So, even though I said I made up my mind about the collection Down South where the Water is Warm, which I am self-publishing, I wasn't entirely convinced I wanted to split the serious from the "non" serious section. Part of the reason I wanted them together was to fuck with genre conventions and also because getting another book cover is like finding a unicorn in the alley. Well, I love the image above my sister painted, but what I thought about doing was publishing the second cover in black and white and adding a macabre twist in color. I think my artist and writer friend Marcy Rae Henry is up to the challenge. She can channel her lingering angry energy at her ex. Also, I posted more of The Harvest, but I went back to the previous Ashley section. Writing mysteries is pretty hard, so that will be that. Once that mystery is solved, on to the novel. I like plot twists though, no doubt a lingering effect from reading so many Goosebumps as a child, but writing mysteries is hard. Honor your AHA moments today. #Resist.
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You know what I'm talking about. I mean that writing high imbued with love and real life force. The thing you love to do and could do for hours, and I don't mean screwing. I thought it had gone MIA or permanently dormant or God forbid gotten passed onto someone else like my son, but there it was. Like reuniting with a loved one or old school friend and picking up right where you left off. Except this time, I have less clutter in my head and far less distractions, mental distractions. I guess in my mid-forties, I am more focused and centered. I still word-vomit, but I believe I can really get shit done. This morning, I got up at 5a.m. Unfortunately, my daughter thought it was her time. Still, I cuddled her and was just present to her needs. Then, I got up, made coffee, and went at it again. You can see the next page or so here: The Harvest. I like the direction this shitty draft is going in because I will have enough material to revise it. Some of the sections are really dialogue heavy, but character interaction and struggle are the foundation for plot movement. I'll just let the work flow because it does flow once I sit my butt on the chair. On a very odd side note, I wanted to write about human connection and performance. I was at this reading on Saturday, which was awesome and beautiful, and I was sadly struck by the number of poets who were reading from their phones. I like phones. I like their ingenuity and what you can do with phones, but they make me more sad now. At the reading, these wonderful poets just stared at their phones while they recited their work. Some never projecting their voices. This doesn't mean they are bad performers or lousy poets, but because they never looked at the audience, I got lost and didn't even hear their words. I wanted them to connect with the audience. In fact, I was expecting them to put their whole selves into it, but the phones got in the way like some fucked up dehumanizing barrier. I hope I never have to read off the phone, ever and when I teach creative writing again, I am going to focus on human connection. My students better do their best to connect with their audience and put their best effort and projecting their voice. In fact, I am making that a personal goal to connect.
Today, maximize something positive and human you thought you lost, but was under the psychological covers all the time. #Resist Editorial toilet paper is coming soon. Actually, I clean up a lot of shit on my own, but I can't wait to finish this full draft, so I an tear it up and reconstruct it and agonize about that process. I'm so lucky this doesn't have to put food on the table. Anyway, I went over some sections and added another page. I'm taking it page by page. I'm at 150 double spaced pages. Yay! You can read the ongoing draft, here: The Harvest. Stop judging your first drafts. #Resist. Just a quick update for those of you who were waiting: I posted a little more of The Harvest before I was summoned by my daughter. OK, maybe just three people have been waiting. I am working on my novel again, and want to do 100 more pages by December. (That means about one page a day.) Sorry about the new MS Word format. I suppose if you download it, you can make the font bigger. Plus, here's to the struggling novelist I met yesterday. 32 pages is better than 0, brother. I'm getting it back people. That's awesome news. This version below is what I read last night. I really worked on the pacing, and sans-microphone, I think people heard it and understood it. I enjoyed the three minute challenge to read something new, and kept my intro comments brief. That is not always easy for me because I tend to tell stories about inspiration. (I didn't like the not having enough time to write, but I gave the poem my best effort and feel sparked to keep writing more, fiction or poetry or articles.)
It was also well received, and I even had a children's author, Kimberly Thompson give my kids her children's book. She was moved by my poem. How cool is that? When I publish my book or novella or whatever, I'm going to be that person that gives it away to writers I like and inspire me at readings. Probably not the younglings reading off their cell phones. (Look at the audience for crying out loud!). Ha ha ha. I also remembered another valuable lesson, and that is to always carry red lipstick. I had to borrow some from a stranger, now friend. Always carry your red lipstick with you. You never know when you will have to read poetry. #Resist === “True Faith in Unity” by Dr. Maria J. Estrada People say those in power will always eat a gluttonous feast of misery and profit. The poor will always get poorer. They will be with us in the shanties of San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora Where indias sell harsh mint chicles and Spiderman keychains to American tourists. In Gaslight District of San Diego, Califas Bleeding cardboard casitas and moldy sleeping bags of shame flap in the dry wind Street After street After street. Under Chicago’s viaducts, drivers sometimes share a look of meaningful sadness—between texts—maybe throw pocket change at single mother and prisoner toddler, in tent-home. The rich will forever gorge on the fruits of that Puritan zeal, anointed by years of Colonization, Slavery, Repression, Racism, Misogyny, For money Tu bien sabes. Y toda mi pobre gente? Que se chinguen! Dreamers? Que se chinguen! In fact, fascists already rounding up criminals forever nationally tattooed-- Gangeros. Unions preaching that loving proletarian-arm in-arm solidarity forever? Que se chinguen! Y Texas, Florida, Mexico, Puerto Rico, Devastated, starving Commonwealth like Colony. Like a Tourist Hacienda. You asking for some sustenance? Quieres pan? Tu necesitas agua? Some Aquafina in crystalline bottles? Te hace falta la luz for hospitals? Para vivir? Pues, Amen. I look to my children, who fill me with so much esperanza, and I wonder at their celestial dreams, Siempre soñando. Seven year old son, prays every day, “Dear God, Please make Trump a better man.” My heart laughs amazed at his Faith. My two year old hijita so sweet, powerfully determined prays, for her friends, the scared, los zoo animals, las zebras, her light-up shoes. She knows nothing of Twitter terrorist threats, fake nuclear news against North Korea, China, the Middle East. Against You. Pues esta bien, Let’s pray for our ruler enemies. Let’s also pray for what could be That Unity Where the abundance that is now The technological splendor that is now Will be shared gratis y sin verguenza. Unbridled and free for all to have And my children and your children and We —We won’t ever have to pray for their scraps anymore. |
Jesú Estrada
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