Hello! I’m starting a blog. Sort of. Not in the traditional sense. Essentially, as most people who know me know, I write a lot. A LOT a lot. More than most people who know me realize, I think. And so much of what I write never sees the light of day! And that’s generally fine with me–nowadays I write mostly for my own pleasure, anyway. But I started thinking that I wanted SOME kind of creative outlet, some way for other people to see what I’m up to (if they care) and also feel a little less like I’m off in a corner writing for no one in particular. A Q&A format is probably the best way to answer a few more questions:
What kind of things are going to be on here?
Tbd, but probably mostly poetry and some short stories and probably some rambling musings on writing in general. Not long-form fiction–if you see any more of that from me it’ll come through more traditional channels.
You write poetry? I didn’t know that! I thought you only wrote crime fiction!
I am not a very good poet. Don’t get too excited.
How often are you going to update?
As often as I feel like it, but I’m aiming for approximately once every week or two.
Can we get a taste of the kind of thing you’re going to be posting?
Sure! Here you go 😉
There is nothing done that has not been done before.
This is one of the things I know;
When I was a girl my father taught me this,
Showed me the way men only stand on the shoulders of other men,
Like Jenga towers, maybe, all those names wobbling precariously upwards
Through the layered atmosphere of history. There is nothing done
That has not been done before. If Watson & Crick discovered DNA,
It was only because of Miescher, Levene, Chargaff & Franklin.
If I make tea, scooping the leaves into the metal net
And placing it in the boiling water, it is only because
Someone else made the net. This is one of the things I know;
I know too the smell of the jacaranda trees,
And the feel of wet leaves, and the way the milk swirls when poured
Into tea-dark water, and the way the fourth step creaks,
And always, always will.
And yet in the early mornings,
Half-awake, I sometimes think I feel creation
Like a word on the edge of my tongue.
There is nothing new in the world. This I know. I know.
And yet in the early mornings I wake sometimes with an ache in my chest, or a joy,
A sudden creature born anonymously in the dark, some blind new thing
Stumbling around for a light. She lives for a moment and is gone.
But I know there is nothing done that has not been done before;
There is nothing to feel that has not already been felt.
I would be arrogant to think otherwise. The shoulders I stand upon
Have all had beating hearts, too, and fever-dreams,
And strange little emotions that gasp and die
On the edge of waking. Every tragedy has been lived a thousand times before.
A sudden death or the ending of one love or the beginning of another—
What does it matter? In time they will build from us, too,
Castles of us, spinning turrets from our foundations.
And yet in the early mornings, too raw to remember, I forget.
In the early mornings I rise from bed slowly,
And move to the window. Outside the sky is turning blue,
Like it always, always does, like it always, always will.
The creature inside me gasps for air. I close my eyes.
I give her a name. I call her Hope.
I hold her close inside me, like a prayer.