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‘writing’ Category

  1. Meet Leandra Tuggle

    March 16, 2015 by C.

    Children playing

    Children playing


    Last week at my Writers Guild meeting, one young lady shared some of her poetry with us and I was just blown away by her talent. She had been coming to the meetings for several months and had never shared anything before. Her poem about her future children gave me goosebumps. I have never been a big fan of poetry but I like this work a bunch.


    Leandra agreed to let me share some of her work here on my page and what an honor that is for me. So please enjoy some real writing for once on this blog…Ladies and Gentlemen, a few works by Leandra Tuggle.


    “My Children”

    I wait for them.  My children
    for whom I dream and have dreamt.
    I soothe their sorrows with batches of
    imagined kisses and uneaten cookies.
    I talk to them – about their day, their teachers and friends;
    unanswered questions whispered into a metal whisk.
    I imagine chaotic mornings searching for lost
    socks and mittens and scurrying out the door in a flash.
    When I close my eyes as I close my door,
    I can almost hear them calling for me.

    And their names – oh their names – I have spent years
    searching for the perfect name.  I fall in love with
    characters and crayons and strangers and streets whose
    names resonate life and color. I draw them out on pieces of paper
    in hopes to find the perfect shade for
    the shades of myself.

    Eleanor ask me where I found her name and I tell
    her I never found it, it found me. Like the hidden book in
    a neglected library whose dusty jacket stands out amongst the rest;
    a name possessed by tradition and honor.

    Little Liam tells me that his name is too girly, but I tell
    him that his name reminded me of green meadows and deep
    forests – where only an adventurer could live.

    And my precious Evangeline, or Evie as I whisper to her as I carry
    her to bed; her dark hair and light eyes needed a name as
    beautiful – my heavenly angel, my shooting star.

    I remember all the other contenders: Avery and Holden and
    Lydia and Lincoln.  They’re still in the back of my mind playing with
    blocks or crudely coloring in the shapes of bears and dinosaurs.

    As I fall asleep, I hold my breath so I can hear their reassuring
    snores and imagine what they are dreaming: juice boxes and
    squeaky swings and faraway castles and talking dragons.
    And in the morning, I imagine waking to their peering eyes rather
    than those of the  inconsiderate sun, who fails to give me even just a
    few more minutes to play and talk and laugh and hold them
    in my dreams.




    I lay here;

    the cottage cheese bed folding in around me

    like the shameful palms pursed around a pleading prayer.

    I stare at the bedside table.

    It rests like a forgotten child used only for the neglected flowers that

    I claim that you gave me.


    The woman with the flower cart had a lazy eye

    and she sang the saddest song.

    Of the hills of Czechoslovakia (or

    another country I only pretend to know exists)

    and as she sang this song

    Your face was everywhere.

    In the driver of the parked taxicab.

    In the reflection of a window.

    In the murky puddle beneath my feet.

    And I felt sorry for myself

    But sorrier for the

    lazy-eyed lady

    and all her

    lazy-eyed children, so I bought the



    Now when I stare at them, your

    eyes look up from every petal,

    and I feel sick.

    So I rest my cheek upon the cool nakedness of the pillow

    while a bouquet of tears collect beneath my chin.



    There was me and you and the moonlight.  We existed

    in threes.  Our wholes divided and melded into one.

    Your hands were my hands.  My heart yours too.  Even

    the moon took the same shape as your eyes, they staring

    at me staring at you.


    I wish we could’ve stayed there forever.  The world stopping

    for one goddamn moment so that I could breathe you into me

    I want to create a hole in the world the shape of us and

    never escape.  The world can keep turning, keep bleeding, but

    you and me will rise above it               below it            between it.


    That night will always bring me joy.  In my old age, my

    abandoned mind will return to that moment.  The nurses will feed me

    pills and pears and pillows and I’ll go on babbling about how soft the

    blades of your shoulders felt poured into my palms and the tickle of

    your stubble on my knee.


    And that fucking moonlight – that blinds me from everything that

    I once thought was important, real.


    For more information on Leandra Tuggle please seek her out here:

  2. Famous On My Terms

    May 25, 2012 by C.

    Put some comfortable shoes with this outfit and I would rock it!


    I have long been fascinated with becoming a celebrity. It wasn’t quite the same when I was a child as it is now, but I wanted to be a member of the rock band Kiss. I would put on concerts in my bedroom singing all their songs using my hairbrush as a microphone.

    Apparently my mother thought this was sort of cute so one Christmas she bought me a Kiss outfit. Basically, a black and white striped polo shirt with the Kiss logo on the chest, jeans with a Kiss patch sewn onto the back pockets and a matching belt. Yes, I was a bad ass.

    This obsession with rock bands continued as I grew older, but everything changed when my grandfather sent me a set of drums when I turned eight. My poor parents then had to pay $.25 to come to my drum show in the playroom. My favorite song to play along with was James Taylor’s “Handy Man”. Yea, I was killing it with the mellow crowd (this was truly a step up from the Barry Manilow that was playing constantly in our house).

    Music was my obsession. My goal was to play on a stage someday with a band. I still love music very much, but my celebrity goal changes more and more as I get older.

    Leaving my house is just something I don’t like to do anymore. My middle name is  “Hermit”. The thought of spending hours on a tour bus with a bunch of wild men just doesn’t do it for me anymore. The parties, drugs and drinking would probably kill me at my age. My drug of choice these days is “Aleve”.

    The only way adventuring out on a tour bus would be acceptable would be if I had a bus of my own and I could go to the Grand Canyon or something. Screw performing on a stage under all those hot lights. I freaking hate to sweat now. Gross.

    So I am moving in the direction of being a famous writer. No bus, I can work from home in my pajamas and the most leaving my house I will ever have to do would be for a book tour, which is right up my alley. Hundreds of people lined up for me to autograph their books and pose for a photo sounds pretty cool, as long as they put me up in a swanky hotel.

    The Holiday Inn Express is not going to cut it, people. I am talking a baby grand piano in my room (no, I don’t play piano but maybe I will hire someone to play for me all night long), ocean view (for the places I have to go that will not have an ocean (God forbid) there better be a river, stream, lake or a damn drainage ditch under my window) and someone to fetch me milk and cookies, then tuck me in. A kiss on the forehead would be okay as long as the person is majorly attractive.

    The one worry I really have about this whole writer thing is when one of my books is actually made into a movie and I must attend a red carpet event. I do not wear dresses. Ever. So if they really wanted me to attend, then I would have to go ultra casual and comfy. I would leave my pajamas at home, but I might be able to get away with wearing those pajama jeans. Put a nice shirt with those things and no one would ever know the difference.

    I hope to see you all real soon out in the book signing lines. I suppose that means there will be a book published, but that isn’t a problem. I am positive I can whip out a bestseller in 2-3 days tops. I mean if Tila Tequila, Paris Hilton and Snooki can write a book, then this will be a breeze.



  3. Cutting Loose

    October 5, 2011 by C.

    I have been holding back. I worry too much about what people will think about my writing. Often, I ask for opinions from my friends and family if I should write about certain topics that come to mind and 90% of the time, I am told no. Am I really that sick? I guess we will find out.
    In reading “Writing Down The Bones” by Natalie Goldberg, I have discovered that I have to just let it go…put it out there.  My professor told me she thinks I feel I must be perfect when writing. Well, that is about to change.  Sure, there are a few things that I won’t write about…the one that comes to mind is negative things about my job. Since that job is the one that pays the bills, I will have to avoid that topic until someone else wants to fund my car payments and M&M addiction.
    So, you have been warned. You might see posts about men with feet fetishes and women that have orgasms while they poop. If you start reading and decide something is too much for you to handle, then by all means stop reading that one but whatever you do don’t give up on reading what is going on here. I am like a diamond in the rough…the more practice I get, the better I become and one of these days this blog will be a bright and shiny object you would want to show off to your friends and family.