Today's OneWord: Prosperity

Being a writer isn't prosperous. It's not meant to be. At least, financially, it's not meant to be. Creatively, you could have all the money in the world. Only instead of money, you have words. Lots of them. Locked in vaults of gold and carried around in checkbooks. Want to buy a story? I have plenty. That's my prosperity. My spirit. And no matter how small of a paycheck I may get, I'm happy with my "annual income."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection

Image
Wow. It is the first day of school at my new job on Monday. I will be working with over 120 students this year, teaching four sections of English Language Arts 10 and, of course, one section of Yearbook. I have used so much paper printing out syllabus after syllabus, class contracts, and first week assignments. I have structured my English curriculum for the first semester and begun designing skill-building sessions for Yearbook. I have even started tidying up my classroom (though I'm definitely going to get my students to help "create the space" - totally not just a cop-out for me doing it). I am taking a no-nonsense, yet loving, approach to my Yearbook class, and while I will certainly include some of that in English, I will also have to be mindful of the many sophomores who have IEPs and Section 504s in my classes. I am so anxious that this first week will turn out to be difficult, dramatic, and out of control. But I am also so, so excited. Again, I have a ci...
Read more

Tonight's Poet Corner: Get Out Of Here, Kid

Get Out Of Here, Kid by Belinda Roddie Skullman's out looking for you, boy. He's dressed in black and pissed as Hell. He's carrying two Colts as slick as your hips, and he's ready to stud your waistline with steel. You better think about rushing your ass down to the border, hide yourself in a bag of grain and get shipped to Mexico. You'll be fed like the cattle on a small, remote farm, and when you're old enough, you'll head back with your belt drooping and your eyes blazing under a cowboy hat, so you can jam a shotgun barrel up Skullman's bony nostril and fire three times in a row just to make sure he's dead.
Read more

Tonight's Poet Corner: Attention Seeker

Attention Seeker by Belinda Roddie The boy eats all of his grandfather's rainbow medication, to see if he can grow wings of wax, ascend like Icarus, and touch the color spectrum without burning his fingers on the sun. There are no negative side effects to the pill consumption, but his mother insists on taking him to the hospital, and his father has one hand on his hip as he slowly and deliberately undoes his belt buckle so he can leave a pretty welt on the obvious attention seeker's face. His grandfather, out of everyone, minds the least, and he asks to see the boy's tongue - but it's pink, not blue or red or green like the mosaic of tablets swallowed in the fantasy assembly line. And he smiles and says, "This lad will grow wings some day," before taking his cane and using the tip to poke into the father's leg as a warning toward further violence. The boy goes to his room. He sleeps soundly. He dreams rambunctiously. All car...
Read more