5 Things Indie Authors Do Very Well. I particularly like that Ms. Baverstock acknowledges the courage of those who self-publish. Usually, those who self-publish are teased or ridiculed for being vain and egotistical. Her comments are gratefully received by me, I can tell you that.
In fact, it has been through the process of self-pubishing Minoan Messages on the Gaia Path -- and the subsequent encouragement from friends who bought and read the story -- that led me to invest in hiring a professional editor for the book. This means that at some point, I will publish a second edition for marketing to the public.
But no matter what happens with my own books, I will continue to write and self-publish. And I appreciate knowing that there are people who view self-publishing as valid and worthy.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Among the cheerful flavored swirls
of paperback books and unbound worlds
I find the sound that is my own
and it’s unveiled through magic song
of pen and ink and whim of mind
that does not leave the dream behind.
Here in the recesses curving along
is the Imagi Nation where I belong.
I’m not real, though one would think
I was if they should pause to blink,
but really I’m not because all that is here
is the air of my thoughts and the ash of a fear
that got left behind before the world came to be
and so long ago before there was me.
I’m not real, this hardened shape
but rather illusion that yearns to wake
in a world where flowers dance in the seas
and all the fishes dance on the trees,
where all is what it wants to be
and nothing is hidden, not even me.
I’m not real but a flowering soul
asleep in the dirt with the worms and the mole
or the tiny roly poly so precious unfurled
but easily takes to his shell where he curls
in on himself in utter delight
that we mistake for his fright
for he loves his flexible hinged body
where none other can fold in such entirety.
I’m not real for I live in the soil
that claims all the dust and bones of the world;
here we are snug in our beds and our hearts
united with particles, beams and parts
dismembered and remembered and slung on the backs
of the breezes that soar to a galaxy’s starry tracks.
I’m not real because I’m not this body,
but isn’t it pretty and ugly and naughty?
This body is all of the mind driven roles
and houses a flowering, blossoming soul
that is always here yet sometime gets buried
in a world full of quivering faces all worried
they can’t get it done or finished or started
and yet I’m not real so I’m never downhearted.
What if we visited ourselves in a zoo
where we’re all pasted together with glittery glue
and then we could see how the shapes are unique
yet fall all to pieces whenever we speak
of a falsity buried in minds all confused,
who think we are real and yet so abused
by our own delusions we can’t stop to flower
unseated by blinders of glory and power.
I’m not real, I’m a smile on the wind,
a flicker, a firefly, a reed that will bend
in watery rushes yet rooted in ash
that is sand and the gritty bones of the past.
I feel in my heart that the nonsense is setting a part of me free, maybe just a little cell sitting in an organ or riding the red jet stream through my body. Maybe that one fancy cell of nonsense is reborn into health and innocence by the free flowing thought forms, the random experience of writing without restriction; just word association--or absence of connection--it doesn’t really matter. This is me at play!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
“We were once enwombed in the earth
and the silence of the body remembers that dark, inner longing.”
~ John O’Donohue from Beauty: The Invisible Embrace
Inside is where my toes become roots and sink deep into the loam that is moist and dark and rich with ancient memories feeding my blood, renewing the sap that is dry and brittle. Deep in, inside, the pleasant lack of glare is a nectar that I drink with great thirst. Beneath the surface lies the truth that is me, a soul of primal resonance of fern and tree and flowers high in the canopy where bits of soil remain from lives long gone and provide the food that new life craves.
Stiff, sore, barely bending or even awake, lids of heavy bark that remain as slits, energy gone, drained by fire and hectic plans like copper wires binding my trunk into a tormented receptacle of strangers’ demands.
A bird is sent to sing me free into a journey seed that springs up and out, twining, budding, blooming until my essence sings the healing back to feathered throat and we are one heart.
I’m dying every moment and birthing in every breath. The call of dark and light are the mystery of the song that is unique to me yet are universal notes played in harmony expanding a world that has forgotten the melody.