|Please use this in conjunction with my Publishing Resources Journal!|
My MuseI sat at my desk, staring at the computer. The blank white screen of my word processing program stared back, mocking me.My Muse by Leona629
I ripped the glasses off my face and threw them on the desk. Twelve hours before I had to have this story to my editor, and I hadn't written so much as a word, never mind the fifteen pages I was contracted for. Another extension was out of the question; I'd had two already. If this wasn't ready in the morning, I wasn't getting paid.
I reached for my tea cup. Empty. Figures.
Out of desperation, I popped the used teabag in my mouth and stared sucking on it. My eyes squeezed shut as I tried to get any vestiges of liquid caffeine from the poor, abused leaves.
It probably would have been better if I'd just liked coffee. Or espresso even. No lack of caffeine there.
The taste in my mouth became bitter and I spit the bag back into the cup. It was a very ladylike gest
Thank you for your lies.I suppose I can not blame you for this.Thank you for your lies. by Blue-A-Touille
I had a hand in destroying the bridge we gapped between our own fears and doubts of making a wrong decision with each and every step. I was the one who lit the match that set your fears aflame and caused you to run the other way in fear. It was from my mouth the dreaded words were uttered, the ones you never wanted to hear. Were you ever afraid of hearing them? Or did you only claim you trusted me for your own sake?
I suppose you had done the right thing.
It was the right decision to part our separate ways, to never speak the other's name again, to never uproot the stowed and dreaded memories of the existence of a hope. It was a good thing to leave things the way we did; angry, confused, hurt. It was right to whisper unwanted words with tears swelled up in my eyes. It was right, I tried my very best never to be wrong. Have you? No, you hadn't dealt out your full score of damage.
I suppose I can not blame you for that.
If you changed your mind so
Writing Without Publishing: Exillior speaksThe second interview in a new series focusing on writers who—le gasp! —aren't writing to get published. If you have any ideas on discussion topics or people I should interview, please drop me a note.Writing Without Publishing: Exillior speaks by neurotype
Writing Without Publishing: raspil speaks
Boring question first! How long have you been writing?
I wrote a lot as a teen, but then I had this writing block when I was in school in my late teens and couldn't write a single sentence, whether for essays or for my personal writing. I only started writing again once I mingled in with the Lit people here. (So now you know who's to blame.)
Slightly less boring follow-up! I know you're a doctor, so was there some point where you chose that over writing, or was it the plan from the beginning?
No, they're all part of the same person. I'm me, I write,
Daily Literature Deviations for November 26th 2012Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff OpeningsDaily Literature Deviations for November 26th 2012 by DailyLitDeviations
Daily Lit Deviations for November 26th , 2012
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
You can show your support by ing this News Article.
Please comment and the features and congratulate the artists!
For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one
of your pieces featured by DLD please note LiliWrites.
We will include you and your piece in a special recognition news article
The Reason I Do ArtThe Reason I Do ArtThe Reason I Do Art by Xcetera
Ask anyone in the community why they do art. I’m sure that you’re going to find a variety of answers, but that they’ll come back to the same things: because they love it, it helps them express themselves. Art is awesome, because it does allow us to do these things. It’s certainly a part of the reason why I do art. Other reasons? Because I like pretty things, and want to create them. Because I get so excited every time I have a photoshoot or every time I pull up those images onto my computer. Because that moment when you go to pick up your film after waiting for 24+ hours to see how they turned out is just so, so sweet. Because no matter how good I become at it, I can always get better. I’ll never stop learning. The final reason? Because I have to. It’s an urge in me that I just cannot quell.
Something makes me sad, though. What makes me sad is when I see a person, a fellow artist, quit.
Freud and Broken Christmas TreesShe spilled the news on me before I even had the chance to react. And what would you even say to that, anyways? I'm sorry? Geez, that sucks? How's it feel to be an only child now? No. Never. You don't say that kind of stuff. You will never be able to find the words to say until it happens to you, too. God forbid.
And she just kind of stared at me. That look was piercing, haunting. It froze my tendons and turned my thoughts to dust. I was a nothing, I was worse than the dirt under her shoes. Because I couldn't solve anything. Because I couldn't make it better. Because I was just as helpless as she was, and she hated me for it.
The feeling wasn't a red, or a black. It wasn't any colour I could really name, but it wasn't a gray either. It was a block of things, a puzzle, the outline of a crumpled soda can. Edges poking inside to spill the remains out through the tiny pinpricks, the fractures in the metal. I could go on and on into metaphors but she – I don't have words to describe her eye
Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:Odyssea Nunquam Abstitit:
When the blue jacaranda mocked the sky
Sleep bound is she, the drowsy brilliance
below the whispering branch.
Her Caño Cristales hair,
strewn amongst wild blue and green;
Though her eyes
tell of time waiting,
when the wind was lonesome and
slaughtering butterflies in its chill.
They turned, almost at once
Eyes gray, yet dancing with the frenzied
glory of cosmos.
Striking out at her wanderer, like a warm
crash of wave.
She understood, "Your laurel leaves speak of death
but I still need you."
And he wept, "Your garland
speaks of the flowers, streams
and the meadows which is our home."
"Here, is where I still love you
this place, where arms renounce arms
with care, warmth and adoration."
"My arms tangle in shadows, and
my mind only imagines; night falls
on my face within the whirlpool;
Your spark is the farthest from me; distraught
and left desolate, in Ithaca."
(She holds all his hopes)<
Any morning of the week you can walk into your local knock off brand grocery store and find stacks of newsprint papers on your left as you walk in, wiping snow dust off your shoe onto the mat before the crystal flakes melt past the leather into your now soggy black cotton socks.
Not one minute in the dairy milk perfumed air after you walk in through automatic sliding doors, then past windows barring gusts of snow dunes, and there are newspapers. Newsweek, Times, Global something are all there but you pass them for the local paper.
The winter moisture that had soaked into your skin now has already evaporated and the paper grates against your skin as you pick up the local paper. You look up and feel for silver change in your pocket and walk over to the counter where no one else stands before the cashier. At 7am everyone is either in school, on their way to work, at work, or sick in bed. Except for you, because you're different. Your skin is as dry as everyone else's but since last night
The Final PunishmentNo thoughts could enter his mind, but if he could wish for something, it would be for nothing at all. There was no longer any desire in his heart, for at last it's flame had dissolved in streams of blood it had ignored. The monster inside him was gone, as too himself.
Their grip tighten around his wrist, and they pulled him forward deeper against the stone pavement. He could feel the glares of the imperial guard intense with hatred run across his browned bare back and almost singe his white speckled wings to pieces. Their powder white uniform were purelessly clean, the buttons reflecting the high noon sun also evilly.
Thrown onto the silver platform, guards surrounded his busily clicking chains around his feet, hands, and finally his neck. Ropes rubbed angrily against his feathers, and a few fell to the ground sparingly. He looked up into the face of his undiscovered equal.
People of White called him their steel hero; People of Red called him the brutal monster. His eyes were black as
Facebook* | Twitter | Tumblr|
* If you friend me on Facebook, please put your username in the message so I know who you are. Thanks!
My name is Kate, and I'm a writer.
I'm a native New Yorker, but I moved to Washington, DC and got a BA in English and Creative Writing from The George Washington University in 2013. I now live and work full-time in Arlington, VA.
I have a lot of varied experience in being published and working in publishing, so if you have any questions about how to get published or how to work in the industry, feel free to send me a note!