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Posts Tagged ‘writers’

  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. Daily Rituals of an Insane Woman

    April 10, 2014 by C.

    How lovely

    How lovely




    I read a book last week called, “How Artists Work: Daily Rituals” by Mason Currey. The book discusses the daily rituals of all sorts of artists, dancers, and writers.  The majority are subjects from long ago, like Mark Twain and Van Gogh, so their days were filled with coffee, cigarettes, and visitors.  Most got up very early in the morning, before the sun and began to write while the house was still quiet.  Many would work all night and take naps during the day.

    Here is an example of Beethoven’s day:

    “Beethoven rose at dawn and wasted little time getting down to work. His breakfast was coffee, which he prepared himself with great care-he determined sixty beans per cup, and he often counted them out one by one for a precise dose.  Then he sat at his desk until 2:00 or 3:00, taking the occasional break to walk outdoors, which aided his creativity.”

    You get the drift.  BORING.

    That got me thinking…I wonder what mine would read like 50 years from now.  Let’s just assume I go on to be a mega-comedy writer.  Tons of books sold, a few TV appearances and a few books turned into movies.  Here is how I think it would read…

    “Bissinger would wake around 10 each morning.  It took her an hour every morning to choke down all the supplements she felt she needed after watching many episodes of “The Dr. Oz Show”.  Then she would grab a giant Coke out of the fridge and eat a few Nutty Bars.

    Her first priority would be to check Facebook.  She spent way too much time on Facebook.  In fact, we calculated that she could have written 23 more bestsellers had she rarely visited the site.  She then would check her email accounts (10 of them), then Twitter and then her blog.  By this time, it was 2 pm and time for lunch.  Papa Johns delivered precisely at 2:15 pm every other day.  She thought cooking was such a waste of time.

    After her lunch, she would work for maybe 2 hours before playing Call of Duty, the video game, for anywhere from 2-4 hours straight.  From her biography, “Damn, I’m Awesome”; she shared that, “blowing people up with grenades really helps to inspire my creativity.”

    After video games, she would heat up leftover pizza for dinner and work at her desk until around midnight.  Then she would retire to her recliner and catch up on TV shows recorded on her dvr.  Her favorites were The Walking Dead, Girls, Modern Family, and Game of Thrones.

    Ms. Bissinger was very weird.  She rarely left her home.  Even more rarely did she have visitors.  She believed in Feng Shui and had many Oriental items around her home, such as Fu Dogs and lucky coins. She also loved to read so much her entire home became something of a Hoarders episodes with books piled from floor to ceiling.  Her favorite thing to do was to go sit out in her remodeled chicken coop and read.”

    Yea, that sounds pretty accurate.