It’s raining outside. A heavy rain. And with it a feeling of release. I just sat there feeling very little. No pressure to do anything, but write. Finally. I gave myself permission to write. I’ve been telling myself to submit to publications, but I haven’t. My cell vibrated and a half hour passed, and while still on the phone, a text came in from a childhood friend. He told me my step-mother needed to hear my voice. She’s doing better, though. I said goodbye, replied to the text, “I will call her,” and my phone rang again. Same family member, needed to say more. I found myself remembering that I needed to go to the post office and just like that I was in my truck. It’s a mess outside. The rain won’t let up. I decided to grab some beer for when I got home to write. Inside the little store it wasn’t busy and I was the only one at the post office. Now I’m home. Looking out the window. It’s 11:57 AM. Not sure who’s going to call next. I owe lots of people phone calls and I’m not sure when I’ll get to it. But for now, I think I’ll shut everything off, and again, give myself permission to write.
Strange remote corridor with cement walls flaking into watery step-stones, dark found a friend, and we walked; alone sings a nothing and what a funny thought came to mind about let freedom ring. -M. Taggart
I can’t write as hard as I want to. My society can handle it, but the agents controlling the pathways to the publishers cannot and the publishers cannot. Something needs to change. The best current writers are not the ones sitting on bookstore shelves.
That’s my opinion.
(I’m lucky and blessed to have been published by amazing publications. I’m referring to the large publishers that tend to publish the same old, same old. The best piece I’ve submitted to agents once triggered this response, “Yea, I can’t touch that.”)
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart
I felt a feeling of relief. Not complete excitement. I’m not sure what that was all about. All I know is I’m sharing what has happened and I’d like to make more happen because happenings of something worth while are better than things that are not.
Cheers and thank you, any one of you, for participating in the voting. It was you who deserve this.
Only twelve pieces are selected publication of the month. And only twelve authors are elected authors of the month. Of the thousands of pieces that are sent in.