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Art Matters

A wonderful article. I think speculative fiction is every bit as important as literary fiction. Your writing is important. You have an amazing voice and it is heard by many, in your writing and in your life.

a creative human

My life is better in all ways when I create art every day.

For me, most days that means I write. I have two published novels, Dark Moon Wolf and Waxing Moon. I’m working on the third book in that trilogy, as well as a new novel-length project and a handful of short stories.

DarkMoonWolf_w11014_300Writing every day isn’t easy for me. I work full-time. I have three kids, ages 14, 13, and 11. My husband has Young Onset Parkinson’s Disease, a major disability which requires quite a bit of managing (and means he can’t help much around the house). His disability and prognosis cause me a great deal of stress and anxiety, though I tell myself to stay in the moment, think about today, think about this hour. We have another major stressor in our family that I’m not discussing publicly–but it’s been brutally worrisome and consuming since last…

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Many Moons Many Games

Photo on 10-17-17 at 1.02 PM #8

I’ve been playing games and doing some designing, but mostly I’ve been writing. Specifically, I’ve been writing poetry. As a creative, I’ve always been frenetic, and the form suits me well. I can write something, analyze it, return to it, and it’s a short enough form that I can then walk away.

A recent poem I wrote is called Disputes. It is about my battles with Parkinson’s symptoms. I hate using war as a metaphor but here I will. It is about coming to terms with my disease and how it is effecting me.

I know, most of you expect content about games from a blog purportedly about the failings of an amateur game designer. But in my failings I am still creating and I think that’s important.

So here is my latest design. It’s not very interactive, but it’s short. So, at very least, you don’t waste a lot of time with this one.

Disputes
by Gary Boyd

for my memory

I was charged by God to remember those hours,
And in only minutes recalled everything.
So, when the bill came by way of pony express,
Why did the voice on the telephone ring?

“I call on you now for what’s duly dissected,”
bit down on my lip, a frog in my throat.
No bars and no service, a bug too they collected.
A hoarse fly stings this drunk desert goat.

Disputes made on parchment, I spoke out in crystal
another notch loosed on the old bible belt
Chimes of a pen on the toast ring a pistol
God’s bell, gods’ spells, the gods fell, and all knelt

Bite of string round newsprint; nay, falsely spoke.
I have perjured myself, but the gospel alone.
Testament given, pounds of flesh, I awoke,
silver, gold-lamé, verdigris hell please atone.

Enter the sins of the past, scarabs recourse.
Terra cotta primates birthed in clay
they’ve bound me for death—and his pale horse—
a shogun, a shotgun, a wand, yesterday.

Writer’s block. You may heard of it. You may have lived it. The words alone might fill you with dread. You may wake up from nightmares about The Awful Writer’s Block of Overwhelming Pain with tears streaming down your face and panic lodged in your throat. Um… Maybe that one’s just me. I don’t have all the answers, […]

via Chip off the (Writer’s) Block* — Sarah E. Stevens