Teaching Blogging

Here the poets go again, riding down the trail of words into that long and lonesome valley, carrying ballpoint pens and notebooks in order to describe the shadows that lie across their lives. Lingering ashes are evidence of those who went before, who scared the lizards lurking on warm sandstone, whose mounts’ hoofbeats have already echoed along the rocks.

It’s late morning when they leave the safety of the bunkhouse and nod decisively to Old Cookie, stirring his cauldron of coffee black as a heart of obsidian, cackling as they saddle up.

“You’ll be sorry!” he shouts after them. “Stay here! I’ll put up curtains in the bunkhouse and subscribe to National Geographic! No need to go ! There’s only sand and the taste of lime out there! The sun will drive you crazy as badgers!”

It’s true — the sun is hot. But in the saddlebags are memories of rain storms, winters, driving down roads slick with ice and the reflection of Christmas tree lights, down roads laden with pine shadows and the blood of unwary animals. Similes redolent of cinnamon and sweet amber, puns as prickly as hedgehogs, intricate words with Indo-European roots to be set, chiming, into sestinas.

Will they make camp this evening or press on into the darkness? The valley is always dark, always full of falling rocks and moaning winds. The horses shy at every sand dune, until at last the poets dismount and walk forward, carrying their saddles across their shoulders. It is their hope that, if they go far enough, they’ll find the place where fallen stars lie glimmering along the rocks, where the coyote’s call drips honey, where sand builds itself into castles, where light re-enters the valley and casts all their shadowed fears into bas-relief. There they’ll make their camp, pitch the tents made of long canvas stretches and ropes of human hair. There they’ll boil their coffee, sweeten it with handfuls of cactus needles, and sip with cautious lips.

The horses, freed, will run far away along mountain tops and reclaim their voices. Their hoof prints will glow red and gold along the chill rocks. The wind will braid their manes with clouds.

(Originally appeared in Sybil’s Garage)

The major frustration of the road has been trying to get time to write. I find it takes me a while to get started and in the flow when I write, and for those of you writing in scraps and odd bits of time snatched from kids and jobs and other concerns – I don’t know how you do it, but I salute you. I’ve got a story simmering and partially written, which I really want to send out as the next Patreon installment, so I need to get butt in chair and finish writing it in the next couple of days. Contemporary horror, set in Western Kansas. (I know my cousins will appreciate the last bit.)

Here’s a tiny bit to whet people’s appetites. If you want to read it when it’s done, you’ll need to support the Patreon campaign. 😉

Penny saw the sign coming east along route 70. Yellow letters on a background the color of drying blood. 50 MILES – PRAIRIE DOG TOWN ““ WORLD’S LARGEST PRAIRIE DOG ““ BISON ““ KIT FOXES ““ BADGERS ““ FIVE-LEGGED STEER. Another sign followed it: BRING THE KIDS. GIFT SHOP!

She suppressed the urge to snort and glanced at the rental car’s gauges. She would have rather flown, but driving, she could carry gear with her the airlines wouldn’t have allowed past. Or would have arrested her for, much more likely. She might look like an ordinary, slightly heavy middle-aged woman, but the contents of her suitcase were suited to a world-class assassin.

Which she was, of course.

I’ve also been working on some nonfiction, including mulling over some posts on things like writer etiquette, self-publishing, and the idea of writing for “exposure” (which I am not a big fan of, and will explain why.) Stay tuned for some of those in the next couple of months.