tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-207463752011-04-21T21:13:35.145-05:00cynhavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10366620085694359296noreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20746375.post-1167772663315680182007-01-02T16:13:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:17:43.326-05:00It was a group discussion regarding the futility of anger. The best quote: That's like setting yourself on fire and hoping the other person dies of smoke inhalation.<br /><br />That took my breath away!<br /><br />Welcome to the year of James Bond.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20746375-116777266331568018?l=cynhaven.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cynhavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10366620085694359296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20746375.post-1156777769806756682006-08-28T09:59:00.001-05:002006-08-28T10:09:29.830-05:00I received my first acceptance to publish two poems. Small literary journal. Local. Did I say that I'm being published? <br /><br />Oh yes!<br /><br />I had said in my cover letter that my style is rather <span style="font-style: italic;">film noir</span>. The note that accompanied the acceptance letter said: beautiful pieces. <br /><br />Now I have to compose a short biographical note. <br /><br />Oh my!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20746375-115677776980675668?l=cynhaven.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cynhavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10366620085694359296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20746375.post-1146769727557910852006-05-04T13:35:00.000-05:002006-05-04T14:08:47.606-05:00Okay, I've been avoiding this. I thought I would be more diligent, writing everyday -- or every other day -- or once a week at least! But I haven't. <br /><br />I could make up all sorts of excuses but right now I can't think of one. What a challenge! Come on, think! Why can't I write . . . anything?<br /><br />Um, maybe I'm afraid. No, I know I'm afraid. And writing that, I want to shout from the nearest rooftop: I used to be fearless! Well, maybe not <span style="font-style: italic;">from</span> the rooftop. Heights, you know. Jelly knees. Don't look down. That sort of thing. Excuse me as I crawl back into my corner under that rock. Yes, that BIG rock. That's mine. Yep. My rock. My hard place. My home.<br /><br />Good Lord!<br /><br />Okay. Here's the deal. On May 23, I return to my therapist and she expects something "creative." A painting, a poem, a short story, a sketch. No revision of old work. Something new and "creative." (Hats don't count; I already checked.) <br /><br />I, of course, expect something perfect.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20746375-114676972755791085?l=cynhaven.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cynhavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10366620085694359296noreply@blogger.com1