Willow ,'Lies My Parents Told Me'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
AtlanticRock.com, "your one-stop information site for all things African in America," is republishing an old essay of mine, "Once Again, Poetry Is Dead?: It must be true, because Newsweek said it."
Odd when total strangers take interest in things I wrote ages ago. But hey, I'm honored just to be here, y'know?
one of the thousands of orphan websites that no one has swept or dusted for years
That's what mine looks like now -- the website, not the blog. I kept thinking it would be easier than it is to put one together, and, uh, not so much, it turns out. I'm hoping my thirteen-year-old will pick up Dreamweaver faster than I am.
You all RAWK.
Web design is one of the things I do to make a living, but my business website is like the shoemaker's children. I would never let a client's website get so out of date.
woot! Go, Victor!
Kristin is reading two of my early short stories. One was written when Jo was a newborn, the other in 1988 or thereabouts.
woot! Go, Victor!
Thanks. Strange being asked for something by a predominatly Afro-centric Web site, but then, I always marvel at where these things end up.
I suppose it would have been possible to lean back, to breathe, to look around the room. But what would have been the point? What possible reward could be gained from breaking contact with those sharp black eyes, what if I missed a flash of the bright teeth set in dark gums, or if that lock of hair dropped into his face again without me to witness it?
His hands are articulate, and I try not to touch them, but suddenly we're somewhere else, and I'm reaching out for him, holding, grabbing, trying not to fall away in the dark.
The floor was a long way away, which made me giggle.
It wasn’t the first time I’d smoked pot, but it was the first time it had had any effect. I didn’t think it had this time either, until I was home, in bed, and looked over the edge of the mattress.
I tried to stifle the giggle, since mom and dad were in the room directly below mine. I suppose they might not have heard it, if it hadn’t been for me falling out of bed, still giggling.
(Hang tens Victor for that article) Seems to me poetry's always being declared dead by someone or another, and someone or another's usually wrong.
Deb, if you're still in need of a beta, I'd be happy to take a look at it.