joni abilene

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Month: November, 2012

Granite

When I was twenty, I wore a black velvet jacket with lace collared shirt underneath, and went to my friend Kelly’s apartment in the city. I sat in the corner, shy, watching the people, the people who could cluster and gossip and spread warmth and dispel fear. It always took too much liquor to make me talk. And then later, in the cold night weaving through the statues, Kelly and her friends, and her lover with his black hair: our breath frosted as we circled the dead fountains; pink granite with italian mosaic. I longed for lovers, for my tongue to betray my introspectiveness. But I, like the fountain, ran dry. Ran dry.

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Salve

Writing is a lonely business. Opening a document is a cry into a black sky with severed stars that bleed and bleed and bleed. The world may never read my words, may never care about a single word or its meaning or the reason for my need. It’s a lonely act. Sometimes we grab our coats and walk into a world of strangers; sometimes I think the things I say are important. Sometimes I ache and writing is a salve. Other times I ache and writing is the burn of iodine. They both heal.

Erratic post

Listening to the Eagles. And it’s beautiful outside. The trees out front still have their leaves and they’re so bright red that the light coming in my living room window is pink. The walls are pink, the air is pink. Everything is pink. I love fall.

After the record ends I might pick up my guitar and sing a few songs.

I’ve come to a realization. I would rather write short stories than novels. But I won’t give up on writing full-length pieces because I know I have a few in me. But for now, my passion is definitely in short stories. I think it’s the new art movement of our times. Having said that, I’ll probably hate short stories tomorrow and start writing a book. Tune in to find out.

A migraine is squeezing my chest and stabbing at  my eyeballs, but I took a couple of Exedrin to ease things up a bit. Come. On. Work already. I hate getting these things.

Next . . . more Eagles.

Manuscripts and junipers

Not much going on except waiting, but that’s kind of the life of a writer isn’t it? Write and wait. Write while you wait. As long as you have a few irons in the fire then all is fine. As long as you are working on something. As long as the ideas never run out. Keep writing, keep working, keep waiting. I am eagerly anticipating a response from a handful of places, but I know it could take up to three months. For me it always seems to take that long, or longer. I’m ashamed to admit that I do fret and worry over my submissions. I should be concentrating on the work at hand, I know, but still can’t help but wonder what’s going on with that one, and that one, and that one. A short story has been out for over two-hundred days now. I’m itching to send an inquiry, but then I don’t want to show how much I care, how suspicious I am about the whole process.If I do query, it will send a ripple of bad luck and then a huge rejection will hit my mailbox. Best to wait it out. Best to write another story.

Kansas is cold but sunny today. Many trees are almost completely bare from the high winds we had a week ago, so the evergreens are starting to pop out more. I love the smell of junipers in summer, but not fall. In the fall they have a cat-ish, weedy smell that is far from pleasant, though if you pick a berry and crush it between your fingers a lavender scent will come out. Have you ever had a campfire with juniper branches? The smell is wonderful and all those berries go POP.