Pen over Page
by Lynn Goodwin
The Journal
By Neva J. Hodges
I finished my book, final one of my life.
I laid my pen down, and rested my eyes.
My story I told, with truth as my guide.
I could have said more, but secrets abide.
Pen over Page
By Jamuna Devi Advani
Is the pen left to rest from a tired hand?
Or just waiting for someone to pick up
For a day’s journal to be noted down?
Maybe someone forgotten to write!
My imaginations go wild as I look at it.
Or are you chastising the pen with
your wandering thoughts?
If you permit me I shall pick up this pen
and write with tripped -over words
and some mangled tenses!
Haiku –Pen over Paper
By Susan Condeff
Pen over paper
Threatens no danger and no
Beauty to unfold
Pen over Paper
By Paula Chinick
Empty page awaits
Instrument yearns to express
I am without thought
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Writer Scorned
By Stacey Gustafson
Why can’t I admit that I am a writer? If someone asks me what I do, I say, “I am a mother, CEO of the household, a teacher. ” But a writer? I learned that I couldn’t deal with the unsolicited comments. Take last year’s conversation with a neighbor.
“What do you do?” he asked one morning as he pulled his trashcan to the curb.
“Oh, I’m a writer,” I said in my most serious tone.
“You know, when I retire I think I’m going to be a writer too.”
“Yeah, when I retire, I going to be a heart surgeon,” I mumbled under my breathe as I walked away.
Telling someone you’re a writer opens up an opportunity to be knocked down, criticized and then asked stupid questions by complete strangers or nosey relatives.
“How much do you make?”
“That’s a great hobby.”
“Do you know J.K. Rowling?”
I’ve been writing for years and realized that I needed a push to reach my full potential. “You should join the local writers club to develop your skills,” said my best friend. “And I heard there’s a supportive critique group as well.”
My fellow writers pushed me to submit a sample of my funny short stories to an online paper and presto; I had my own humor column. I developed an email list and sent out links to my bi-monthly column. Responses were supportive and readers said, “I love your writing,” or “You’re so funny.”
Then I opened an email from an old high school chum.
Oh, boy, another compliment!
Wrong O.
The email said, “You are a prolific writer. Congrats. Please remove me from your distribution list. Have a great day! Sarah.”
I am a pain in the neck.
I returned for support to the one place that would appreciate my hard work, the writer’s club. A story I wrote, “A Training Opportunity,” was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Magic of Mothers and Daughters. I brought an extra copy of my book to the monthly meeting for the raffle and proudly placed it next to the rest of the donations. Mine was the only new title among used ones like The Da Vinci Code and How to Fix Everything for Dummies. Pulling a ticket from the hat, the vice president said, “Congrats, Jim. You get first pick.”
With smugness reserved for “those who have been published,” I watched as he ambled up to the podium and made his selection. We were pals; he had cheered me on throughout my publishing experience. He reached over and grabbed…War and Peace?
Who the heck would take that one over my mine?
He sauntered back to his seat with a pleased smile. The next raffle winner snagged Webster’s Dictionary?
Oh, come on! We had lunch together yesterday! I thought you were my friend.
My paperback sat there as lonely as a comic book among the classics.
I am Wonder Woman.
Finally, a lady selected my book. A tear slid down my face.
After being published a second time in Not Your Mother’s Book…On Being a Woman, I was confident enough to hand out copies to colleagues and family. During a recent visit, my mother-in-law asked for a signed edition before we drove her to the airport.
“Here’s a copy of my book,” I said, handing it to her with both hands like fine china.
She snatched the anthology, stuffed it into her suitcase and walked away.
Come back here! You skipped protocol. This is the moment you open the book, read the inscription, make a big fuss and tell me how terrific I am. You are doing it wrong!
I am a taxi driver.
Then the phone rang. “I just received your book in the mail,” said my mom, breathless. “That’s the best story you’ve ever written!”
I’m Stacey Gustafson and I am a writer.