Do we give readers what marketers say they want, or what we want to write?

Over the past year or so I have paid for a number of marketing courses to help me sell my books. Unfortunately, when I signed up I didn’t realise that when they promised that I would sell tons of books if I followed their plan, that the books they were talking about wouldn’t be mine.

What do you mean? I hear you say.

Well, I mean, that these courses are designed to help you sell books that sell, which may not necessarily be your books. They cater for genre pulp fiction or non-fiction self-help type books. If you don’t write stuff like that, then from my experience, you won’t sell that many books. If you  follow the training in all of these authorpreneurral type courses where a few writers make millions out of selling novella style crime/mystery/whodunnit stories, then you will succeed. Especially if you are prepared to give most of your books away. Literature in general is suffering because of this influx of junk food style prose, in my opinion.

Readers don’t always want safe, they want different. Give it to them – please!

I don’t want to write like everyone else.

My motivation for writing does not come from the desire to make money, it comes from the desire to write for the thrill, the fun, the wonder of the written word. I am passionate about my writing. I laugh, cry, hurt when I write. I feel exhausted sometimes after I have spent a few hours struggling with sentences that won’t work, or characters that say things like, ‘Paul, we’ve done it!’ Ah! Done what? Now I have to figure out what they’ve done. It’s called imagination and you won’t find that in any course.

So, writers, not authors, writers – write from the heart, the gut, the soul – not from the bank account.

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Here is a wonderful poem by Charles Bukowski which sums up my rant beautifully.

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

If you would like to know more about my work, please visit my website  Oddly Books:

http://www.oddlybooks.com

 

Want Something Different To Read For Mother’s Day?

Firstly, I want to say Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mothers out there.

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I am all for celebrating the joy  and hard work of motherhood. I think it is a wonderful idea to have a special day to say thanks, but I do get a bit fed up with all the over-the-top sugary sentimentality that the event conjures up.

So, as an antidote, let me share my Sestina – Echo– with you all. It may be a little dark, but it does celebrate the relationship between a mother and daughter.

Sestina – Echo

b&W Tulip

Echo

In blackness, Mother reaches for the light

switch, but the bulb has blown. There’s a candle

under her pillow, ready for a time

like this – when the darkness grips. A cut

on her arm has festered and now the skin

appears red and taught; an angry mark.

She tries to rub it away, but the mark

won’t go. Mother cowers, whispers, ‘No light.’

Calls out, ‘Mary, quick.’ Then picks at the skin

around the wound. Mother lifts the candle

rubs it on the dirty scratch. Mary says, ‘Cut

again?’ Then sets the wick on fire. One time

she found Mother naked, another time

crouched in the corner making a mark,

a sign to her daughter. A broken nail cut

her arm, left a blood trail that soaked up light.

Mary saw it flow and seep into the candle

whose flame highlighted Mother’s aged skin

hanging in folds. Mary peers at her own skin.

But the dimness hides the truth; that at some time

gravity will win. Mary takes the candle.

Sees a rough carving of a heart-shaped mark.

Did Mother make this? A bird calls as light

shines through the window. It’s enough to cut

into the gloom they stand in, and to cut

away the chill. It shines upon the skin

they share, so similar in this half-light.

Mary shudders at the thought that in time

her fate will be to scratch out such a mark

and wear her body half melted like candle

wax. A strand of hair has stuck to the candle.

She pulls it off revealing a perfect scar, a cut

embedded. With her thumb she makes a mark

like Mother made, leaving some of her skin

behind. They smile at the symmetry; how time

has crept up behind them and how the light

transformed the candle wax into a fresh skin

to lay across the cut, giving it time

to heal the mark, slowly fading in the light.

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If you enjoyed this poem, you might like to read more unusual and darkly inspiration stories to be found in my anthology – Glimmer and other stories.

On the Eighth Day:

“He wriggled and pushed the bedclothes down. It was the first time I had seen him in the flesh.  His skin was white, and smooth as the skin on warm milk.

Never knew a man could feel so soft. More used to rough hands grabbing, not knowing what they touched.

He knew.

At least, I hoped so. Hard to tell. Been a while since I was in the company of a male.”

glimmer front red 2

‘The subjects range from humour to horror and supernatural romance to repressed creativity – they all have an underlying oddness about them which is quite refreshing. Recommended for those who enjoy something a bit out of the ordinary.’

‘Glimmer and other stories’ is a miniature treasure chest of jewels. I absolutely loved these short stories. As I was reading, I fell into a trance of adjectival excess… they were mesmerising, masterful, original, eloquent, lyrical, clever…’

On Offer at Amazon:

US:  http://amzn.to/239YbRG

UK: http://amzn.to/1n6Hqpu

 

Life-O-Suction Guest Post by Queen of Spades

It gives me great pleasure to present to you a very talented poetry and prose writer – Queen of Spades.

I could go on and on about her work and who she is, but I think Queen does a fabulous job of doing that herself.

So, take it away Queen of Spades!!!

Shoebox and Scrapbook

 

For those moments when my thoughts are at their most random, the end results can be a picture or a poem. Some are for a studio audience and others are for the bottom of a fancy shoebox.

Today I’d like to share some of my random pictures, along with a bit of backdrop surrounding them.

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If I’m not mistaken it was around July—close to the time where America celebrates its independence. I was suffering from a bit of massive cabin fever, dying to get out but wanting to feel pretty. Random my design became with the eyes and that was the end result.

A few little lines were inside my head. I jotted them down on a piece of receipt paper that was left in my car.

Funny how we are always celebrating freedom
but more often than not,
we’d rather be Free to be Dumb
that chain ourselves to Knowledge.
If those are the only choices I have,
let me be Intelligence’s slave
and my Emancipation never be paid
with acres or a mule.

There was more but I got busy. With different errands here and there. Once those were completed and I made it back home, I tried to recapture that spirit. Unfortunately, it was gone and so was the spark that began the poem.

Nikki.Image.2

This is just outside of my house, prior to the time change—when one could still see a light sky at around 8 at night. It was the hue of the sky more than anything: varying shades of purple with the yellow here and there.

Lines from that scene … I still have not deciphered what they mean or if they will appear anywhere beyond this guest post.

These branches will never break away. How can they when the roots are in disarray? They will never let her defy gravity to run her fingers through the clouds—too slow for solace, too fast for substance.

Nikki.Image.3

I wanted to zoom in on the fantastic green of the tree, making it the focal point more so than the boat. I think that was accomplished. It was one of the happenstances where my mind was empty—a peace obtained not by mediation but just existed. Those are few and far in between for me, so when they come I cherish them.

Nikki.Image.4

 

Man I can’t feel my face
not because I’ll mess up the mascara
but because I’m still not certain
this is really my face.

Yes, I am a creature of habit but the door has been opened to experimenting. Not too long ago, I went to a department store to have a professional makeover. There are so many things in the world of makeup I didn’t know existed. Brow primer? Brow wax? Lip primer? Different brushes, different techniques. My jaw would have been dropped the whole time, if I didn’t have to keep still for the makeup artist to put product on me. The end result placed a lot of emphasis on my brows and eyes while downplaying my lips. If one looks closely, there’s even a bit of blush on my cheeks which I tend not to do. When I imagine blush, I think of my grandma who would put a rouge dot on each side of her face. So you can understand why blush equaled bolt.

I have not dared to look that grand again recently but I have marked a lot of Beauty Tips 101 You Tube videos as “Watch Later”.

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It’s so easy to put on makeup
and get many likes and shares
but Social Media drowns into whispers, then quiet
if there is something significant
or if one is bare.

A day in my life … after I’m off my day job or a day I’m not working. I do a “howdidya” do—my way of describing an updo obtained without the use of Bobbi pins. First, having long Earth locs can be quite heavy and breaks are needed from time to time to get them off my neck or away from my face. Second, I’m not a fan of Bobbi pins. I can’t sleep in them and if they are in my head for too long, I get the “itchies” and start yanking them out anyway. I’m saving the pins the rejection; they should be thanking me!

In the backdrop are images I use as a bit of a motivational collage, if you will. I take advantage of the fact that the slope of the wall is actually the roof of the house. Besides, it is challenging to hang framed pictures with a strong possibility that they would fall. Cleaning up bits of glass is not my favorite thing.

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For all of my writes that made it to publication, you can check them out at the following retailers:

Amazon Author Page

Smashwords (where you can grab some of my freebies)

and

Feel free to network with me via

Website

Facebook Author Page

Google Author Page

Twitter @authorqspades

Haikus for Boris the Feral Cat – in honour of National Black Cat Day

boris up closishSince it is National Black Cat Day, I thought that I would re-blog this post relating the story of a plucky feral cat we named Boris. He has overcome so much and is now a loving and talkative feline that loves to play and be cuddled.

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About a year ago a black feral tomcat came into our garden and decided to stay. He would come and go and catch the rats that plagued us. So, to thank him we began to give him some food. Winter came along and he shivered in the cold. We built him a kennel and he kept as warm as he could. Gradually over the months he became quite friendly and allowed us to pet him. One day he didn’t turn up. Not that unusual, especially in the warmer months, he would go off for a few days at a time, return famished and sleep for a while before going away again. This time he was missing for a week. Then we saw him squatting by the place we fed him. He stood and limped over to us. He had been in a terrible accident. His back legs were badly injured, one was very swollen and his tail had been stripped of all its fur.


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He was thin and clearly in a lot of pain. We nursed him as best we could and gradually he recovered. During the course of his recovery, he became the most loving and affectionate cat I have ever known. Now, Boris, as we called him, is our shadow and follows us everywhere when we go outside. He is so adorable and very talkative. He loves to be cuddled and plays with various toys our other cats have long forgotten about. He will never be able to join us indoors, because we have several other felines that would object strongly, but he is welcome to be our outside cat and we will continue to make sure he is warm and well fed. To celebrate his return to health, I decided to do some slow synch flash photographs of Boris at play, and write some Haikus to go along with the pictures. I have fiddled with the photographs to try and make them look more like paintings or pastel art works.

So, here’s to Boris. One hell of a cat!! Boris blue

From out of the blue

Whiskers and claws, swipe at the

Mouse unused to play

Boris jumping

Feral leaves, feral

Cat, both fall and tumble in

Autumn’s blustering

Boris eyes Beyond the greyness

Red. A slash of hue amidst

The colourless day

Boris wooly bully

They become circle

For one brief moment and then

Split like a seedpod

Boris times two

He wanders solo

Shrugging off the shoulder ghost

His Doppelganger

Boris most of him

Half in the picture

Long white nails scratch at the air

Summer leaves behind  

Happy National Black Cat Day to Boris and all the other black cats in the world!!

boris handsome   boris narrow eyes  Boris beautiful

Presenting: The Confessional

Hi my name is Queen and I have a few confessions to make.

 

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First off before I even indulged in writing or sketching I was a fan of singing. This was the biggest indicator to the world around that I was relatively happy. I even sung in the choir during my middle school and junior high years. Now many years later I reserve my singing for the shower or when I’m doing my chores at home but I have a wonderful appreciation for people who can “sing with their chest”.

 

Excerpt from Inside of Me

I always feel
that inside of me,

there’s a song
waiting to come out.
Learning about different notes
makes me smile.
Memorizing little songs
makes me feel worthwhile.

 

brokenheart

 

As far as relationships I’ve been in some doozies! I bet all of us have some stories to tell about the wacky things we do for love. Heck, I even had a blueprint drawn up! Yet even the best laid plans go awry like shown in Dreams of Fog(excerpt):

 

I envisioned myself

styling and profiling

with the finest of things!

 

Engaged by 26,

married by 28,

and having my tubes tied by 35!

 

Yes, everything was great!

 

But my dreams were not to be.

 

Reality clapped next to my ears,

reminding me of the shambles

that is my life.

 

surreal

 

I had to find a way to get back on track. One way of doing that was addressing my fear and taking steps to conquer it. Now I’m not advocating violence by any means but it makes me smile how Courage, Faith and Love took care of business in Loss of Fear (excerpt):

 

One night,

as the sandman held me,

Fear heard a sound—

a moving about,

and Fear, being the paranoid

Ninny She was

arose from Her slumber

to see what it was all about.

 

And from behind,

Fear was nabbed

and She tried to scream,

but I didn’t hear Her,

immersed in my own dreams.

 

Courage cut off Fear’s oxygen.

Faith tied Her up.

Love picked Her up and quietly carted Her away

so as not to cause too much fuss.

 

Once Fear mysteriously (or not) disappeared, I had to find my way to Happiness. I was sprinting after it tenaciously but just kept missing the mark. But sometimes you just have to let things come to you:

imageedit_12_7561236523

 

Butterfly

I see a butterfly

I like to call Happiness

sitting upon

a yellow rose petal.

I crouch low in the grass,

anticipating capture.

When I am almost near the flower,

it decides to fly away.

 

I see a butterfly

I like to call Happiness

sitting upon

my window sill while I’m cleaning.

My movements become slow,

steadily deliberate.

I almost touch its’ feet

when it’s on its’ way again.

 

I see a butterfly

I like to call Happiness

sitting upon

the leaves of a tree,

but this time, I ignore it

and proceed to my writings,

but this time around,

it takes a seat on my knee.

 

Could this possibly mean

that Happiness is also

meant for me?

 

And as if it sensed my thought,

it again decided to flee.

 

But this time, I’m not worried.

It’ll come back,

eventually.

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For a limited time, get it NOW for $1 at AMAZON.COM !

 

On Smashwords (please enter code QK82Q upon checkout):

Reflections of Soul

For those who love paperbacks, there will be a $2.00 discount off the title via CreateSpace. Please enter code YA64DN9T upon checkout.

 Thanks to Queen of Spades for this wonderful insight into her life and thoughts.

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“A Queenly Visit in 2 Acts”.

Okay, get ready for this Author Spotlight.

I am delighted to introduce to you a gifted author of poems and prose.

 Fanfare and drum roll for Queen of Spades!!!

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I asked Queen some questions about her life and works,  and she will be sharing her answers with you here.

So, let’s get to know a little bit about Queen of Spades and her writing:

 “A Queenly Visit in 2 Acts”.

When did you start writing poetry, and why did you choose poetry as the medium to express yourself as a writer?

I started writing poetry at the age of eleven.  In a way, poetry chose me.  I was going through some trials in my life, and my coping mechanism became pen and paper.  Yet, even after I improved in that aspect, the ink still flowed.  Although I am branching out in other areas, I know that poetry will always be my primary form of expression.  It feels just as natural to me as breathing.

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Why do you write under a pseudonym?

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There are many reasons actually. 

One: There is a children’s author who’s already using my first name, plus my maiden. 

 Two: Using my full name would be pretty long to place on a cover. (chuckles)

 Three (but the most important reason): I started using Queen of Spades since I started writing, so it would feel weird for me not to use it.  Back then, the persona of Queen of Spades allowed a freedom of expression that I thought couldn’t be obtained.  Queen of Spades is an alternate aspect of my personality that I amplified and gave a voice to, yet she and I are now so in alignment that we have merged somewhat.

Where do you get your inspiration?

I get inspiration from so many things.  Sometimes, I can pick up on the emotions of others and write about them as if they were my own.  Other times, it could be a story in the news that makes me feel some type of way.  I can be inspired by scenes in nature or something as tiny as plays on words or a melody to a song.  Every element, to me, has an inspirational component.

Which do you prefer writing, poetry or prose, and why?

I’m not sure if I have a preference, just the experiences are different. Poetry provides the quicker fix, in the sense that when I write my poetry; it’s like an overflow of ideas dying to get out in one setting.  I have to do the write at that particular moment. 

Where poetry is somewhat microwave in terms of creation, the proses are slow cooked.  I can do one part, then return to it a few hours, even days later, and still know the direction I was going in with the prose.

Adrenalin rush goes to poetry.  Slow and satisfying goes to proses.

Tell us a little bit about yourself and your latest work.

Time to play “About Me” via short phrases and bullet points.  I’m going to throw in 5 standard things about me and 5 random things about me (and pray the random things I haven’t repeated in an other interview)

 ImageStandards
  • Southern bred/Northern placed (originally from Mississippi-southern US; now residing in New Jersey-northeast US)
  • Raised by my grandparents
  • Presenter of one poetry anthology & author of four poetry collections
  • Administrator and Principal Reviewer of The Review Board (Ma Maow the cat assists from time to time.)—[insert Ma Maow the reviewer graphic]
  • Featured Columnist/Editor-in-Chief of All Authors Magazine

 Randoms

  • I have a difficult time sleeping in total darkness.  A small light has to radiate from somewhere.
  • I have no problem spending money on loved ones, but it’s like pulling teeth when it comes to stuff for myself

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I didn’t even like cats until I moved to NJ, and no matter what cat was around, I was chosen as “the human”.

 

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  • My husband serves as my alpha reader, but it was difficult for him to read certain parts of Private Pain: Amidst These Ashes due to some of the described events.
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  • I haven’t mastered the concept of being completely still.  I get bored if I’m not being productive in some way.  The only way I’m completely still is if I’m sick, and even then, my husband has threatened to tie me to the bed or sit on me when I attempt to do things.

Private Pain: Amidst These Ashes

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CreateSpace | Amazon | Amazon UK

Book Trailer

Blurb:  In Life, one is expected to put her best face forward, but what if the process of revealing her best face involves putting the demons on display? Would the journey continue? Or would one stop dead in her tracks. 

Private Pain: Amidst These Ashes is the response in its rawest form. It is an inside look at: in its simplest form, Life’s growing pains; in its most complex form, a person battling internal and external forces to find peace in her own existence. The lines are blurred between what’s real and what is embellishment in this second edition, a sleeker re-mastered collection that doesn’t miss a step in intensity.

I have read some of your work and found your writing to be very honest and heavily influenced by your life history. Is that fair to say? If so, would you say that all your writing is based on personal experiences in some way? 

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Yes, that is fair to say.  Reflections of Soul was entirely based on an experience I had gone through.    As far as my other poetic writes, I can’t take full credit.  The Eclectic collection went beyond my experiences: I wrote about others as well as certain issues that are occurring or have occurred over in the States.  Spaded Truths: Themes and Proclamations is more of an exercise with beliefs than actual experiences while Private Pain: Amidst These Ashes circles back to being more personal, using the universal connectivity of pain and endurance.

What are your future projects?

 Well, I do have some short stories in the works.  “Misfortune”, which was featured in Eclectic: Beyond the Skin, will be reappearing in Continuous Drips, set for the end of 2014.  However, not all of the short stories I’m writing will be included in the collection.  I am planning on having some for people to obtain for free: to give people a chance to know me beyond the poetry.  Poetry publication will be on the backburner for a moment to give this other aspect of my writing a bit of spotlight.

I am also working on an online store, called Eclectisms.  Originally, I was going to use it to simply promote my current works, yet I kept being inspired by other people as well as other things, so it blossomed beyond that.  The spirit of Eclectisms is advocacy of truest self, even if it’s not in alignment with the blueprint of everyone else.  It’s in the beginning stages, and more products are gradually being added.

Visit the website for more information:

http://www.zazzle.com/Eclectisms

From seeing some of your photographs and thinking them rather good I was wondering if you have an artistic streak in you?

Thanks!  I definitely appreciate that, since I’m such a fan of your photography.  My first talent was actually sketching.  That blossomed around age eight, but it has since taken a backseat to writing.  I still have my sketch pad and draw from time to time, but the works in my head take precedence.

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You are also a reviewer and article writer, which one of these disciplines would you say comes easily to you?

Article writing, most definitely!  Back in high school, my creative writing teacher approached me about writing for the newspaper.  I mainly did editorials and special features.  Then, a few years after I had moved to New Jersey, I was a volunteer newsletter editor for the Pride Center of New Jersey.  Now, with this opportunity at All Authors Magazine, it seems like it has come full circle.

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Do you have a special place where you write?

 Poetry: I have to strike while the iron’s hot, so with it, no particular place.

 All other writings:  Those occur in one of four places:

(a) The office—when it’s a very slow work day
(b) My little office at my apartment
(c) In the bedroom
(d) Local park—when it’s a nice, quiet day

Does any specific writer influence you?

Traditional or indie?

Well, traditional, my inspirations are: Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, Alice Walker, Stephen King, and Edgar Allan Poe.

Indie:

Poetically:  Chantay Legacy Leonard—her connectivity and style is wonderful.  I was extremely honoured when she did the foreword for Eclectic. 

Fiction/Short stories:  There are quite a few people who I’m observing their styles and learning from, simply because writing short stories and novels are an entirely different animal than poetry.

Beem Weeks is a phenomenal story teller.  I fell in love with his novel, Jazz Baby, and I’m a fan of his stories.  They are well put together, and I can hardly wait until his short story collection comes out.

I applaud the way MJ Holman weaves a story.  The Guinea Ghost  stands out to me.  I felt like I was in a trance (a welcomed one at that) from beginning to end.  I appreciate that effect in her writes, not just her stories, but in her poetry.

I love Y. Correa and Perri Forrest because they defy any type of classification when it comes to audience and genre. 

With Y. Correa, there is a write for any and everyone.  Even if you aren’t deep into paranormal or romance, she writes things in a way that makes you think and comes across as very original.  I know she was probably under pressure to modernize aspects of MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis, since it is set in medieval times, but I give her ultimate respect for keeping the authenticity of the narrative. 

Perri Forrest’s approach to her writings: from cover concept to narrative reminds me of a scientist—there is something beautifully methodical about every component she places in her writes.  With each write, she becomes even better.  Although some have tried to place her in the boxes of “urban”, “erotica”, or both, the richness of her writes and her characters burns those boxes to bits.  I want my short stories, as well as any future extended works, to have that same level of nonconformity and authenticity.

 

If you could stay the weekend in a particular book as one of the characters, which one would it be and why?

In A Lioness’ Tale (originally called “Revolving Doors”) by Perri Forrest, Gabriella, one of the main characters, gets her heart broken.  She is presented an opportunity to see one of her close friends who resides in Brazil.  The way that place was described was fantastic!  I was ready to pack up and just go.  It was a combination of Gabriella’s exposure to a brand new world and the climate that made me want to be in her shoes.

I believe poetry needs to be spoken, do you agree?

Queen of Spades on Soundcloud

Well, I don’t necessarily agree with “need”.  Yes, it is helpful to hear the work being spoken.  However, there are some people who excel better at visual presentation than spoken presentation and vice versa.

There is this one poet.  He is a phenomenal spoken word performer.  Yet if you look at his writings, you would think he was subpar because of how his works were visually executed.  On the same token, you can have someone who writes beautifully, but a person’s actual voice and/or stage fright may cause a poem’s audible delivery to be poor.

In my mind, the presentation of the poetry is like a scene in a movie.  I actually see the images as I write them out.  For me, I know where the pauses are supposed to go and where I would like to emphasize something.  I know where the scene separations are to take place.

Doing poetic vocals is a different animal.  If you are putting music to it, the music has to match the rhythm of the voice.  You have to make sure the music doesn’t drown out your voice.  This makes vocal composition quite a task at times, yet if this is composed in your house (or at a studio, if you can afford studio time); you aren’t dealing with multiple eyes on you, and there isn’t that level of performance anxiety.

I like writing, and I have what some would say my performance voice.  But I’m also a chameleon, and I also have an office receptionist voice and my voice when I’m hanging out with others.

I say all that to say this: I understand why there are poets who choose not to go full fledged into the spoken word arena.  I actually find it a bit more baffling the other way around—speaking wonderfully but not having it in written form so others may enjoy it in that way as well.

Finally, what is your favourite beverage when you are writing?

Mornings:   I’m trying to wean off of coffee, so I have to go with a very strong brewed English breakfast tea with cream and honey.

All other times:  Dr. Pepper

Thank you Queen of Spades for a really fun and in-depth look into your writings and your life.

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For more information about Queen of Spades, please see the links below:

http://about.me/authorqspades

https://www.facebook.com/authorqueenofspades

@authorspades

http://www.koobug.com/queenofspades

http://www.authorqos.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Queen-of-Spades/e/B00D5X3H9U

Haikus inspired by photography

Extinction

Image 

Bee melts like honey

Upon a yellow flower

Wings paused in silence

 

Damage

 Image

The weeping Willow

Sheds no tears as his wild gusts

Rip at her branches

 

Reflections of a cat

Image

 

He stares at the sky

Unblinking, slit eyed musing

Thoughts of quill and fur

 

 

 Water caterpillar

Imagellar 

I saw a feather

Dropped in dew transform into

Silver moth larva