roina_arwen

Way back in mid-April of this year, I was interviewed online by Maria Simbra on her Building Books Blogcast. It was my first real interview as a professional copy editor. This isn’t to say that I haven’t spoken about editing before, as I have been part of several panels at sci-fi type conventions over the last two years, but (to the best of my knowledge) I’ve only ever been recorded on a panel once, and frankly most of those questions weren’t ones that I felt were in my wheelhouse, as they were geared more towards authors, which I’m not.

So I was there, and I was recorded, but I didn’t *say* anything, so in my opinion it doesn’t count.

But the Building Books Blogcast was different. It was just Maria and I, and even though the interview only lasted about five minutes, it was fun! I had almost forgotten about it, since we recorded it five months ago, but the article got posted on her Substack today, as a transcription of the interview (which fortunately removed the usual “and, um” bits, thankfully).

I knew many of the questions which Maria was going to ask me, as I had to fill out a form several weeks prior, and had been informed many of those questions would carry over to the blog interview, which put me at ease a little bit. Not a lot, mind you, but at least I could prepare myself in advance.

There is a video of the interview embedded in the article, and it plays best in Chrome, on a laptop, but not well (if at all) on a phone. So if you want to hear the 12-year-old voice attached to a 58-year-old editor, feel free to give it a listen! If you watch the video, you’ll probably notice my eyes shifting to my left (the viewer’s right) because I had talking points for the questions printed out, in case I got too nervous or tongue-tied. Because copy editing is typically a loner activity, and not recorded for posterity!

Here is the link to the Substack article. At the top right there is a button which says “listen,” and if you click it a female AI voice will read the post to you. https://ironedwordsproductions.substack.com/p/meet-the-editor-laura-begley?r=3v81c8&utm_medium=ios”

Because I’m just that nuts, and because I (not so secretly) enjoy the insanity and the oddball prompts, I’m jumping in on this new, upcoming season of LJ Idol (here on Dreamwidth). Wish me luck!

Author's Note: This is a Cento (a collage poem), which is a poetic form composed entirely of lines from poems by other poets. I only use one line per author and have given them credit at the bottom, in the order that their line appears here. The only change I make is to add or delete a punctuation mark at the end of a line where needed, to help my poem flow in the manner that I need it to. Enjoy!


Footsteps of the Past

I will not walk politely on the pavements anymore
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
So God stepped over to the edge of the world,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven
maybe there are angels here, too--
Carrying rainbows in our heads and
The flame of genius to the human breast.

The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
Air and waters trying to heal all their lungs that bellowed
Because the shard of glass in the singer’s throat
pressed between Sky Woman and Mother Earth.
She believes in God, yes, but also in the mothers
For youth and happiness have followed age,
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake.

Their parting footsteps will return no more
From God’s dwelling on the mountain,
Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded,
Like the past you almost don't believe in.
And ever the moon wept down in rain,
Delivered out of raw continual pain,
When darkness is darkest, and sorrow most sorrow.


-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Stanza One: June Jordan; Richard Blanco; James Weldon Johnson; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; Ashley M. Jones; Mari Evans; and Mark Akenside.

Stanza Two: Rabindranath Tagore; Crisosto Apache; Kendra DeColo; Laura Tohe; Ilya Kaminsky; Emma Lazarus; and Claude McKay.

Stanza Three: Francisco Acuña de Figueroa; Fenton Johnson; George Reginald Margetson; Alfred Corn; Paul Laurence Dunbar; Denise Levertov; and Alice Cary.

The Dreamwalker's Journey

Life is just a dream, until it isn’t.

My name is Nisa, and I possess a rare gift: I can navigate through the subconscious realm, tip-toe through your sleeping mind, and sneak into your dreams. I can control your dreamscape as well as my own, and you won’t even know I am there, unless, of course, I want you to know.

This is not a skill that I purposely sought out. When I was barely four, I realized that when I slept, I had the ability to control my surroundings. If something scared me in my dream--whether it was an angry, snarling dog, a raucous thunderstorm, or an extra-large hairy spider--I could befriend it, mute it, or banish it with a wave of my chubby hand, and calm my own anxiety. Somehow, I always knew when I was asleep and in a dream state. Unlike my older sister, Damia, whose sleep was often plagued by shadows and nightmares, I never woke up screaming or crying. I always woke up smiling.

As a teenager, I learned one aspect of my talent was called “lucid dreaming,” and it was a skill that many people sought, but few possessed. Certain aspects of lucid dreaming can be taught, such as using a mnemonic before falling asleep: repeating a mantra such as “I will be aware that I am dreaming,” can assist a sleeper to realize they are in a dream state, but it is a far cry from being a Dreamwalker, like me. Even if you know you are in the deep end of a swimming pool, without the knowledge of how to swim, or the ability to move your body to reach a ladder, or have the simple wherewithal to scream and get the attention of a busy lifeguard…well, let’s just say your odds of survival aren’t very good.
( Read More )

Author's Note: This week we have been put in a head-to-head match with another contestant. I was challenged by l0lita. Our goal: to take our opponent's week 14 topics as the springboard for our entry this week, to reinterpret them into something new and original. I primarily used "Ambuscade" but with a bit of info from "A Nail is Driven Out by Another Nail" thrown into the mix as well. (I wanted to link to her topics, but they don't seem to be available any more.)

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Survival

Violence has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. My kid sister and I endured some form of abuse or abject neglect every day of our young lives. Even Christmas wasn’t immune--we would often receive a toy or game that we’d asked Santa for, and we might get to enjoy it for an hour, maybe half the day if we were lucky. But then, in a drunken fit of rage or wrath, it would be destroyed before our eyes. It was often dad doing the dirty deed, but mom certainly had her moments, too. Happiness wasn't ever going to be our lot in life.

Theresa and I endured daily beatings to teach us godliness, or what mom liked to call “a valuable lesson,” or even just to “teach us our place.” Most of the time we were beaten because she and dad were drunk again, and we were “conveniently available.”

Convenient for them, that is. Not for us.

Over time, my sister and I learned to be silent, to be sneaky, to rely on our excellent hearing and our abnormally good peripheral vision. We learned how to blend into the background, to hide in plain sight, to play possum, and not to bait the bears. Once I was old enough to have a steady hand, and the strength to hold a gun, I learned how to shoot a pistol, a shotgun, and a rifle. I kept in good shape, despite often being malnourished, and could run for miles without getting winded.

If you can’t beat ‘em, outrun or outwit them. That was my outlook on life.

Our parents acted tough, but fortunately for us they weren’t very smart. Theresa and I survived our father trying to kill us in our beds. She was nine at the time, and I was eleven. We slept in the same small room, under threadbare blankets and on lumpy mattresses. Dad came in late one night, after spending all evening out at the bar drinking beer with his pals. I could smell him from the doorway long before I ever saw his tall, skinny shadow in the moonlight. He approached Theresa’s bed first--it was closer to the door--bent down, and placed his dirty hand firmly over her mouth and chin. He then used his other hand to pinch her nose shut. When she started thrashing, I realized he was suffocating her, and I knew I had to step in.

I leapt out of bed and ran at dad like a raging bull, hitting him squarely in the kidneys with the top of my head. He howled and had to let Theresa go.

“Get out of here!” I shouted, ready to attack again. “Leave us alone!”

My father turned toward me, red-faced, and pushed me away. I fell, hitting my arm on the footboard, hard enough to leave a bruise. He then bent and vomited all over the floor and my bare feet, then stood upright, a bit unsteadily. His bloodshot eyes narrowed at me as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Clean up that mess! Right now!”

I hastily removed my t-shirt, grimacing at the pain in my arm, and used it to sop up the hot mess while he watched, arms crossed. Theresa huddled on her bed, keeping silent. She knew better than to draw attention to herself.

Dad hiccupped, and swayed a little. “Now, get back to bed! And I'd better not hear a peep out of either of you!”

I tossed my sodden shirt into the trash can, and climbed into bed as dad slammed the door shut behind him, locking it from the outside.

“Are you okay?” I whispered to Theresa. She just nodded.

I laid down.

“Terry?” she whispered back after a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“One of these days, when I’m bigger, I’m going to kill him,” she said coldly.

“Not if I do it first,” I replied earnestly. “Fathers, fiancés, or zombie hoards--whatever comes, I’ve always got your back.”

I could almost hear her smile. “Thanks, Terence. You’re a great big brother.”

We went to sleep, both hoping to just survive another day.

I wake in a deep dark despair,
Bolt upright in bed, shuddering
My mind obsessed, possessed by
Unknown demons demonstrating
Their violent vigor with my dreams,
Deadly thoughts to depress desire,
Like a nail through a tire.

Trepidation of trepanation—
Expose my skull, bore a hole,
Remove a piece of my soul.

Sleep is for the weaker set, and yet,
Hours left until the sun ignites,
Blankets wrapped taut all about,
I wither within and shiver without.
My brain just might settle and chill,
If only my demons look and see,
That in the end…there’s only me.

It’s Week 12 of The Wheel of Chaos. Our topic this week was “Happy Detritus.” The poll will be open until Thursday 10/16 at 8:00 pm Eastern time, and the bottom 2 contestants will be out of the running. There are only 13 of us left, and I would LOVE to make it into the top 10 if possible, so if you feel so inclined, you can find all the entries here:

https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1205156.html

Thank you for your support!

“You’ve made it bleed,” he said.
I shrugged. “That happens, sometimes.”
“Sure, but that much? Seems a bit excessive.”
“Well, what did you want me to do?” I asked. “It’s part of the job.”
He just crossed his arms and glared at me.
After withstanding his withering glare for several long minutes, I sighed. “Fine. Hand it over.”
He passed it back.

I double checked my work, from start to finish. It took the better part of an hour, but it was always best to take one’s time in situations like this.

“Well?”
I shook my head. “I stand by my work.”
“Seriously?”
“Look, if you don’t like it, feel free to do what you want. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“It’s butchery, plain and simple,” he griped.
I shrugged, nonplussed. “It’s a work of art. Did you even read it?”

He stood, grabbed everything up, and walked to the table in the far corner of the room. Turning his back toward me, he sat and perused everything in silence. I ignored him, and worked on my next project.

Forty-five minutes later, I heard a soft sigh. “You were right,” he admitted, tossing the manuscript on the table. “Your version is better. I’m sorry.”
I smiled, pleased with myself.
“I bow to your editorial prowess,” he added with a grin, kissing me soundly.
Being a good wife, I kissed him back.

The blood rites could wait.

For my inspiration this week, I decided to choose serpentinejacaranda's week 2 entry, which can be found here: Magical Mieszko. My part tells the tale from the other side. Enjoy! (FYI: about 1200 words)

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Gracja's Story

Reputations were often difficult to earn, and even harder to dodge. This much, Gracja had learned over the years.

She barely escaped the salt mines of Wieliczka, with little more than the clothes on her back, a few coins in her pocket, a small sack of rock salt tied under her apron, and a second sack with a modicum of provisions which she wore slung over her left shoulder. Her steadfast grey cat, Bronya, had accompanied her the entire way. By the time she arrived at the outskirts of this sleepy village, covered with a layer of road dust and exhausted beyond belief, Gracja was not expecting much.

The village was lovely, much to her amazement.

It was exactly what she was looking for.

Gracja lowered herself slowly to the ground, and rested with her back against a fir tree at the edge of the forest. With one calloused hand she caressed her slightly bulging belly, protective of the life which was forming within. It would be a boy. She knew it within the deepest recesses of her vagabond heart.
( Read more... )

Toi, Toi, Toi

When you take the bull by the horns
you could face an unfavorable dilemma--
do you beat around the proverbial bush
or stick firmly to your smoking guns?

When you shoot for the stars
you might just steal someone's thunder--
but if you proudly weather the storm
will it leave your head in the clouds?

When you throw your hat in the ring
you hope to have your act together--
yet the devil is always in the details
and no stone should remain unturned.

When you let the good times roll
you might let sleeping dogs lie in wait--
but if once bitten means twice shy,
why did curiosity kill the fat cat?

When you knock 'em dead or blow them away
you hope not to pay an arm and a leg--
yet setting the court record straight
might add extra fuel to the uncontrolled fire.

Whatever you do, don't wish me good luck.
I don't want to break a leg or make a splash--
it only takes two to tango when pigs fly.
I'm snowed under with idioms and idiots.

Toi toi toi!