Every “realistic” short story I write is a betrayal. Perversely, the short stories which seem to engage most readers are indeed these more — forgive me — realistic ones.

The poet discussion the exhilaration of exploration, the tension of creation, and one’s readiness to engage with content that is within.

The writer thinks about intention, chronological order and connection to a story.

Writing the poem changes me, and I welcome that. I don’t see that as a betrayal of myself or the work, but more of an evolution.

I see the stories as something I sorted out, something I worked through. A problem I solved.

“I’ve learned not to share a piece of writing if my main reason for sharing is that I want validation from someone else.”

When/where you find yourself scared and paralyzed, either of something you are writing, of revealing yourself through the work, or for any other reason, how do you start moving again? And by moving I mean forward, not backwards, as in retreating?

“I’m amazed by how often I’ve struggled with piece of writing only to return to it months, or even years, later to find that it all comes together with little thought.”

In order to write THROUGH the story, I had to relive it. And in my case that meant reliving these specific things:
—the death of my daughter —the abuse I suffered from my father —the self destructions I inflicted on my self
—the longing for a mother drowned by alcoholism