Today marked my very first day as an officially published writer.
Something about this experience - sending in my work, having it selected for publication, and then engaging in a public reading today (although it was to a sparse crowd, natch) - feels very organic. Maybe, just maybe, I was meant to be a writer.
Me, posing with my copy of Analecta 38.
Have you ever dreamed something long enough that when it began to materialize, it almost caught you by surprise? I’m living my life to the chronic barks of recognition inside my heart; every so often, something strikes me in the oddest way - you’re living the dream, it murmurs.
I’d love to hear how you felt about your dreams growing up. Feel free to share your story in the comments section!
Ernest Hemingway once called a solemn writer a “bloody owl.”
And what constitutes a solemn writer? This concerns me. I’ve read eccentric writers, loving writers - the nihilistic, pessimistic, witty and sardonic. I’ve read writers that give you everything - Whitman, who “contains multitudes,” and then the authors that give you nothing at all (I’m looking your direction, Faulkner).
Now that I’m trying to adopt this identity of being a writer, I’m wondering what it is about writing that constructs the identity of the artist - is it the act of writing? Or is it the finished product?
What does this matter, necessarily? I have news: In early March, I received notice from two journals - the Analecta and HotHouse - that they would like to publish my poetry and short stories. As if that weren’t enough goodness for a budding writer, the Analecta also chose me as their featured prose writer to the tune of one hundred dollars.
So, I’m technically an award-winning, published writer.
Apparently this means I’m also a writer who gives readings, as bizarre as that seems. The first of which (!) will take place tomorrow afternoon from 2:30 to 4 p.m. at the University of Texas in the Student Activity Center (SAC 2.120). I’ll be reading a selection from Blueberry, a fictional prose story. If you really, really love it, you can purchase a copy of the journal (Analecta) for twelve dollars.
So that’s a thing.
Hothouse is also having a reading, hosted at the Austin Farmer’s Market on May 12th. I’m hoping to give more details closer to the event date, but I’d be thrilled to see any Austin readers come to hear!
So what does it mean to find your identity as a writer? Maybe it’s just about finding the quill in your middle: yourself, with a pen.
Every so often - which ends up being quite often, for me - it’s nice to mosey off somewhere to get some writing done. My poetry portfolio and thesis proposal are both due soon, so I’m up to my eyeballs in writing assignments. Luckily, Austin Java was able to help me in the form of a Honey Nut Latte.
This evening I’ve uploaded some content to my creative writing portfolio over at Becchime & Ink. Interested? I hope so!
Some teasers:
Sophia - Part One
”The package came on a Wednesday afternoon, wrapped in nonchalant brown paper, addressed to the only other Sophia at St. Bernadette’s Prep. This other Sophia - Lorenzini, that is - was so thin she was practically invisible, this popular, vaguely European, slinky tight thing - at least, tight enough to snag the attention of all the guys that never noticed me. She was a cheerleader.”
Sophia - Part Two
”Who believed in fucking Catholic school cheerleaders? The only sacred heart they knew was that one of Jesus looking all forlorn-like, eyeing them from the mantle as they gave their boyfriends handjobs on their parents’ couches. Me and Christ are on good terms. Being Italian, us neighborhood kids grew up with a lot of shit from our parents about being on good terms with the Dio trio. But at school nobody really gives a shit. Anybody can accept communion and say Hail Mary’s or whatever. I’m sure those girls all have a regular rotation.”
Blueberry
“My brother is a blueberry. Though my parents expect the noises of boys – the yowls and yawps of Indian summer, the screams of real and imagined monsters, the sniffles, the sneezes, the snorts, my brother arrives as an indigo bundle coiled in a silent slumber.”
This Old Love
”A bandstand, humming with the crackle of fireworks and electric lights. It is the 4th of July in 1940. The people of Louisville, Kentucky are lounging around the park enjoying a brassy jazz set. The whole scene feels as if in a dream, lights painting everything in watercolor hues of red and indigo. Beneath a meandering trumpet voice, crickets and cicadas chorus from the marshy creek that weaves through the landscape. Young mothers sit in nervous circles for the first time without their husbands, anxiously bouncing their infants on their rosy knees. Boys chase each other in a carousel blur. Girls laugh, white teeth gleaming against their drugstore red mouths.”
Allen Ginsberg Walks to the Corner Market
“Allen is everything dirty, everything holy, everything wrong and right and grueling in society. Behind wide and feeble glasses, he reads aloud to Gods and wonders if Neal does the same. “
Hope you enjoy! And I would be ever so delighted if you would follow along to see my later writing. If you ever have any questions, you can always email any thoughts or reviews or suggestions to: mail@kaylamoses.com
I’m out for the night; alone and anonymous at an obscenely hipster coffee place in West Austin, I can write. And thank goodness for that, because it’s been a while since I’ve really been able to sit down and pen my thoughts.
Here it smells like smoke and tea. There’s lanterns that glow like the friendly flicker of lamplight, and since it’s already tomorrow, the summer night has cooled off to a gentle eighty degrees. Non-natives probably think that’s an obscene temperature to be out at night - California stays something like seventy degrees during the day, doesn’t it? Regardless, I’m comfortable and languidly drinking a Chai, sporting my trademark scarf and jean jacket. This is a good place to be.
It’s been a few days since I’ve written in with an update to the whole summer situation, and that’s partially due to a flurry of new responsibilities in my life. As of about a week ago, I received notice that I’ve been accepted as an intern to the Artists’ Rights Movement, a grassroots activist group working towards societal and governmental awareness of creative liberties. It’s a national group, and I’ll be working with another intern to expand the group into an Austin-specific branch. What better city to advocate artists’ rights? Austin is a creative mecca. I’ll be posting a larger segment on the group if you’d like to get involved, whether in your town or abroad. It’s a fabulous effort, and I’m very excited to begin my work with them. So far I’ve been operating through Facebook, but we’re going to expand through the University of Texas network.
Sorry, guys; this is terribly stream of consciousness, but someone out here is smoking a real, live sailor pipe. It smells (surprisingly) delicious.
Also: one of the largest parts of the wee home renovation is going to be complete as of tomorrow. My parents came in a few days ago and put up the countertops and tile backsplash. Apart from having blank walls, a dated bathroom, sporadically faulty electrical wiring, and one dying plant on my empty porch, the place has come together quite nicely.
Not that this promise will come off any less empty than my previous claims, but I’m going to do my best to start writing more often. Just sitting here, enjoying my own company and the night breeze faintly tinged with the smell of brewed coffee… this is probably the best part of my day.
It’s been primarily getting all my ducks in a row so that I can get a job out in the scary adult world. And, lo and behold, now that my affairs are in order, I’ve gotten two proposals for internships! Imagine that.
But I missed writing dreadfully. I’m not going to stray too far again.
