An Awfully Serious Girl Has Finished Her Book!
Yeah, me, too. (YEA!) But I mean Alison Stine, an Awfully Serious Girl has finished her first novel today. Agents line up here. Read my comments here to read about how I'd save her from the gutter, if necessary (a safer vow than the most common) just so she can do what she does and here. Follow the link to read a well-crafted poem.
And to read about this Awfully Serious Girl Shape-shifted Into Po' PoMo Mommy read Teresa Ballard In the Early Hours of Sky. I do. Anybody for a Po' PoMoMommy group blog? Not gender or inclination inclusive, but full-time parenting poets. Anyone who can relate to the line: "You just can't proof the new american epic while having a 10 year old screaming for french toast ("NOW!")."
And, who would you save from the gutter, if you had the choice to choose from anyone (alive) in the world? Humor me, and answer. I'll be off-blog for a while designing, proofing & awing.
And to read about this Awfully Serious Girl Shape-shifted Into Po' PoMo Mommy read Teresa Ballard In the Early Hours of Sky. I do. Anybody for a Po' PoMoMommy group blog? Not gender or inclination inclusive, but full-time parenting poets. Anyone who can relate to the line: "You just can't proof the new american epic while having a 10 year old screaming for french toast ("NOW!")."
And, who would you save from the gutter, if you had the choice to choose from anyone (alive) in the world? Humor me, and answer. I'll be off-blog for a while designing, proofing & awing.
posted by Lorna Dee Cervantes at 5:00 PM
4 Comments:
Out of curiosity (I posted about this on my blog a few weeks back) how do you define "well-crafted"? It's a phrase we throw out there a lot, but I'm not sure I know what it means...
Sign me up Lorna. I'm down with the PoMoMommy. If I could save anyone alive from the gutter it would be Gina Franco. As eveyone must know by now, I adore her and think she's absolutely f'ing brilliant.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Your note, your offer of survival, your story. It's been a cold, cold summer. I was in grave-deep in the gutter a few weeks ago, but, as happens with these things, although I didn't feel like it would ever, I found a branch or hand or something hard to hold onto and pulled myself up. I have been brought down to my knees by song, and am trying to stand up again by speaking of it.
But yes, but yes, but yes. I will show you. I will send you. Along with the novel thing, which is breathing on her own, I have a poetry book-thing. I have no idea what's happening there. I have almost given up on it. I have lost my teacher for reasons I will not go into, and the poems, especially the poems, are moles in the dark. I have heard that when you are ready for a teacher, one will find you.
It means the world to me to know there is a world out there, with people like you in it.
I meant, brought down to my knees by love. But maybe song is what means me.
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