The happenings of these past few weeks have been rolling around in my head. I've come up with two poems, both still raw, but this one seems about done...

Kenosha
​Cradle the weapon and sing
 a lullaby, my son
The way I taught you when you were young,
before you were able
to read the words bullet and gun.
Sing of great America, my son. 
I will take you 
Where cities burn and chaos runs.
Put on your hat, I will bring you, come.
See? The man on the corner
Wields a sign.
an anarchist, a terrorist, a crime.
Aim and fire. See
how easily he crumbles and falls, my son.
Aim and fire, see 
How easily they crumble and fall, my son
You will be surprised by how they weep, my son.
They crumble and wail at what you have done.

Cradle your weapon and sing, my son
 a lullaby, a lullaby, 
a goodbye America
as she grieves what we’ve done. 
As America mourns her children, my son. 

My romance and comedy alter ego, Annie Hoff, has a new book coming out soon. Here's a peek.

​Zoe Markham believes the words I love you only spell trouble.  A child of divorce, her family is a cautionary tale littered with broken hearts. She’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than the blink of an eye. In fact, she writes about breakups weekly for her column in New York Today. The only exception to the rule might be Zoe’s friends, Bella and Henry, who have been engaged since college.
Zoe’s first date with a new man, Derek, ends up with him making her breakfast, and she finds herself hoping the affair might be more than a one-night stand. But when Bella shows up at the door crying, the engagement ring she’d so proudly displayed gone from her finger, Zoe is again convinced that true love is impossible. Bella persuades her to write about the breakup with Henry and Zoe does it reluctantly Meanwhile, she sets out to prove she’s wrong about true love, particularly as it pertains to the two best friends she’s ever had. She does everything in her power to get Bella and Henry back together. In the process, Zoe discovers some surprising truths about herself and what she’s been looking for all along. 

Many of you know that I write Romantic Comedy under the pen name Annie Hoff. Annie has a brand-new light and slightly fluffy romance that juuuust about ready to hit the presses as the latest book published by Dream River Press. Secondhand Love is the  story of a young woman who finds love right where she shouldn’t, where it might have been all along.  It’s set in New York and for those of you who read and enjoyed Georgette Alden Starts Over, you’ll find some characters you’ve already been introduced to.  I’ll be revealing the cover very soon and soon there after will be asking for a few good readers who might want to review the book before it becomes widely available. All of that is good, and humming right along.
But one question nags at me. In this time of Corona virus and unrest, when so much is going wrong, do you want to read romantic comedy? In some ways, it feels out of touch to put this book out there, like whistling through a graveyard. On the other hand, my editor reminds me that people enjoy some escape and that a light hearted book might be just what the psychologist would order.
What do you think? Is it a good time for a romantic comedy? Or not? 

Welcome to Snippets!
In my new book, the Fall Line, Creech and Mia have had a short, unrequited love affair in their past.. Here's a little of how Creech remembers it:

She heard me, though, she turned and waited. I had no real plan about what I’d
do once I caught up to her; I slowed to a walk so I could get my breath back. Her hair
tossed around her long and loose and her cheeks were red with cold. “What’s wrong?”
she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. And I put my hand to the back of her head and kissed her.
It was an impulsive thing to do, but it was the right thing and I could have
stood in the cold all night long touching the silk of Mia’s hair, her warm lips on mine,
her fingers causing pinpricks down my spine as she caressed the back of my neck.
When we finally came apart, she held me in those eyes so much like a clear
blue sky. “Is that what you ran up here to tell me?”
I took her hand and drew a circle on her palm. “Pretty much.”

A brand new poem. I can't simply be silent these days. #Poetry #Poem #NoJusticNoPeace

Eight Minutes and Forty-six Seconds
Is how long it takes to squeeze life from flesh,
to sever spirit from body.
Momma I can’t breathe.
How long it takes a brother to fall to his knees,
a sister to keen in grief.
Momma I can’t breathe
How long it takes to boil the pot to overflow with hiss and burn
until we are all on fire.
Momma I can’t breathe

8 minutes 46 seconds.  
40l years.
​
Momma I can’t breathe.

On Breaking
 
This world will break
you,
a poem
of tooth of blood of bone.
This world will break you.
 
Everything you own
will break--
your dishes, your window, your car.
Your body will break –
fingernail, hymen, heart.
Everything will break.
It must.
 
The ice must
break before the river marrow runs.
The seed must
break  before  seedlings rise to sun.
Every sidewalk crack leaks
newborn green.
​
This world will break you.
 
This world is an egg
promising
fledgling wings
promising
flight.
 
 
 

I've got a brand new imprint!
Introducing Dream River Press. If you like women's fiction with a large dose of heart, I hope you'll take a look at my books under my new and exciting name! '
​

I believe that art is a web. Let me explain--I don't mean that you get caught in it like a fly, or that it's kind of an icky on your skin if you happen to walk through it in the woods. I mean that, for me at least, art forms are interconnected. I know a lot of writers who also do visual art work, or who play music, or who act in plays. This isn't happenstance, creative flow can take you from one medium to the next, one form of art to the next. 
It can be useful, using one kind of art to inspire another. Besides being a writer, I'm an amateur photographer. Often, when I get particularly stuck in my writing work, I take pictures to guide me out of my block. Photography makes me stand still and take in what is in front of my eyes. With writing I can add more; a sense of tone, of atmosphere, the feelings that are inherent in this place and time.  In fact, I'm working on and off again on a project of linking photos to poetry (if you scroll through some of my blog posts, you'll see some of this work sprinkled in here). 
I've used famous works, too. I've written at least three poems on Van Gough's Sunflowers. One of my favorite paintings is Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, and I so I wrote a poem about it. I love going to art museums and galleries, seeking out art that inspires me. 
And before you think 'well, I don't do poetry', pictures can also be useful in novel writing and storytelling. When starting a new project, I always make a Pinterest board (and sometimes also an istock board). I keep it 'hidden' just for myself and fill it with images that bring to mind the places my characters inhabit. I add and subtract images as the story grows and I learn more about the characters and their environs.
My WIP is a western historical called, tentatively, The Stars All Have Names. It's set on a Colorado Ranch in the 1880s, The boards, as you might imagine, are full of ranches and mountains, and big night skies. There are a number of horses, too.  And cowboys. And a steam engine or two. These are the images in my head as I write and flipping to them can sometimes help me to set the scene,  
The book I have coming out later this month, The Fall Line, and it's 'sister' book, Dancing in the White Room, are set in a skiing world. Both boards have lots of skiers and mountains covered in snow. Racing is a big part of Fall Line, so I've included some pictures of ski racers and slalom courses. In Dancing, there's a strong mother/ young child theme, so there a winter pictures of moms with their small children, as well as a spattering of ski lifts, and an area ski map of Whiteface Mountain, where the main character works. 
I find these very helpful when I'm dipping back down into the world in my imagination, the world I want to share with my readers.
Do you find images helpful in your writing? How do you use them? 

If you are interested, I have a photo gallery featuring some of my latest photographs. 
You can find some of my poems (including Sunflowers and Nighthawks) on my poetry page and also in some blog posts here at the garret. 
Thanks so much for stopping by!
​

Many years ago, in what feels like another life time all together, I heard a man named Wei Jingsheng speak at a lecture on human rights. His words, about being a dissident and an activist, about years spent in prison, stayed with me. He spoke of words and why they matter, why we must use our voices in times of trouble. On phrase stuck with me--A million feathers can sink a ship. 
I went home after the lecture and I composed this poem. I think it appropriate for today's world. In my own country, America. we will need a million feathers to right the ship and sail towards a more perfect union. And maybe, it helps to know that in all countries around the world, people, heroes, have taken up the struggle. Often at great cost to themselves.


A Calligraphy of the Heart
For Wei Jingsheng
 
 
When they took your pen, your paper, it was
because they feared the truth of you.
They wanted you to believe in silence.
But the silence had a manner of speaking.
You listened and wrote the words inside of yourself
until the calligraphy of your heart became
a wildfire, a conflagration,
a burning so strong no cell could contain it.
You wrote into the silence on toilet paper,
with a contraband pencil, with the drops of your blood.
The words flying from you like cranes,
their flight more powerful
then a thousand armed men.

 

What you are looking for

You walk for miles
Until you wear out the soles
Of your new shoes and weave holes
Into both your socks
 
You shop all the discount stores
Lining the divided highway.
You buy toasters and hand towels,
And carry them with you
until they slow you down
 
You watch the rose colored second hand
Twitch around the watch face
And wait for a long time
To find the life within you.
 
What you are looking for
Is already looking out
From under the yellow eye of the sun.
And at night the stars, the tender Pleides,
 hold your hand.