When I read a book, I can tell you whether or not I’ll like the writer, especially if it’s short stories. The sense of humor, the timing, the depth of the characters: they all reflect on the writer herself.
I’m not talking about “likeability,” a term that seems to imply characters must be nice. Screw nice. I want “interesting.”
Well, there’s no one more interesting than Leyna Krow. No one. In the whole universe. Read her book, and you’ll know it. Read this interview, and you’ll know it times two. Continue reading
What is your least favorite genre? What books do you sneer at in Barnes & Noble? What would you never write ever in a million years?
That’s what you’re going to write.
And you’re going to take it seriously. For at least ten minutes. Continue reading
I’ve probably bought twenty books so far this year, and I’m not talking about the ones I sell on Etsy. (I actually need to buy more of those–get the shop filled back up.) I’ve probably bought twenty books JUST FOR ME.
Because I like buying books. Continue reading
Once, in high school, my English teacher assigned us to sit somewhere quiet and write everything we thought for ten minutes. Everything. Stream of consciousness. Continue reading
My therapist is about twenty and still believes in romance and unicorns and thinks the world is blue cotton candy so I sit on my hands when I talk to her and chew the inside of my cheek till it’s bloody and try not to rain down my acid pain except maybe drips and droplets because I don’t want to melt her, can’t imagine making her bitter when she’s just so sweet and rounded with flowers and even her voice is honeyed and can’t possibly understand that some cherries are sour some fruit withers on the vine some people will never be happy whether they chew or swallow the pills whether they exercise or buy the prettiest blouses at H&M and feel great about paying less for more out of small hungry hands that can’t protect even themselves against the darkness that comes out and snuffs the fluorescent bulbs and she clicks her computer like hey this isn’t right and the monsters wrap round her but she doesn’t feel them though they’ve ripped up her stockings and devoured her shoes and she says, Have you read YES PLEASE by Amy Poehler because that book will seriously change your life.
Now that you’ve suffered through some of my “poetry,” maybe you want to read some real poems, huh? By real poets. (She says as if she knows what that means.) Anyway, I think these poems are good. I hope you do, too.
“Lula” by Maggie Smith (the woman who wrote “Good Bones”–the one poem you’ve ever seen take over your news feed).
“Alpha Zulu” by Gary Copeland Lilley
“Milk Drunk” by Jessica Lakritz. (This is a cool project: Skin on Sundays. Very short poems written on skin, with a bit of a back story at the bottom. I’m particularly fond of this one because, well, I get it.)
“A Dream of Trees” by Mary Oliver
“April Aubade” by Sylvia Plath