Pound, Pound, Pound
Words, under pressure, screaming for release, begging to be set free, washing over me, flowing out of my fingers. This is life, right now, this room, this chair, these familiar smells. I am home and it feels as if I manifested this all from a dream, I wanted it so badly. Home, with family, with children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Here, where I will die. But death is not the end, is it? Will this dream-reality continue when the breath leaves my body for the last time? I told someone recently that death is where all questions are answered, all mysteries revealed, and I hold on to that thought, hold it tight, like a promise that was made to me before I was born.

Pounding words, I haven't found the right ones yet, the ones that harshly demand their release, so I keep writing, every day, hoping the right ones fall out by accident, if not by their own volition. I'm angry, no, hungry, no, lonely, no, alone, no, peaceful, no, raging, no, no, no. Let them come, please, and release the pressure that threatens to overwhelm me. It gets harder to breathe every day, and that's good/bad/comforting/terrifying. We don't get to choose the beginning or the end, just all the magic in the middle, all of the dash between those dates of start and finish. Growing, reaching, stretching, grasping, school, marriage, babies, cancer, more school, the start of a career that was less than what I wanted, learning slowly that I *am* smart, I *am* valuable, I am good. I always was, just told I wasn't and so believed the worst of myself.

Slowing now, the words receding, time becoming what's it's supposed to be again. Are they out? Those words locked inside me? It doesn't feel like it. But, oh, well.

I'm done.

(Comment on this)

LOVE LETTER TO LONDON (Spoken Word Poetry) / England Travel Video


LOVE LETTER TO LONDON (Spoken Word Poetry) / England Travel Video (x)
➡️ https://youtu.be/4KXMIA4DjS4

(Comment on this)

Trump Is Killing Me
(I wrote this in 40 minutes) I am quickly losing the will to live. Drama much? Why, yes. Yes, indeed. I remember when the announcement was made that Trump would be running for president. I didn't believe it. I must confess, I'm a fan of The Apprentice and Celebrity Apprentice. I'm embarrassed to admit that. I consider it a personal failing, a character flaw. I really do enjoy reality-based television shows. My favorites are cooking and fashion. I'm a good cook, but I'm old and fat, so I shouldn't be drawn to fashion. But I am.

So Trump announces that he's running for president and I'm a little alarmed, having watched his reality shows. Then I listen to a couple of his campaign speeches. Ut oh. "Make America Great!" Dude, I want to say, it's already great. It's one of the greatest countries in the entire world. Is it perfect, no. Is anything perfect? No. But America is pretty great already. I, of course, want Hillary to win. I want to be alive and live during the time when the first woman ever is elected as president. And I love what Hillary stands for: for equality, for children, for women, for our place in the world.

I must tell you that I am the only daughter in a family of 6 children. I am the lone "thorn among the roses" as my mother always used to say. I know boys and men. I know what lurks in their dirty little hearts. Want to make a man happy? Feed him and f*ck him. Do those two things and do them well, he's all yours for the rest of your life. I grew up knowing all about men and boys and married one anyway. I then proceeded to have 3 sons. No daughters. I tried to raise my sons to be sensitive to women's needs, but I had an uphill battle as my husband was one of the most misogynistic bastards ever to have been born. He hates that women actually think and talk, but he loves them because he loves their bodies. I did not know this at the time. Had I known, I would have made a better choice. Misogynists come in all shapes and sizes. They also come in all different kinds. Some are charmers, saying exactly what you need to hear, saying it so tenderly and sweetly that you are blinded to the true nature of that particular beast until you fall in love. Once that happens, abandon all hope.

So I know men. Listening to Trump and seeing the reaction of his fan base, I grew frightened. I soothed myself with the knowledge that he would never win. I was sure everyone could see right through him as I did. I was wrong. There have been a few times in my life when I've been horribly, catastrophically wrong. There are not many of these types of errors in thinking and judgment, thank God, but when they occur, they have had devastating effects on my life. The belief that Trump would never win was one of those mistakes and its effects on my life are changing everything about it. I used to spend hours and hours online researching genealogy, happily connecting all the links that brought me to who I am. Those days are over. Money that used to go to genealogy-based research sites now goes towards current newspaper subscriptions. I now spend hour after angry hour on Twitter and Facebook reading, commenting and posting about Trump. I have never slept well, now I sleep even less well, falling asleep distressed and waking up each morning with the thought, "What fresh hell will this day bring?"

I used to spend a lot of time cooking and looking up recipes. That's over. Now I only cook because I have to, and I'm not happy that I have to even think about what's for dinner, much less make it.

I miss the days when I didn't have to think about the government every single day, when I could go about my life doing the things I enjoy without having to worry that the EPA was being dismantled, that public education was in danger, that the question wasn't "will there be a nuclear war," which has been replaced with the sure knowledge that there will be one, it's just a question of when.

(Comment on this)

Is there anyone out there?
It's like apples and oranges, you know?  But don't count the bats, they just whisper in your ear.  My ears itch.  I don't know what else to say.  Literary genius, they said.  Ha!  My ass literary genius.  I sat on a nail and floated in the water like Sundays are that easy.  Between the woods and frozen lake not my words, face first on the ground-- it's a wonder I didn't break my glasses or chip a tooth.  Just old bruises and prunes leftover from breakfast. Take heart, it's only a whimsical notion.  I haven't any plans.  Does anyone listen anymore.  I feel like I'm rushing.  Floating to rushing, it's that time of day.  You wake up and can't wait for your afternoon nap.  Easy for you to say, the cat just left me a gift.  Wandering eyes and purple toes and faulty innards.

I'm inside out, please note.  I can watch my heart beat.  My bones grind together and I don't think I can take today.  Nerve endings electrified.  Ten cards against the wind, and the whole thing blows over.  Another parade. Another stinking parade of oppossums and snakes, gathered together in solidarity, holding up signs stating their views.  Did my phone just ring?  Phantom sounds.  Phantom vibrations.  Fantastic, eloquent bouquets of snakes and dragons.  With just a sprig of baby's breath. Eat south, eat west.  Don't turn on me now, I don't know where I'm going.

Too many deaths.  Three and counting.  But they should be over by now.  They always come in threes.  Can you hear me?  I want results, god damn it.  I can make my own delays but the pineapple is all your fault.  The house that sings to me at 4 in the morning whistles a tune about lasagna.  My ceiling fan is forver sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  I can't type as fast as I think.  You must think I'm a few bananas short of a bunch.  Speaking of brunch, or were we. That was in the past, I doubt you remember.  But the airplane!  The airplane is overhead and towing a sign I can't read.  What if it's my fortune?  And I miss it because it's too windy.  Apples and oranges.  Apes and orangutangs.

She was mean.  I can't find anything nice to say about her.  Differences of opinion, you thought she was a goddess, just because she gave you a lollipop.  Lime flavored.

Apprx. 20 minutes

(Comment on this)

"Lift me up, darlin..."
There's a song that's been in my head for the last few days. It's a haunting song that resonates with me, touches the purest part of me, the part that no one sees, that no one ever touches. I can't get it out of my head, and that's okay. If there has to be something in my head that I can't get out, I'm glad it's a beautiful song and not a memory of harsh words or a chaotic situation. But this song is sad as well as beautiful and it makes me feel...sad. And lonely. Silly, really. I shouldn't feel lonely, but I do. But then again, I've felt lonely most of my life, even when surrounded by many people; co-workers, friends, family. I'm not sure where the loneliness comes from, but I've felt it for as long as I can remember. Maybe it's the absence of God. I had my palm read once and was told I was a new soul, that I'd never been to earth before. I asked where new souls come from and was told, "From Heaven, child." I guess if I had to explain my loneliness, being away from God is a pretty beautiful explanation. It gives me comfort. And it explains how sometimes, in moments of extreme fatigue or angst, I always say in my head, "I want to go home now," even when I AM home.

Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here. Sometimes I feel incredibly lost and alone. Sometimes I wish I could be in a place that makes me feel completely safe and loved, even if I am alone in that place.

(Comment on this)

"Say something, I'm giving up on you..."
Was today my parent's anniversary or is it tomorrow? I don't remember. I do remember (as I do almost every single day) that I am an orphan now. An orphan at 58. An adult orphan. My parents, who had the same sort of relationship with each other that I and my ex-husband, with whom I'm living, have, died in 2010 and 2013. My mother, a raging alcoholic for most of my childhood, was a narcissistic bitch who loved me the best she could, which wasn't very well. That's okay. I like to hope that she made me a better mother by giving me the best example of how not to be a mother. I'll never know for sure if her example served me as I have only sons, and I believe the truest test would have been to have had a daughter. Mothers and daughters. You know the story. I know that all three of my daughters-in-law find me to be a bad mother-in-law; two of them more so than the third. I raised sons who love me and gave them to women who don't seem to appreciate that the way their husbands relate to them has everything to do with me and very little to do with their father, who is, mostly, an ass.

I had 5 brothers and was the only girl in my family. My father's twin brother had 4 sons and a daughter. Girls are rare in my family. My female cousin had a daughter. Only two of my brothers had daughters. Two of my sons have daughters, the third has 4 sons. I relate much better to men than to women. I've always known how to keep a man: you feed him and f*ck him. I divorced my husband after 23 years of marriage, having grown tired of his my misogyny. I had to leave him in order to enroll in college to become a nurse; "No wife of mine is going to work and leave the raising of my sons to babysitters" he used to tell me loudly. I left for two weeks, got my financing for college and enrolled and then came back to him. When we'd fight, he'd through my textbooks out in the snow. But he loves me the best he can and most of the time, I'm okay with that.

My ex-husband is unable to have sex with me. His plumbing won't work when we tried. For a while we used medication, which I paid for, but I gave up on that. I miss sex, that deep bodily connection you have with someone whose body you know as well as your own. I miss feeling loved, too. There are a lot of things I miss: having my own car, having my own money, staying up as late as I want without worrying about what I have to do the next day, not worrying about what to make for dinner, not having to clean up after someone else. I am a neat freak, my ex is a slob. It's funny all the things we don't have in common, but we have history. We were 18 and 19 when we got married, our first son born 5 months after our wedding, a bit of a scandal in 1976. My oldest son's first child was almost a year old when his parents got married in 1997. No scandal back then. No one raised an eyebrow. My oldest grandson was 16 when my great-granddaughter was born. Times change. The change is not a good thing in my opinion. My grandson didn't marry the child's mother and they broke up a year after the baby was born. The child is shuttled between her parent's homes every week.

My time is up and I'm tired.

(Comment on this)

I keep trying to write what happened but the words twist themselves up into strange shapes that don't mean anything. I'm upset, that's all I guess I really need to say. And I feel like screaming it over and over. I keep thinking I should write a book but the idea is daunting and I don't feel as if I'm talented enough, no matter what people say. All I have is my own life which is playing out at an unbearably slow speed--this senseless dash between the dates of birth and death. It has always seemed this way.

I want to tell the story of what's upset me, but I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of the consequences, ashamed of the feeling, ashamed of myself. Though I knew what would happen and thought I was prepared for it, I was deluding myself. Especially since nothing good has come of it, nothing has been resolved or made better. But maybe I planted a seed of doubt in someone's mind that all is not "fine", that things are slipping and sliding into chaos and terrible things could happen. Probably not, but I can hope, can't I?

I just want my fingers to move over these keys and release this horrible tension inside me, unlock the door to tears and healing. Instead I just binge watch Project Runway episodes and wander about the house, a fat, pale ghost lost in thought. I would feel better if I could sustain anger, but it comes and goes. I eat my feelings and burp a lot. I smoke too many cigarettes and leave the floors unvacuumed, the shelves undusted, the blinds closed. I feel as if I'm waiting for something, but I don't know what it is, only that a vague sense of dread is poking me with dull sticks.

(Comment on this)

Every Day Is A Winding Road That Leads To A Dead End
Do you believe there is a story in you? Words, which when put together in the exact right way, will change your life, will change the way other people see you, will change how you see yourself? I believe it. There is a story I started to write that haunts me. It started like this:

We were drunk in Mexico. We were always drunk in Mexico. We told each other it was so we could bear the heat, the dust, the poverty, but it was simply because we liked to drink. Max always got drunker faster than I did, which made for some much needed comedy, but then he'd turn mean, which wasn't funny at all. Anyway, like I was saying, we were drunk in Mexico and it started to rain. Max had the genius idea that we should strip and play in the rain, which is how I ended up in jail, which is where I'm calling you from. Do you think you could bail me out? Max can stay in jail. I'm leaving him as soon as I get out of here, and I'm never coming back to Mexico again.

Just a start. Just something that popped into my head one morning at 3 am when I couldn't sleep or was fighting sleep and was bored with television. I realize there are problems with that paragraph, but it feels like there's magic in it, too. Or maybe not. It's hard to judge your own writing. Well, it's hard for me to judge it anyway.

I've been watching a series on HBO. A dark, twisty series that is absorbing and deep. I've watched two seasons of it. The seasons are two distinct and separate stories played out over 8 or 9 episodes. I am disappointed that the 2nd series ended tonight. The thing is, the stories, the writing, makes me want to write. But I think I might just be in a writing phase right now because everything makes me want to write. It's either write or stalk my no-good oldest grandson on Facebook, which only serves to enrage me and want to comment on his stupid updates. As long as I don't comment again, I think everything will be okay. That is what I tell myself. The truth may turn out to be different.

Just a short exercise tonight. My brain is on fire and working too fast for my fingers to keep up.

(Comment on this)

Back Into The Pool Filled With Snakes
You have unleashed the monster within me. I hope you're not sorry. I do see that no one else has posted here since 2013, which makes this almost an empty newsgroup-kinda thing. I cut my virtual teeth on AOL back in the '90's. I became famous for 15 minutes and then infamous. The reasons aren't important. Let's just say...I was a liar. Then I told the truth. Words. They are my passion, my addiction and, ultimately, my downfall. If they make sense, it's a good day. If they're cryptic, so much the better.

I am running out of energy. I have a lung disorder, which I brought on myself by smoking too many cigarettes too many long, long nights while trying to stay alive. Makes no sense, does it? I'm smoking now as I write this. I have always joked that I am such a dedicated smoker that I will be one of those crazy people who smoke through the hole cut into their neck to allow them to be ventilated mechanically because their poor, tired lungs all but gave up working. Or something.

I lied. I said I am mostly happy. I'm not. I'm mostly unhappy. But that's boring, isn't it? An unhappy life is just plain boring. I love my family, I sometimes love my life, but I am not growing here where I've been planted. I think I have always been the teeniest bit self-destructive. (Can you recognize the sarcasm?) The only times I feel very happy and outside of myself is when I'm researching dead people. I'm an insane genealogist. My family tree contains over 24,000 people. I understand that's too many, but I just can't stop myself. I get caught up in the lives of strangers who lived a hundred or more years ago. I pursue them relentlessly until they give up their secrets. "From cradle to grave", that's my motto. Some people hide. They seem to go to great lengths to avoid being found. You find them in maybe one or two records and then they disappear. Other people stay in the same place where they were born, marry someone from their neighborhood, die and are buried in the cemetery where all their relatives are taking their final rest. They may not challenge me, they may bore me, but sometimes they are a great comfort to me, having been working on whole families who just up and disappeared, never to be heard of again.

Time's up.

(Comment on this)

Swimming With Snakes (and other thoughts at 2 a.m.)
I am sure this silence means I have, once again, in a raging, glorious color, caused my son and his wife to dislike me. I do that sometimes, make people dislike me. I try not to, but I am human after all, filled with imperfection and a lot of hot air. I don't like my oldest grandson. I love him, would feel badly if something awful happened to him...for about an hour. Then I'd feel relief. He's the father of one of my favorite people on this earth, my great-granddaughter. I'm too young to be a great-grandmother, you say? I don't look like a great-grandmother? You are too kind. And also a liar. I am more than half a century old and very unattractive. But that's okay. The time I might have spent working on my outer apparence has been spent instead trying to make my inner-being beautiful. Or some such crap. Lies. Lies I tell myself to protect me from the bitter reality that I have let myself go. And my inner-being is not all that and box of biscuits either. I am going to say I'm okay with that and pretend that you believe me. It will make us both feel better, gentle reader.

Here is who I am: a retired nurse. A mother. A grandmother. An ex-wife. A sister. A friend. A confused rider on this blue planet trying to figure out what it all means, what the purpose is, what I'm still doing here. Hey, I didn't buy a ticket to this ride. I was just minding my own business somewhere far away and woke up one day here. I'm not unhappy, most of the time. I'm confused often, but not unhappy.

So. This thing I did today that made my son and daughter-in-law dislike me. I am a woman of many words. Written words. I like them better than spoken ones. I always have. (Do you see how I'm distracting us both from this thing I did? Yeah, I noticed it, too.) I write because it feels good. I used to write to keep myself alive, struggling to put words on white space to empty out the overwhelming feeling that I had become useless and without value. It worked, as you can see. I'm clearly still here. I've been doing this now for over 40 years. My house is littered with journals and scraps of paper expressing how I feel, what I think. And now I am going to steer myself back towards the subject.

I don't like my oldest grandson. The worst thing about being a nurse with psychiactric experience is that I can quickly recognize ne're-do-wells and manipulators. That would be my oldest grandchild, the oldest child of my much beloved oldest son. I liked him enough when he was a baby, but I left my family just after he turned one. I wasn't here during the critical formative years in his life. I breezed in for about a year when he was seven, then breezed back out again. At that time, I noticed that he was a very difficult child, one of those violent, whiney, mean children that are sometimes born to remind us just how awfully things can go wrong with child-rearing. I still loved him, but loved him much better from afar.

He's eighteen now and one of the biggest wastes of the union of sperm and egg alive. He got kicked out of school when he was 15. He stole from his parents. He did drugs. He was impossible to please unless he was the center of attention. He brags constantly about how wonderful he is at this and that, but of course can never back his claims up, which makes other people distrust him. He intimidates his siblings with violence and a VERY LOUD VOICE. He created a child with a 12 year-old girl, the "love of his life", whom he now despises. He should have gone to jail, but because he was 15 at the time, and the girl turned 13 before she had my great-granddaughter, the state cut him some slack. He is eighteen now and does not have a job, a driver's license, or the desire to do much of anything except terrorize his immediate family, fornicate with his new girlfriend, play vidoeo games and go be with his friends who are all much younger than he is. I don't like him. I don't like being around him. I worry constantly about my great-granddaughter, that she's not getting the time and attention she needs to grow up in any decent sort of way. I'm told that it's none of my business, a concept I totally disagree with. He and his daughter are here on earth because of me. Without me, there'd be no them....

(Comment on this)

Breathe.
Take a step forward.
Put one foot in front of the other slowly.
Make sure your toes are straight.
Balance carefully.
And then fall.
Arms spread like youre flying.
Like a bird.
Do not be scared.
Just live.
In that moment. In that second.
You are free.

(Comment on this)

peace
there are differences between people that are hardly spoken of
past the inconsistencies of language and heritage
there are the old ways
we had our feet on the clutch, our train on the track
our hands around our pens, our fingers on the dial
made to sound ugly - time's skeleton cabinet
'it's easier now'
as if the circuitry has been cut in half
but it is working overtime - overclocked by our oversimplification
the theater is closed - 'kids and their video games'
no more arcade and no more soda machines
the silence is never really silent, but it sounds different.
overwhelming hum of continuous relandscaping
distant rip of an unmuffled engine
the buzz of the streetlight over the empty parking lot
this is our space now- i hope
that you can feel the goosebumps of
alone

(Comment on this)

I Love You (but I secretly want to rickroll you)
As I approached the enigmatic container a whole life blistered and burned before my ascent. The idea that there is a method and mechanism for all things, independently and symbiotically, written out painstakingly and forebodingly, complete in its era yet fostering the ubiquitously aforementioned resynthesis, again and again, throughout time prior, up until and far after, leads me adamantly; writing my own verse, signing my own hands, my veins, my skin, eyebrows and nose, laughing all the more for every hope that is sunken, I am onwardness in-the-going over the rainbow.

(Comment on this)

need more writing exercises?
wordspams is a commitment-free community that offers word spam exercises and more.

feel free to post your responses, works in progress, etc.

come join/watch, if interested! :)

(Comment on this)

Velocity

It has been coming faster and faster—the mere number of life events overwhelming him, like waves on the lake whipped by a wind from the north. The sheer blue reflection of sky is lost to a jumble puzzle of air, light, foliage and the wings of nondescript water birds. The sound accompanying it is the kind that drowns out thought.

Coherent thought, at least. He has many, many thoughts, just can't make sense of them. Lines of phrases, flickering images, like the blue light on the wall of a stranger's living room, glimpsed through the window at night. Someone somewhere is experiencing a story. Many people, many stories. He is the one out alone in the road, looking in, catching just the reflection of light behind their heads. He is a receptacle for all these fragments of other people's stories.

But is it real? It's real alright! He has never felt so lifelike, getting closer and closer to the real thing, a cutout figure taking on a third dimension of feelings and memories. He is no longer an impostor, an alien posing as someone who belongs. He really belongs in the world he has created, even if no one else can see it through their television screens. He wishes they would just turn off their realities and comedies, stand up, and look through the glass into the profound darkness that surrounds them. The enigmatic, unmistakable density of night.

He moves along the filament of sidewalk like a cell along an alga strand, feeling his way from insignificance to insignificance.

It's all in the rhythm, the pulse of subliminal music welling up through his eyes, pressing the lids, popping them open to a hopeful new perception. Grasping, grasping. What does it mean? To reach or understand? Is he looking for an idea, or looking through it, like a mind looks through a mirror and sees nothing?

He feels oppressed by the judgmental gaze of dark one-way windows, unseen lives passing beyond his view. "Books are better," he thinks. "Better than real people. You can tell them to stop or slow down and wait for you to catch up. You don't have to keep reading while they digest their breakfasts and fix their hair. All the mundane details are set aside. You can get to the core of what they're doing, what moves them."

He has never been good at reading books all the way to the end. The realities frighten him. It's a combination of all the worst things he can imagine for himself, and all the good things other people imagine but he can't even believe.

Down at the end of the street where it coils into a round parking lot, dead ending at the park, he finds a pool of light and slips beyond it into the deepest shadows. The toads are singing. It's that time of year. In the woods beyond the bicycle path, the darkness is so thick he can't see his hand held in front of his face. But when he turns around, the streetlights are still there in the distance, with the shrill chorus of a spring night filling his ears, filling his head like razor blades, like the sharp edge of a new epiphany that will sever truth from reality.


(20 minutes)

(1 Comment |Comment on this)

love
some musicians have chops, and when i say that i mean that they can pull off all manner of grotesque medley of outlandish combination of perpetual chaos on their chosen instrument and they do so with precision that evidences devout practice, but they may still totally lack more than a very basic understanding of the theory or science of music; some musicians have chops and a deep fundamental knowledge of sonic convergences and divergences, modes and scales, tunings and mathematics, and they can slip undetectably between countless styles and functions, weaving potent and almost willing threads of audio between and around one another, but they too may be in deficit of something more fundamental to the intrinsic beauty of the musical form. the truly celebrated and revelatory musicians, and as well the most celebrated and revelatory artists and people of all kinds, possess something perhaps altogether more important than ability or even knowledge, which is an entire and absolute love, not only of music but of life itself.

(Comment on this)

utmost
where is that love you wrapped up so carefully and stuffed into drawer upon drawer. did it grow testicles and conduct police round-ups at election times? did it fly madly at the sun without an ounce of gravity? did it chain-smoke cigarillos and mutter self-righteously? did it speak truth to power from the floor of a white room? did it wither alone unnoticed until it was too late to take it back out into the light? how do you know if it died there or not, or were you paying attention? where are the kids? rodeo robs? that was five hours ago! you left the kids at rodeo robs for five hours? five hours! never should have known again. couldn't stand waiting.

Current Mood: cold

(Comment on this)

the Dasein shim-shimmies
What secret? Top secret. Pop secret.

Secret secrets? No secret.

The question. To Query. The queried.

Chop chop, eidos. There will always remain the unreferencable.

(Comment on this)

moment
it's been almost a month. maybe it's been split forever. the last kiss goodbye was the end of the tale. i fight for it as much as i fight against it. that good for nothing, low-down mother fucker. does it get any worse? i let emotionality flow in the wrong direction. i should cherish my possessions rather than throwing them to a darkened shadow hunched at my feet. fleeting adoration is just that. i must break the tie that binds. me to him...not him to me. i hesitate a step in his direction. only for a second did i think i should. he calls, he asks me to follow. the fur instantly stands up on the back of my neck. my eyes narrow slicing his assumption in half. every chink in my armor has left a mind numbing scar. i need to remove myself from the present and set myself into the future. i need to be 850 miles away. call it running. call it healing. call it what you will. it doesn't matter to me because no one knows what this feels like to me. no one knows because no one would dare. no one would dare to face the wild current of an unconditionally bad man.

Current Mood: pissed off

(Comment on this)

Community Pimp


Teen Novelists is a writing-based community for all of those aspiring authors who dream to, one day, have their hardbacks splayed across shelves. Our goal here is to provide a hassle-free, fun society to share stories, ideas, and exchange comments, critique, and criticism.

If you're interested, come join!

P.S. Mods, if this isn't allowed, feel free to delete!

(Comment on this)