Gayle Krause has been interviewing the poets who contributed to our book, An Eyeball In My Garden. This week it was my turn. Check it out, if you get a chance, as well as the interviews with the rest of our gang.
http://thestorytellersscroll.blogspot.com/
Thanks, Gayle!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Remembering September 11th
The following is a copy of a post I originally published 3 years ago. The memory of this day is still fresh in my mind.
An anniversary is coming up, a sad one that's hard to think about. It's a day when I'll always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news. I teach on Long Island and I was at work that day, organizing my card trays. My friend Barbara, ran down to my room. "A plane flew into the World Trade Center!" she announced.
We turned on the television in the library to see a burning tail piece sticking out of one of the towers. A shocking sight, to say the least, but we figured it was probably a bizarre accident. What we witnessed next, though , was even more horrifying -- another plane flying into the second tower. Clearly, this was no accident. For the rest of the day, our school was in lockdown, meaning nobody could enter or leave the building. The teachers whispered to each other in the halls. "What's wrong?" the kids asked. "What happened?" How could we tell them? Would they understand? What if somebody's mom or dad worked there? No, we couldn't tell them -- not yet.
For weeks after the attack, an eerie silence settled the parkways and streets of Long Island. The roads that were usually jammed bumper to bumper with traffic were almost empty. Homemade signs dangled from the overpasses. Pray for the missing EMTs. David come home. Pray for the missing firefighters.
A figure model from my drawing class lost both of his daughters in the World Trade Center. They worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, on the top floor of one of the towers.
A young woman who babysat for our boys when they were small lost her husband. He didn't even work in the WTC. She talked to him on the phone as smoke engulfed the conference room where he was trapped. "I love you," he told her before she lost contact with him forever. He had been there for a one day meeting.
A newlywed music teacher my husband worked with lost her husband. She was in denial about it for weeks, claiming he was probably lost and disoriented but, sadly, nobody ever found him.
A friend of ours had just stepped off the subway when the second plane hit. He worked across the street from the WTC. He immediately got back on the subway and took the train home. Later he found he'd lost 10 of his colleagues, including his golf partner. For a year afterward he had trouble sleeping and suffered from depression.
Almost everybody on Long Island lost somebody that day -- a soccer coach, a fire fighter, a police officer, a cook. A friend of my husband's niece -- a Suffolk Co. Police officer -- was on the site with her cadaver dogs in the weeks following, looking for bodies. She can't even talk about what she found. Let's just say, she didn't find any bodies in tact.
For some strange reason I still think of the time we took a plane from Islip Airport on Long Island to Newark, the first leg of a longer flight out west to ski. It was a small, twin engine plane with about 40 passangers aboard. The pilot decided to give us a thrill and fly a few loops around the WTC. We could see people sitting at their desks working, people standing and talking while drinking their morning coffee. It was strange but thrilling at the same time. Now I often wonder how many of those people later lost their lives and, if they survived, what their lives are like now. I know that ours will never be the same.
We lost more than lives that day. We lost our innocence and the feeling of security we had always enjoyed.
An anniversary is coming up, a sad one that's hard to think about. It's a day when I'll always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news. I teach on Long Island and I was at work that day, organizing my card trays. My friend Barbara, ran down to my room. "A plane flew into the World Trade Center!" she announced.
We turned on the television in the library to see a burning tail piece sticking out of one of the towers. A shocking sight, to say the least, but we figured it was probably a bizarre accident. What we witnessed next, though , was even more horrifying -- another plane flying into the second tower. Clearly, this was no accident. For the rest of the day, our school was in lockdown, meaning nobody could enter or leave the building. The teachers whispered to each other in the halls. "What's wrong?" the kids asked. "What happened?" How could we tell them? Would they understand? What if somebody's mom or dad worked there? No, we couldn't tell them -- not yet.
For weeks after the attack, an eerie silence settled the parkways and streets of Long Island. The roads that were usually jammed bumper to bumper with traffic were almost empty. Homemade signs dangled from the overpasses. Pray for the missing EMTs. David come home. Pray for the missing firefighters.
A figure model from my drawing class lost both of his daughters in the World Trade Center. They worked for Cantor Fitzgerald, on the top floor of one of the towers.
A young woman who babysat for our boys when they were small lost her husband. He didn't even work in the WTC. She talked to him on the phone as smoke engulfed the conference room where he was trapped. "I love you," he told her before she lost contact with him forever. He had been there for a one day meeting.
A newlywed music teacher my husband worked with lost her husband. She was in denial about it for weeks, claiming he was probably lost and disoriented but, sadly, nobody ever found him.
A friend of ours had just stepped off the subway when the second plane hit. He worked across the street from the WTC. He immediately got back on the subway and took the train home. Later he found he'd lost 10 of his colleagues, including his golf partner. For a year afterward he had trouble sleeping and suffered from depression.
Almost everybody on Long Island lost somebody that day -- a soccer coach, a fire fighter, a police officer, a cook. A friend of my husband's niece -- a Suffolk Co. Police officer -- was on the site with her cadaver dogs in the weeks following, looking for bodies. She can't even talk about what she found. Let's just say, she didn't find any bodies in tact.
For some strange reason I still think of the time we took a plane from Islip Airport on Long Island to Newark, the first leg of a longer flight out west to ski. It was a small, twin engine plane with about 40 passangers aboard. The pilot decided to give us a thrill and fly a few loops around the WTC. We could see people sitting at their desks working, people standing and talking while drinking their morning coffee. It was strange but thrilling at the same time. Now I often wonder how many of those people later lost their lives and, if they survived, what their lives are like now. I know that ours will never be the same.
We lost more than lives that day. We lost our innocence and the feeling of security we had always enjoyed.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Book Reviews
While finding time to write, exercise and manage household chores, I've been reading steadily - a balance of both YA and adult novels. Here are a couple of books I've lost myself in lately.
The Gardener, by S.A. Bodeen.
The intriguing cover and blurb attracted me to this high concept teen sci fi novel about a breed of genetically engineered children called autotrophs who produce their own food and water. When high school sophomore, Mason, discovers that his single mother isn't simply an overworked nursing home aide with a drinking problem, but rather a former research scientist who once worked for TroDyn Industries - a biotech firm that owns half the town - he delves deeper to uncover yet more startling secrets. In the mean time, he also helps one of TroDyn's experiments -a terrified girl named Laila - to escape from TroDyn. She's particularly frightened of somebody called the Gardener who turns out to be the mastermind of the autotroph project. The novel explores the problem of sustaining an ever growing population but falters with a succession of neat coincidences and a rather greedy, one dimensional villain. Both Mason and Laila are intriguing but not fully realized characters. Although the novel could have used more inspired writing and left off the too neat epilogue, The Gardner is a fast, engaging read that will appeal to teens.
The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson.
A physically attractive man leading a decadent lifestyle as a pornographer and coke addict drives over a cliff one night and suffers painful, disfiguring burns over most of his body. He's taken to the hospital where he hopes to recover well enough to leave and commit suicide, for he is now a monster, both inside and out. While recovering, he meets Marianne Engel, a schizophrenic sculptress of gargoyles. She visits often, claiming that they were once lovers in medieval Germany. At first the narrator, who remains nameless throughout the novel, thinks she's just a crazy woman but over time he begins to believe her as well as love her. When it comes time to leave the hospital, she brings him home with her to live. Gradually, however, he becomes more addicted to the morphine he's been prescribed. Then Marianne tells him she has received word from God that she has 27 sculptures left to complete before her time on earth is finished. A beautifully and powerfully written book about love and redemption featuring stories within stories.
Ash, by Malinda Lo.
A lovely, lyrical retelling of Cinderella. When Ash's mother unexpectantly dies, and then her father, Ash is left in the care of her cruel, bitter stepmother, Lady Isobel, who makes Ash her servant. Her stepsister, Ana, isn't any better. Her younger stepsister, Clara, attempts to treat her kindly but their relationship is hardly sisterly. Ash's only pleasures are rereading the book of fairy tales her mother once told her and wandering the wood by her home. One evening she meets the mesmerizing fairy prince, Sidhean, who promises her a life among them if she consents to give herself up to him. She agrees but soon after she meets the King's huntress, Kaisa, and a relationship blossoms in this LGBT version of the old fairy tale. This was the first time I've read a LGBT YA novel and I wasn't sure what to expect. What I discovered was a story every bit as beautiful and romantic as the classic retelling, but with a more empowering protagonist. I wasn't surprised to learn that Ash was a finalist for the William C. Morris award.
The Gardener, by S.A. Bodeen.
The intriguing cover and blurb attracted me to this high concept teen sci fi novel about a breed of genetically engineered children called autotrophs who produce their own food and water. When high school sophomore, Mason, discovers that his single mother isn't simply an overworked nursing home aide with a drinking problem, but rather a former research scientist who once worked for TroDyn Industries - a biotech firm that owns half the town - he delves deeper to uncover yet more startling secrets. In the mean time, he also helps one of TroDyn's experiments -a terrified girl named Laila - to escape from TroDyn. She's particularly frightened of somebody called the Gardener who turns out to be the mastermind of the autotroph project. The novel explores the problem of sustaining an ever growing population but falters with a succession of neat coincidences and a rather greedy, one dimensional villain. Both Mason and Laila are intriguing but not fully realized characters. Although the novel could have used more inspired writing and left off the too neat epilogue, The Gardner is a fast, engaging read that will appeal to teens.
The Gargoyle, by Andrew Davidson.
A physically attractive man leading a decadent lifestyle as a pornographer and coke addict drives over a cliff one night and suffers painful, disfiguring burns over most of his body. He's taken to the hospital where he hopes to recover well enough to leave and commit suicide, for he is now a monster, both inside and out. While recovering, he meets Marianne Engel, a schizophrenic sculptress of gargoyles. She visits often, claiming that they were once lovers in medieval Germany. At first the narrator, who remains nameless throughout the novel, thinks she's just a crazy woman but over time he begins to believe her as well as love her. When it comes time to leave the hospital, she brings him home with her to live. Gradually, however, he becomes more addicted to the morphine he's been prescribed. Then Marianne tells him she has received word from God that she has 27 sculptures left to complete before her time on earth is finished. A beautifully and powerfully written book about love and redemption featuring stories within stories.
Ash, by Malinda Lo.
A lovely, lyrical retelling of Cinderella. When Ash's mother unexpectantly dies, and then her father, Ash is left in the care of her cruel, bitter stepmother, Lady Isobel, who makes Ash her servant. Her stepsister, Ana, isn't any better. Her younger stepsister, Clara, attempts to treat her kindly but their relationship is hardly sisterly. Ash's only pleasures are rereading the book of fairy tales her mother once told her and wandering the wood by her home. One evening she meets the mesmerizing fairy prince, Sidhean, who promises her a life among them if she consents to give herself up to him. She agrees but soon after she meets the King's huntress, Kaisa, and a relationship blossoms in this LGBT version of the old fairy tale. This was the first time I've read a LGBT YA novel and I wasn't sure what to expect. What I discovered was a story every bit as beautiful and romantic as the classic retelling, but with a more empowering protagonist. I wasn't surprised to learn that Ash was a finalist for the William C. Morris award.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Life-Changing Diet?
I thought I knew most of what there is to know about diet. After all, I often read articles about diet, nutrition and health in general. But lately, my blood sugar had been creeping up, up, up and during my last physical, the doctor had increased my diabetes meds. Apparently, I didn't know everything. I was ashamed of myself. What was I doing with diabetes? I started having nightmares about amputations, blindness and deafness. This was not what I wanted to deal with in my future.
Desperate, a month or so ago i began researching the link between diabetes and nutrition. I'd read here and there that type 2 diabetes is reversible. If so, I wanted to accomplish this task for myself. My father suffered from type 1 diabetes for over 40 years, often taking two shots a day to control his blood sugar. He wasn't overweight but he wasn't much of an athlete either.
I came across Dr. Joel Fuhrman's website (http://www.drfuhrman.com/default.aspx) and his book, Eat To Live. I was impressed with the amount of information posted on his web site, the stories of his patients who'd reversed their heart disease, asthma, arthritis, lupus and diabetes as well as lost tons of weight. His book looked like a sensible guide to changing your life, so I ordered it. I read Eat To Live in a few days and passed it on to my husband, who'd had a heart attack about 10 years ago. Dennis is in good shape, compared to most people. He's thin and runs marathons but heart disease is in his family, as diabetes is in mine, putting us both at greater risk for these two deadly diseases.
The diet is a radical departure from the normal recommendations. Fuhrman proposes that we need to completely change our way of eating, putting aside all meat and dairy products, all our refined grains and oils. That means no croutons on the two big salads I now eat daily, no cheese on my chili or eggs for breakfast. Yes, I am a vegan or, as he puts it, a nutrarian. That means that I try to eat the foods with with the most nutrients per calorie so my diet now consists of vegetables, fruit, legumes, nuts and some whole grains. Instead of Cheerios for breakfast, I eat oatmeal with fresh berries. I've been following the diet for a little over a week and my blood sugar has dropped precipitously - about 40-50 points, on average. I've also lost weight, though I'm unsure how much (because we don't have an accurate scale in the house). I know that my clothes are looser and I have less of a belly (yay!). Though I fall well within the standard norm for weight, according to Fuhrman, I should weigh about 107 pounds. There's a number I haven't seen since college! I'm excited. Next week I go for my A1C test which gauges how well I'm managing my blood sugar. Since I'll have only been following the diet for a few weeks, I won't expect miracles but I am hoping to see a bit of a drop.
I know this whole post sounds like an ad for Dr. Fuhrman, but so far his diet is doing something I hadn't expected - working. I'm suspicious of most diets because they often call for doing without important nutrients. This diet, however, seems to be right on track. Over the next few months I'll learn whether or not it really will change my life by reversing my disease.
Desperate, a month or so ago i began researching the link between diabetes and nutrition. I'd read here and there that type 2 diabetes is reversible. If so, I wanted to accomplish this task for myself. My father suffered from type 1 diabetes for over 40 years, often taking two shots a day to control his blood sugar. He wasn't overweight but he wasn't much of an athlete either.
I came across Dr. Joel Fuhrman's website (http://www.drfuhrman.com/default.aspx) and his book, Eat To Live. I was impressed with the amount of information posted on his web site, the stories of his patients who'd reversed their heart disease, asthma, arthritis, lupus and diabetes as well as lost tons of weight. His book looked like a sensible guide to changing your life, so I ordered it. I read Eat To Live in a few days and passed it on to my husband, who'd had a heart attack about 10 years ago. Dennis is in good shape, compared to most people. He's thin and runs marathons but heart disease is in his family, as diabetes is in mine, putting us both at greater risk for these two deadly diseases.
The diet is a radical departure from the normal recommendations. Fuhrman proposes that we need to completely change our way of eating, putting aside all meat and dairy products, all our refined grains and oils. That means no croutons on the two big salads I now eat daily, no cheese on my chili or eggs for breakfast. Yes, I am a vegan or, as he puts it, a nutrarian. That means that I try to eat the foods with with the most nutrients per calorie so my diet now consists of vegetables, fruit, legumes, nuts and some whole grains. Instead of Cheerios for breakfast, I eat oatmeal with fresh berries. I've been following the diet for a little over a week and my blood sugar has dropped precipitously - about 40-50 points, on average. I've also lost weight, though I'm unsure how much (because we don't have an accurate scale in the house). I know that my clothes are looser and I have less of a belly (yay!). Though I fall well within the standard norm for weight, according to Fuhrman, I should weigh about 107 pounds. There's a number I haven't seen since college! I'm excited. Next week I go for my A1C test which gauges how well I'm managing my blood sugar. Since I'll have only been following the diet for a few weeks, I won't expect miracles but I am hoping to see a bit of a drop.
I know this whole post sounds like an ad for Dr. Fuhrman, but so far his diet is doing something I hadn't expected - working. I'm suspicious of most diets because they often call for doing without important nutrients. This diet, however, seems to be right on track. Over the next few months I'll learn whether or not it really will change my life by reversing my disease.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Profiling
Dennis and I returned home Saturday night after our long road trip/vacation which took us through the midwest, Utah and the south. It was great to see our son, Derek, who's attending violin making school out in Salt Lake City, good to see my old college haunts, Traverse City and the upper peninsula of Michigan again and we had a brief but great visit with a couple of AT hikers who both my husband and Derek know, presently living in North Carolina near the Smoky Mountains.
But we did have one disturbing incident - one that made us realize how the victims of racial profiling must feel. As we were heading east on I-80 through Nebraska, we glimpsed a series of notices on the digital signs over the interstate announcing an amber alert for a missing 15 year old girl, Melody Gibbs. In case you're unfamiliar with this term, an amber alert is posted for abducted children. We also caught the notice on the radio a few times. The abductor was driving a red Hyundai Accent with New York plates, was about 30 - 35 years old and could be heading either east toward NY or south in the direction of Alabama.
Dennis laughed and said, "Hah, that could be us." My car is a red Accura with New York plates but we could see somebody who hadn't paid close attention mistaking it for the perp's vehicle. No more than half an hour later, I noticed a state trooper following us with his lights flashing. I wasn't speeding so I suspected it had something to do with the amber alert. I was right. The state trooper took one glimpse at Dennis and I, kind of laughed and said they'd received about 10 calls on our car (mostly from truckers, I suspect), mistaking it for the abductor's car. It only took him a nanosecond for him to realize he had the wrong vehicle. He didn't even bother to check our license and a minute later we were on our way again.
An hour or so later we headed southeast on 129 through Missouri. It was a route that took us through lots of local traffic as it wound its way past countless small Missouri towns. We hadn't been on the road more than half an hour before once again we noticed a police car following us, lights flashing. This time Dennis was driving. The police officer introduced himself as sergeant somebody. "You were going a little fast back there." Yeah, but everybody else was passing us like we were standing still. This wasn't the reason he stopped us. "There's an amber alert," he told us, "for a car matching your car's description."
"Wasn't that a Hyundai Accent?" I asked.
"Uh, yes, but it had New York plates."
"And wasn't the driver a 30 something guy?"
Instead of answering me, he asked Dennis for his license. Obviously we were not child abductors. Instead of admitting he'd made a mistake, however, he asked us a ton of questions. What are you doing in Missouri? Where are you coming from? Where did you stop for the night? Where are you headed now? Whose car is this?
We started feeling that we were the victims. About this time, we noticed two other police vehicles pulling up behind him with reinforcements. What the #$#*^! They asked Dennis to open the trunk. In retrospect, perhaps I should have opened the trunk, since it's my car. Perhaps they would have backed off. Our trunk was jammed with camping equipment and duffle bags. No dead bodies or hidden weapons. Finally they let us go. As if that wasn't bad enough, a few miles down the road, again we noticed the police following closely behind us. This time 2 cars were right on our tail. This was within the same county, the same town where the police should have been in touch with each other. The two police cars continued to tailgate us for the next 10 miles or so until finally we drove beyond the area of their jurisdiction. Now we were upset.
Our car and its license plate number did not match that of the abductor's. And neither Dennis or I matched the description of the perpetrator. It was as if they just wanted to give us a hard time for being New Yorkers. It made us realize how minorities feel when they're harassed simply because of their race or the color of their skin. The only thing we were guilty of was driving a red car with NY plates.
It will be a long time before I set foot in the state of Missouri again.
But we did have one disturbing incident - one that made us realize how the victims of racial profiling must feel. As we were heading east on I-80 through Nebraska, we glimpsed a series of notices on the digital signs over the interstate announcing an amber alert for a missing 15 year old girl, Melody Gibbs. In case you're unfamiliar with this term, an amber alert is posted for abducted children. We also caught the notice on the radio a few times. The abductor was driving a red Hyundai Accent with New York plates, was about 30 - 35 years old and could be heading either east toward NY or south in the direction of Alabama.
Dennis laughed and said, "Hah, that could be us." My car is a red Accura with New York plates but we could see somebody who hadn't paid close attention mistaking it for the perp's vehicle. No more than half an hour later, I noticed a state trooper following us with his lights flashing. I wasn't speeding so I suspected it had something to do with the amber alert. I was right. The state trooper took one glimpse at Dennis and I, kind of laughed and said they'd received about 10 calls on our car (mostly from truckers, I suspect), mistaking it for the abductor's car. It only took him a nanosecond for him to realize he had the wrong vehicle. He didn't even bother to check our license and a minute later we were on our way again.
An hour or so later we headed southeast on 129 through Missouri. It was a route that took us through lots of local traffic as it wound its way past countless small Missouri towns. We hadn't been on the road more than half an hour before once again we noticed a police car following us, lights flashing. This time Dennis was driving. The police officer introduced himself as sergeant somebody. "You were going a little fast back there." Yeah, but everybody else was passing us like we were standing still. This wasn't the reason he stopped us. "There's an amber alert," he told us, "for a car matching your car's description."
"Wasn't that a Hyundai Accent?" I asked.
"Uh, yes, but it had New York plates."
"And wasn't the driver a 30 something guy?"
Instead of answering me, he asked Dennis for his license. Obviously we were not child abductors. Instead of admitting he'd made a mistake, however, he asked us a ton of questions. What are you doing in Missouri? Where are you coming from? Where did you stop for the night? Where are you headed now? Whose car is this?
We started feeling that we were the victims. About this time, we noticed two other police vehicles pulling up behind him with reinforcements. What the #$#*^! They asked Dennis to open the trunk. In retrospect, perhaps I should have opened the trunk, since it's my car. Perhaps they would have backed off. Our trunk was jammed with camping equipment and duffle bags. No dead bodies or hidden weapons. Finally they let us go. As if that wasn't bad enough, a few miles down the road, again we noticed the police following closely behind us. This time 2 cars were right on our tail. This was within the same county, the same town where the police should have been in touch with each other. The two police cars continued to tailgate us for the next 10 miles or so until finally we drove beyond the area of their jurisdiction. Now we were upset.
Our car and its license plate number did not match that of the abductor's. And neither Dennis or I matched the description of the perpetrator. It was as if they just wanted to give us a hard time for being New Yorkers. It made us realize how minorities feel when they're harassed simply because of their race or the color of their skin. The only thing we were guilty of was driving a red car with NY plates.
It will be a long time before I set foot in the state of Missouri again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
One Door Closes...
The end of my teaching career is in sight - in 10 days, to be precise. Although I'll miss my students -at least most of them - and of course the books and many of my colleagues, I will not miss the increasing demands that the administration has placed on us. Every year, they want an extra ounce of our blood. Their demands are draining, leaving me pressed to find time to do much else.
I'm looking forward to having time to pursue my other interests - drawing, painting and writing. I also plan to make time to do some traveling with my husband. We've been so busy raising our kids, then scrimping to put both our boys through college, that we haven't had time to see much of the world, outside of a few ski slopes. Skiing is s fun way to spend a winter day, but I'd like to see other places, too - Venice, Florence, the Greek and Roman ruins, the castles of England, Wales and Scotland. I'd like to go to Australia and New Zealand and see something of South America.
So, in August when those annoying Staples commercials air - you know them ("It's the most wonderful time of the year..." ) - I'm not going to get stressed or anxious about the advent of a new school year. I'm not going to wonder if I should go in early to look over the new books, contemplate decorating my bulletin boards or think about buying new clothes or planning new lessons. Instead I'm going to enjoy September - take a morning bike ride or run, do some writing in my pajamas and go to art classes. I'm going to savor the soft days of late September and not think about stepping into the role of teacher again.
I can hardly wait.
I'm looking forward to having time to pursue my other interests - drawing, painting and writing. I also plan to make time to do some traveling with my husband. We've been so busy raising our kids, then scrimping to put both our boys through college, that we haven't had time to see much of the world, outside of a few ski slopes. Skiing is s fun way to spend a winter day, but I'd like to see other places, too - Venice, Florence, the Greek and Roman ruins, the castles of England, Wales and Scotland. I'd like to go to Australia and New Zealand and see something of South America.
So, in August when those annoying Staples commercials air - you know them ("It's the most wonderful time of the year..." ) - I'm not going to get stressed or anxious about the advent of a new school year. I'm not going to wonder if I should go in early to look over the new books, contemplate decorating my bulletin boards or think about buying new clothes or planning new lessons. Instead I'm going to enjoy September - take a morning bike ride or run, do some writing in my pajamas and go to art classes. I'm going to savor the soft days of late September and not think about stepping into the role of teacher again.
I can hardly wait.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Poetry
After several years of sending batches of poems to the Carus Group (publishers of Babybug, Ladybug, Spider, Cricket, etc.) they finally accepted one of my poems for publication - "The Termite". I almost didn't include this one in my last batch because some members of my critique group had been so critical of it. But while some didn't like it, others did - including me. I read it, and two others termite poems, to my class of second graders and they only laughed out loud at mine. So I followed my gut and sent it off to Carus. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Good thing, too. I am thrilled! I know it's a little thing, but Spider Magazine is a high quality, literary publication and getting a poem accepted by them is a small affirmation of my writing skills.
Alas, I wish it had been a story or a fiction piece. In a few months, I'll have more time to craft fiction. For now, writing poetry satisfies my creative yearnings and keeps me writing.
Alas, I wish it had been a story or a fiction piece. In a few months, I'll have more time to craft fiction. For now, writing poetry satisfies my creative yearnings and keeps me writing.
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