Whew! Travel has (obviously) come to a halt, and as as result, I’ve been busy with editing and submitting my creative writing. I almost forgot to update y’all, but I’m happy that some poems have been accepted into these journals.
I was accepted to two international writing residencies! One in Iceland, and one in Finland, planned for 2021. A lot can change before then, but I’ve been informed that I can be granted an exemption due to business as long as I follow appropriate protocol, which I will certainly do. Here’s hoping that there will be a reliable vaccine soon, that things improve with containing the virus, and that travel can safely resume.
In Iceland back in 2016, and the answer is YES, about 47 of them.
I’ve been to Iceland before, but if anyone has any recommendations for Finland, I’m all ears! Or, any tips for a productive writing residency, books to bring, prompts, etc.?
Happy wandering & writing,
Ecstatic that my longest sectioned poem, “Redbird,” has found a home within this special Australian journal.
I’m all about women empowerment, and this feels like a good fit for such a vulnerable and important poem.
This newest issue of Not Very Quiet is set to launch tomorrow, September 14th. There is also an audio file, so you can hear me read, if you’d prefer.
Two of my poems are up on The Daily Drunk magazine.
I got the acceptance e-mail 10 minutes after I sent the submission, which was a massively wonderful surprise, and definitely a record for me!
Read them here.
Keep writing & wandering,
Ever heard of Taco Bell Quarterly? Now you have. (You’re welcome.)
Check out this incredible new lit mag, which features my work in Issue 2!
Write poetry. Live Más. Repeat.
Yes, I am obsessed with Taco Bell, today and always.
My poem “Salt” was picked up by Construction magazine & published in their 2016 Winter Issue, which was released today.
You can check it out here and read below:
I will eat paella and pan con tomate until I die, if you want me to,
salt clawing and clutching corners of my mouth
like your newborn child’s tiny hands around her mother’s finger.
But we don’t speak about it in the kitchen. We let infidelity churn
in wedding pots and knead curved skin like bread dough.
We savor a kiss. You feed it to me in spoonfuls, in haste
and wipe the edges neatly with your napkin before you go.
Your apron is burned in the morning. I do not ask why.