A Late Mother's Day Poem

Last Memory

She smiled, I think

The last day I saw her

Her babbling voice

Her witty retorts

Her laughter at her grandsons

They were gone

No more to be heard

And no one knew how to comb her hair

Or that she would be aghast to be seen

Without lipstick, blush, or shadow.

And no one knew red was her favorite color

Dressing her in dull pastels

She would have scorned.

And no one thought she knew anyone

Anymore

But I think she smiled

The last time I saw her

The last time she saw me

I think she smiled.

Interviewing Gerry from "Rain"

With Rain scheduled to come out on the 15th of May, I thought getting Gerry to sit down and talk with me might be a good idea. He agreed to answer a few questions. Here's a partial transcript. l apologize for a few of the words. Gerry can come up one now and then if pushed. I didn't edit them out.

Partial Interview Transcript- Gerry StClare

How would your best friend describe you?

I have to laugh. Tom has described me to others in several ways. I won’t say I agree with him on all of them, but he’s described me as “tall, too good-looking for his own good”, “Hard-headed”, and “a secret mensch”. Generally all three in a sort of light-heartedly disgusted way.

How would your enemy (or least favorite person) describe you?

I never thought I had enemies until recently, but, yeah, I know how they describe me. Privileged. Arrogant. There were a few more words. I won’t say them in polite company.

Do you agree with either (or both) of those descriptions?  Why?

I’m not sure I agree with Tom or not. I do tend to get on a track and stay on it, until someone or something really knocks me off of it. So I’ll go with the “hard-headed”, though I’d prefer “persistent”. 

The first description? I know I’m tall. That’s kind of hard to ignore. The other half? Try growing up male with nothing but sisters. They never thought or told me I was anything but average. They quickly squashed anything else.

The “secret mensch”? I’m not Jewish, Tom is, but I understand the word. That is not something many know, I don’t go around sharing it, but, yeah, I probably am.

Were the others right? Some would say yes to the first. I did grow up in what some would call a rarified bubble. My grandfather owned his own construction company and helped to establish the local country club. My godmother is highly regarded in “society” circles. So, although my immediate family could be considered “middle class”, I grew up with certain expectations–learning to dance and attending cotillions at the country club, going to college, and all that sort of thing.

Do I agree with them? I’m sure they saw it that way–the “privileged” part anyway. To me it was just home and family. The “arrogant” part? There were things I had to do I didn’t enjoy doing. but they had to be done.

You’re working with a group of people on some kind pf object.  What role do you play?  (Leader, strategist, laborer, etc.)  Do you like your role?

I would say leader. Actually that’s what I do for a living. I’m a supervising architect at my firm. I do have an original job from time to time, but I supervise construction most of the time right now. I grew up following my grandfather around when he was running his construction company, worked for him, and supervised jobs for him when I was older.

Do I like it? Yes. There's something very satisfying about getting a group of people to work hard and produce something you know is going to be around for years. Centuries, if it's the right project, and the job is done right. I like it a lot. Pretty sure it will become even more satisfying when I can do more of my own stuff.

What kind of baggage do you carry around?

Excuse me? Baggage? It depends on how far I’m traveling for and how long I’m going to be gone. My briefcase almost always.

No, Gerry, not that kind of baggage. The other kind--memories--regrets--that sort of thing.

Oh, that’s what you’re talking about. Kind of an invasive question. You’ll forgive me if my answer is short.

Yes, I have memories and regrets. Who doesn’t?

Okay, a silly question then, as people seem to enjoy them. Boxers or briefs?

You have got to be kidding me! No? Damn. Okay, okay. I’ll be brief. Son-of-a. . . I can’t believe I just said that.

I’ll answer the question. Boxers. Just don’t ask me why.

Why?

Enough!

Please note that is not a photograph of Gerry up there. I declined to take one. He is not shy, but I wanted you to form an opinion from his answers, not his face.

It's National Poetry Month! So. . . P is for poetry

Note: No, I'm not participating in the A-Z blog challenge. Far too much on my plate with Rain scheduled to come out next month. There are upcoming posts about it, but, in the meanwhile, I realized I hadn't posted any "bad" poetry lately.

 

 

 

 

Hidden

I don’t keep all my memories in boxes

Tucked away in square or rectangular cardboard

All glazed over with bright-colored paper

And sprinkled with stars.

 

My memories lie scattered about me

In haphazard places and on dangerous surfaces

Teetering on the edges, waiting to fall

Out on display, hidden in chaos.

 

Over there the ballerina en pointe

Long pink tutu,

Dancing to a song I no longer remember

Twirling, mesmerizing a five year old I still recall.

 

Glass enclosed bookshelves

Rescued from the trash heap

Carefully restored and gifted

Strewn once with frames and pictures

 

Voices telling stories, markers, places

People whose faces still laugh

Whose dreams I once knew.

Pain I saw as they buried their children.

 

All of my memories, pieces of story

Snatches of music, whispers of touch

All scattered around me–hidden in chaos

And my voice is silenced–no one listening.

 

 

 

 

Staggering: A Writing Trilogy

 

Staggering upright

Changing lanes, leaning on walls

One scene to the next.

 

Inebriated

Chattering so quickly now.

Can’t type that fast . . . please.

 

Words no longer mine

Just theirs, telling a story

Insistent rascals. 



Publication Date Set: "Rain" is coming out!

Late Sunday night I looked at my to-do list for Rain, looked at the calendar, and made the following post to my author Facebook Page: S.E. Hudnall.

We’ve set the date, the cast of “Rain” and I.
 
Gerry was a little disappointed when I had to tell him Valentine’s Day wasn’t going to work. Impatient man. I have to give him kudos though; he’s been bugging me since the story began. Cheryl beamed. Spring, rather than late winter February, pleased her to no end. I kind of knew she’d bring him around. Valarie squealed with excitement. Tom sighed, shook his head, and mumbled something like “at last”, while his wife, Linda, gave him one of her Mona Lisa smiles. What Marilyn said I can’t repeat, but she laughed as she said it. I won’t go into the other characters’ responses, though I could easily enough.
 
“Rain” will be out on May 15th.

Surely that has to be one of the scariest postings I've ever done. It's real. It's coming out. No turning back. No more postponing. Baring a totally unexpected problem or the whim of a cruel universe, the story I have been writing and working on since 1994 will be in the hands of readers. I hope they like it. I hope you like it.

There's still a lot of work to be done. I'm not kidding myself about that and there are a lot of
"feels" to be dealt with.

Optimist

I’ve been busy working on those adjuncts that go with getting Rain out into the world: covers, blurbs, loglines, teeny-tiny things on my author Facebook page (S.E. Hudnall), and waiting, perhaps not as patiently as I would like or should, for feedback from beta readers, so I can put on the final polish and proof. Snow is being submitted, chapter by chapter, to my critique group. And, for no reason I can fathom, my sci-fi love story seems to be peculating as well. It’s a long list and a story too long for blogging. I must write faster. I want four of them out before the end of next year. I think I can do that. I believe I can.

But . . . perhaps I have an inflated sense of my own capabilities, or maybe I’m just a cock-eyed optimist. Like this one I found in my backyard Sunday morning.

 

 

Optimist

A piece of trash . . . surely

Blown in by some capricious wind

A remnant of someone’s overload refuse bin

Now caught in the skeletal branches

Of leftover summer flowers

 

But . . . no.

One single white iris

Blooming low to the ground

Shy, but hopeful.
Whispering . . .
I’m here. Is winter gone yet?

 

 

The Word for 2016

I probably should have written this on January 1^st , or maybe the 7^th. The more traditional time for New Year’s resolutions or goal setting. It simply wasn’t in me this year. Oh, I had one. I still have one.

Rain will be published this year.

That’s it. The one and only goal–a goal perhaps twenty-two years in the making. I have to laugh at myself. So far I have managed to outdo any attempts by writing friends to moan about how long they’ve been working on a particular piece.

“Five years? Ten years? That’s nothing. Try over twenty.”

A strange satisfaction, to be sure. A satisfaction not unlike a parent who has a child still at home. Grade school and high school are finished. The rebellious stages of adolescence done and learned from. A parent knows their child isn’t perfect, but they’ve done their best. And they will always love them. Perhaps out there in the big, open world someone else will love them, too.

I’ll sniffle later and privately.

 

Any other goals for this year? What’s on my writing list? I used to post lists. Some projects remain there, some changed, and still others appeared out of the blue.

I’m not publishing them–not any more.

Someone in one of my writing groups posted something which appealed to me more than any list of writing resolutions for the coming year–taking just one word and applying it to the coming year. I loved it.  Simple. Flexible. Capable of being applied to every level, not just writing.

This is my word for 2016

 

 

I may not be glowing at the end of the year, or blinding others with my brilliance, but that’s O.K. I only want to shine.

What would be your word?

Untitled On Purpose: Hope and Bad Poetry

Untitled On Purpose

Gone for the holidays

Wafted away by snatches of carols

And starry, starry nights.

Lost in foil-lined wrapping paper

And gingerbread dreams.

Not I.

The carols I hear

The wrapping paper lies unwinding on the table

And the gingerbread dreams are still just dreams.

 

I roam in the world I created.

Looking into windows

Listening at doors

A voyeur in my own imagination

Watching the rain fall.

 December 2015

 

Normally I would be posting a Christmas haiku or tanka. I may yet, the day is still young or fairly so. This is what I have written though, so I am posting it.

 

Please note the final line. It’s been a very long time, and there are still obstacles to overcome, but I am starting to have some hope that Rain will be published in 2016. More than that I am afraid to say. Saying it aloud or definitely may jinx the whole thing. But maybe. . . just maybe. . .

Hope is curious thing, isn’t it?

Something rare and wonderful is happening. I can't explain it fully. A dream . . . a hope appears to be coming true.

Anticipation

Wind howling past me

Approaching the precipice
Hoping I will fly.

Will my wings be strong enough?

No way of knowing . . . just leap.

Traveler--- Beginning Autumn Poetry

 

Traveler

I have traveled too far north
And must double back
Before the day ends and the sun sets.
Wondering how I got this far
And along this route
Without seeing where I was going
Or how far I had traveled.
Time to return. Must hurry.
The sun hangs low above the horizon.
I must be back before the deep violet twilight
And the emerging stars begin to wonder
Why I am not there
For them to welcome me home.


Yes, it's time for bad poetry again. It's been a while.  

Blogging the Promotional Posts

Earlier this month, I made the big announcement I was making my publication debut in the anthology Anything Goes, Volume 2. Of course I'm super excited! The book has gone live on Amazon.

So every Saturday I will be posting something from it: a teaser, a banner, a short video. Nor just my own stories, but from others as well. We also have a launch party coming up, but more on that later when I get the details.

Today:

When reluctant partners are thrown together, it’s not just about four legs good, two legs better. It’s about who is actually smarter…

 

 



Michael has created a very unique dystopian world , and an intriguing (yet charming) detective pair. It reminds me in many ways of old 'gumshoe' novels, like Mike Hammer with a strange, future twist. You'll have to read it to understand where I'm coming from.

What he could not tell her-- A Writing Prompt Completed

From Writers Write, 21 August 2015.

 

 

From Rain

What three things could Gerry never tell Cheryl?

There's actually very little Gerry could never tell Cheryl by the end of Rain. There may be things he simply has forgotten, but to say he could never tell her would be difficult. At least, not anything from the past. She knows his inner demons, his past mistakes.

The future is different and I'm foreshadowing a future story here.

I don't think he could tell her of the terror he experienced when he came home when she was pregnant and found her slumped over the kitchen table with a pool of blood at her feet.

I don't think he could ever tell her about coming home from the hospital that night and calling his father, not to simply inform him or his mother of the medical emergency, but because he needed to share his terror with another man. Tom would not have been enough. And he felt Cheryl didn't need to see or share his fear. Not that she could have.

I also don't think he could or will share his fear of losing her both during the birth and  in the estrangement which followed. His anger, yes. His fear, no.

 

 

From Snow

What three things could Aaron never tell Desiree?

I'm not sure yet what things Aaron could never tell Desiree. He is, after all, both an attorney and a judge. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" is something he believes in. Yet, he also knows, as an attorney, you instruct your client to answer only the question put to them, as simply as you can. He has a deep respect, if that is the word, for the truth.

But what three things would he refrain from telling her? Best I keep to the past with him. Their complete story is still very much in process. And Aaron is a particularly hard nut to crack.

I don't think he would ever tell her about meeting someone from the estranged branch of his family--the Cavalleros, his Italian mother's family. Not his Great-Aunt Bianca, who had, until she died a few years back, maintained a sporadic link with his grandmother, but a cousin who appeared as a witness in his courtroom.

I don't think he would ever tell her about the woman he almost became engaged to in law school.

I don't think he would ever tell her about Belinda Upstead, his senior year in high school. In the storage room of the bookstore. After closing. [Ha! Caught you, Aaron. :) ]

I Hate True Love

"Love isn't always difficult at the beginning. No. Falling in love is easy. Love enduring is the challenge. And, if it's real. it does."

S.E. Hudnall

 I hate true love.

It sounds like an improbable statement for a writer who calls herself someone who writes love stories. A romance writer who doesn't like romance? She must be deranged or something? It isn't right! One has to believe in love to write love stories, yes?

And that's exactly where the trouble lies. I do believe in love. I can't stop believing in it. I don't believe in true love, I believe in real love.

Like Len Barry’s song, falling in love is easy. Not difficult at all. A spark. A glance one second longer than needed. The sound of laughter. A smile or grin that melts your heart. One single moment, perhaps dismissed at the time but long remembered after as the moment you fell in love.

Staying in love? Continuing to love? Now there is the challenge. It's easy to love when it appears to be some dreamlike destiny, perfect, and filled with roses and champagne.

Real love hands you a cold washcloth after a bout of morning sickness. Real love has no qualms about going toe-to-toe over something then stepping back and saying, “You’re right. I was wrong.” –sometimes even when you’re right.  Real love fights for its existence and never gives up. It finds its anchors in the everyday, ordinary joys of banal existence–.washing the car together on a sunny day, hearing the door open and a voice asking for you, standing up and feeling a hand on your shoulder. It perseveres against threat. Real love endures, finds happiness in every day moments, and smiles.

Yes, that’s my trope and I’m sticking with it. Yes, I write love stories.

 

 

Cover Reveal!

 

 

 

 

This is more than a simple cover reveal.

 

I am pleased to announce the upcoming publication of the Anything Goes, Volume II anthology on September 1, 2015.

 

A group of writers from all over the world gathered together last November, under the auspices of Writers Anarchy, to write, critique, and produce a collection of short stories. Anything Goes means exactly what it says when it comes to genre: historical, humor, fantasy, romance, science-fiction, literary. and some that cross genre lines.

 

I am both proud and honored to have two stories here. And the privilege of working with such folks has left me humbled.

 

Rather than ramble on and on, I will leave you with a taste of what you can find within the pages. Oh, there is more  You can find the complete list at Literary Sweet.  

 

Tempest - by Rae Z. Ryans
In 1046, William de Hauteville died, but death is only his beginning. As he stumbles through the netherworld, a new face rises from the sands and unleashes his reverent bones.

The Familiar - by S. E. Hudnall
They say a wizard must choose - love or magic. They also say the greatest creature of legend no longer exists. Both sayings are of long antiquity- both are wrong.

Disaffection - by Joseph Y. Roberts
What kind of man is born of a childhood with a father whose love is indistinguishable from hate?

The Bond - by Jeanne Felfe
Maggie and the people on the Gulf in Port Aransas are tough, but when a hurricane takes direct aim, can her family’s bond survive?

Sea of Ingenuity - by Damien Lutz
When a lunar eclipse occurs on second earth, humanity realizes their greatest achievement comes at a price.

The Unrendering - by Paul Draper
A tour bus carries a university party to a food processing plant in the mountains high above Geneva. The personal networked interface seems a bit patchy for one student.

Home for the Holidays - by Kerry E.B. Black
Twin sisters risk a winter storm to celebrate the holidays at home, but a brush with the supernatural may alter their plans.

Wave Dancer - by Michali Lerner
Some people hear the call of the sea. Will one lonely young girl listen?

When It Rains - by Danise Janica C. Bautista
"The rain will remind me of you..." -Lawrence. Can a voiceless love end up with a happy ending? Or will the silence cut it off the forever?

Teacups and Tansy by R.L. Andrew Murder and mayhem ensues when Sabrine takes her first \detective case. What she doesn't expect is the geriatric Jerry Springer Show.

In Shadows - by M.N.Morrow
Colette is tormented by a shadow and her mother's lifestyle, she seeks help from a stranger who regrets her choices.

The Harbor - by Elizabeth Ann Patterson
When love isn't enough, how do you find the words?

Sniffing for Clues - by Michael Steffens
When reluctant partners are thrown together; it's not just about four legs good, two legs better. It's about who is actually smarter...



Fantasy Story Coming!

I have a couple of posts in the pipeline to be finished and put up but I wanted to share something first. "The Familiar" , my first fantasy short story, is coming out. I'm not exactly sure when, but I'm hoping within the next two months. Time will tell as things are wrapped up. In the meanwhile I want to share a little video I made with a quote from one of the main characters. Yes, it's a love story. Haven't you guessed that by now?

 

 

 

There are other stories in the anthology and I plan on sharing those over the next couple of months. I am so excited about this. Now you know what has been keeping me so busy.

 

 



Today I will . . . our paths cross. Congratulations, Peter.

Does anyone remember the post “Other Dreamers–Life Changes  I did way back in April 2013? I never mentioned the video blogger by name. Today I will. Because ou see this year our paths crossed. I will publish my first story this year and today. . . today he graduated from medical school.

Meet Peter Wingfield MD  .

Peter Michael Wingfield M.D. 
University of Vermont College of Medicine
May 17, 2015



I guess I could  just respond to his tweet. I know he will at some point today. Maybe when he comes down from his high. I know he’ll have that, too.

But one hundred and forty characters are simply not enough when words want to spill out and over the restricted space. Peter Wingfield has been one of my favorite actors for a long time, even if I've only been an "official" fan for less than five years. With rare exception I always liked what he acted in and, even in that rare exception, enjoyed his performances. In 2011, he upped  my respect for him by re-entering medical school at the age of 48. Yes, a brave man.

I’m an experienced RN and have primarily worked in true teaching hospitals, the ones where you can watch confused, nervous med students and residents turn into confident practitioners. It’s a marvelous thing to watch. It’s also stressful, heart-breaking, and maddening.

Yes, I wrote this in his freshman/sophomore year of med school. I knew he was going to do it, you see. Never a doubt in my mind.

Residency is coming, I know, July 1st – a red letter day in almost all teaching hospitals with flocks of new long white coats invading the hallways. Oh, the memories the date evokes. Eager, enthusiastic, stoic, bewildered, anxious. The facial expressions run the gamit. "Excuse me, how do I page this person?" "How do I get to radiology from here?" In some ways, it reminds me of a gaggle of puppies.

I almost wish I could be the nurse on his first rotation who goes up to him and says, “Doctor, I’m concerned about. . .”, just to see if he will look quickly over his shoulder to see who I am talking to, then realize he’s the doctor I’m talking to! I’ve seen that double-take. . . so many times and it never failed to make me smile. Will he react that way? I actually don’t believe he will but I think he’ll feel the moment. I wonder, Peter, if you will share some of that inner dialogue with us? Perhaps not, it’s time to fly.

 I have been told Peter would like to continue meeting up with fans but I think we will see even less of him, if at all. Medical school is not a walk in the park but residency is grueling almost to the point of brutal. Peter isn’t going into general surgery or any of its sub-specialties where I have most of my experience but . . . no. Other things must come first: his training, his family, his health. The prediction makes me a little sad, I must be honest, but when I think of this warm, compassionate man out in the world as a physician I can only give an enthusiastic arm-pump and say, “YES!”

 

Well done, Peter. . . Well Done.

And my most sincere congratulations to the entire 2015 graduating class of  the University of Vermont College of Medicine.

 

B is for "Bad Poetry"

Yes, I'm going to try to participate in April's A-Z challenge. And I know I'm already behind. I didn't get to A yesterday. I'm afraid other matters took over, which will become clearer tomorrow with "C".

It will be a fairly long post and a difficult one to write so tonight I'm doing a "Flashback Thursday"  post for some who have just started reading here and, perhaps, may not have gone back to all the other postings I've done.

I write (and post, unfortunately) poetry every so often. I explained what I thought about my poetry in this posting and why I label it "bad poetry. Because, you know, sooner or later, I'm bound to do it again.

Bad Poetry? Of course, it is!

 

Breaking Silence or She's back! (And There's a Story Coming!)

So what do you think of the new look? I’m not completely happy with it but I’m no web page designer or, at least, I’m not one with Blogger. Back in the day when I had a personal web page and used FrontPage I wasn’t shabby but that’s another story. This one will do for a while but do give me feedback. When I do change the design again it will just appear out of the blue. No warning. No two months of shillyshallying. No long hiatus.

There has been another metamorphosis going on. It comes with a very exciting announcement.

I HAVE A SHORT STORY COMING OUT!

Yes, I’m excited. Just in case you didn’t notice all the caps. It’s coming out in the late spring. Now, which month of spring I’m not sure of yet but I will talking more details as the time grows closer.

How is that a metamorphosis? I will be published, that’s one change and the other is the genre. It’s fantasy. Perhaps the change shouldn’t surprise me but it does. And I have more in the works I will talk about in the coming months.  

My other love stories or romances? Coalescing into a quintet I’ve decided, tentatively, to call “Love Seasons”. Rain is on the editing table. Snow decided to mature a little slower. Summer Heat . . . Spring Storm. You know these guys; they refuse to let me quit.

In the meantime, I’ll be right here at least once a week, probably twice. So pull up a chair, have a cuppa, and let’s have a natter. What will it be? Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, or perhaps something stronger?

 

Metamorphosis or Change is good, yes?

Haikus in Newborn Autumn

 

I.

And silence beats down

Bass notes reverberating

Downing emptiness.

 

II.

Music often seen

Never heard. . . glinting sunlight

Carried in the wind.

 

III

Volumes on pages

Never spoken or whispered

All in soldierly rows.  

Small Updates: Writing Groups, Critique Groups, and WriteClub 2014

I don't know where in this blog right now but somewhere, at least once, I talked about looking for a critique group, maybe joining a writing group, and submitting to WriteClub 2014. So this is a simple update on all three things.

I'm still looking for a writers group that meets locally.

Yes, I've been distracted by a variety of things, not the least of which is the editing of Rain for e-publication later this year. I know now why Stephen King said "Write your draft with the door open and edit with the door closed." Because writing a draft, while it isn't easy, has those moments of excitement where the creative juices gush out, dialogue sparkles, and you're so happy you're laughing. Keep the door open! You don't mind anyone seeing you like that. But editing becomes something else again.

• You've used that word how many times??
• Now where in the h-e-l-l are you going to break that chapter into two smaller ones?
• It's a nice word. A good word. But it doesn't fit!!!
• No, that's not what I meant to put down!
• That scene might make a lot more sense if it came before this one wouldn't it?
• You've used that word again!
• That sounds mighty condensed and fast. Can you slow things down a bit?

Your cuticles bleed all over the keyboard from chewing them. Your eyes water from the glare of the screen. You mumble language you would never use in public (or a blog). You're pulling at your hair and it isn't pretty. No one needs to see you like this . . . no one. Yes, best to have the door closed so no one can.

Steve was right.

I still want to find a critique group. Yes, to me, a critique group is very different from just a writers' group.

I did apply to a forming online critique group some time ago. Pure chutzpah. They weren't asking people to join; the fact it was forming was put out there and I said something along the lines of "How can one join? What do you need?"

Quite a process actually. A questionnaire and a submitted writing sample. No fair simply referring them to my blog, I suppose. The whole thing felt very much like applying for a job you believe you would be very good at, could learn from, and contribute to. I wasn't offered the position, even though I was told I was first on the waiting list. It was a long shot anyway.

I've been invited a couple of times (maybe more) to a local group but I know myself. Submitting written work and getting written feedback is fine. Reading my work aloud to a group of people I don't know freezes me. Totally. Even the thought. They're warm, friendly, wonderful folks. I enjoy being around them; I've been around them. It's just not for me. The online group would have worked.

And, no, none of my submissions made it into the ring at WriteClub 2014. I really didn't expect any of them to make it. Well, all right, maybe just a little but not very much. I need to go there after posting this update and catch up again. Will I do it again next year if there is a WriteClub 2015? I might. I don't know at this point.