about this book was that it was an intimate look at how the art museum works. It allows the reader to form a connection with the art museum and the people who work there, as well as the art and artists. It’s interesting, but it also has a soothing undertone to it. It’s like the pages are infused with a comforting hush. There’s also Bringley’s story of his older brother and his battle with cancer. You understand why he’d seek solace in the art museum.

Custodians of Wonder: Ancient Customs, Profound Traditions, and the Last People Keeping Them Alive by Eliot Stein- Eliot Stein takes a deep and vivid look at ten of the oldest and most endangered traditions in the world, including the world’s rarest pasta; saving a 700 year old soy sauce recipe’s secret ingredient; Scandinavia’s last night watchman; a tree with its own mailbox; and Cuba’s last official cigar factory readers.

Did I cry a few times while reading this book? Yes. I don’t think I’d heard of any of the customs and/or traditions in this book, but I ended up looking up several of them -like the last Inca rope bridge in Peru- to get a better understanding of them. There’s a hopeful, but forlorn vibe to many of the stories, like the last watchman. Who is going to take over these traditions and these customs? It’s so easy to get invested in their continued existence. And with the final entry in the book, the readers have to accept that it may not be possible to save them all.

I hope these books introduce you to some new beauties. And if they don’t, check your beholder.

Aging, But Not Gracefully Because I’m Not Graceful

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I don’t mind the idea of getting old. I’m not the kind of person who turns twenty-nine year after year. I have no trouble admitting my age because I earned every one of those years.

I admit that part of that is because I look good for my age.

In a youth-obsessed culture like ours, holding on to every shred of youngness is encouraged, in particular for women or femme-presenting folks. People start getting Botox in their twenties just to fend off the thought of a line or wrinkle. Skin treatments, facials, retinols, creams, special diets, plastic surgeries -all in the name of forever looking twenty-five.

I, personally, don’t want to look twenty-five. I don’t think I’ve ever looked twenty-five, even when I was twenty-five. When I was young, I always looked older than my age. Part of the reason I was cast as Mother Goose in my theater class’s final was because I was the only 18 year old who looked like she’d already had eight kids. The benefit to always looking older than you are is that your age eventually catches up to your face and then your face stays the same as the years continue to accumulate.

I call it Robert Stack Syndrome. The man looked the same age for 50 years. He is proof that this can be a blessing.

In my own version of this syndrome, I looked 42 forever and then I hit 42 and now I’m past 42 and people can’t believe I’m older than 42. I credit my genes for this. They provided me some insulation from being an 80s baby and also smoking for ten years. My grandma says my skin looks so good because I always drank a lot of water, even when I was a kid.

I also developed a decent skin care routine at some point in my early thirties that I think has done wonders. No, I’m not immune to that particular vanity, but I also think it’s important to take care of your skin. After all, it’s an organ covering your entire body. You should be good to it. A good cleanser, a moisturizer, and sunscreen, and you’re good to go.

Of course, my skincare regime isn’t that simple anymore. I’ve added an eye cream and a retinol and some sort of acid serum instead of exfoliating and a daily lip mask and a weekly sheet mask and dermaplaning. Okay, it sounds like a lot, but you’ll just have to trust me that I don’t have a lot of money or time invested in this routine. For me, I consider it all acts of self-care to keep my skin looking good.

Notice I said good, not young.

I want to continue to look good for my age. And I think that I do. No one’s going to card me buying tequila (just question my life choices), but even with the sparkles of silver streaking my hair, nobody’s going to be offering me up a senior discount either (I’d take it if they did, though).

However, I’ve recently been challenged with what looking good for my age means. I’ve started to develop the saggy, crepe skin underneath my chin and along my neck. You know what I’m talking about. That delicate wattle that some folks get. That I’m apparently getting.

And I’m not sure I’m okay with that.

Considering I’ve been researching ways to minimize or eliminate this development, I’d say that I’m not really that okay with it. I can handle the lines and I’ve learned to cope with a couple of the dark spots, but this? This is an old age marker I’m not ready for.

Between trying new neck tightening techniques and looking into creams that might help, I’d say that my willingness to age gracefully has its limits.

Probably because I’m actually not that graceful.