If You Liked The Marriage Bargain, You’ll LOVE…
Check out this week's indie recommendations. Enjoy your weekend everyone!
21 May 2012
RELAUNCH!
Thinking back to the following post from 2012, and an inspiring conversation with my students this morning, I'm thinking it'll now be time to relaunch this blogspot again. Because really writing is:
Sooo.. I'll start with this: know where you are!!! I challenge you all to Google yourselves right now. Think about what you've seen and what you had expected to see. Differences likely abound.
Just reflect. That is all.
X
K
(Previous post below)
But seriously, I will begin this relaunch with heartfelt thanks to readers old and new (no I did NOT just call you old) for all of the support that you have given me on this wacky journey. There are a great deal of happenings that I will be sharing with you. As you know I would never have made it this far without you all so THANK YOU!
That said, I will be regularly posting here after trying out a few other mediums and returning to the old standby BLOGGER interface I know and love. Actually it is a new and updated BLOGGER this time around and I embrace it wholeheartedly and continue to share daily me-isms here.
To begin, I want to tell you all what I have been doing in the time the Blog-o-Sphere has spent Keri-less. My next few posts will detail projects that I have been invested in over the past year and will let you know what will be new in Keri Land. For now, here is a taste of what I've been up to:
Writing for Indie Reader: http://indiereader.com/ where I have a weekly column called Paper Weights that spawns a new installment every Monday--start off you week with me! In addition to Paper Weights, I write book reviews for the site (several of which have appeared on USA TODAY in the Happily Ever After Book Blog), and I am currently writing a weekly installment called Alike But Indie which showcases a NY Times Bestseller and the brilliant indie titles that compliment it.
Collaborating with LK Editorial: www.lkeditorial.com where you will find an answer to your writing questions. I am writing/editing for LK and encourage you to check out the site to see what LK can do for you.
Some of my most recent work:
How Tweet it is...Or is it?
Dont Fear the Paper
What's up next:
Tomorrow I will be at Spark & Hustle NYC networking my blogging a$$ off and in June I will be at BEA for the Blogging Conference and more. Stay tuned, it's going to be a bookish summer: Keri Style!
08 January 2012
Movin on up
Hey all,
I just wanted to take a minute from my (insane) schedule to drop by good old Blogspot and say hello...helllloooooo!
Since I am working on a book, teaching full time and writing a weekly column, I may not be posting here for a while.
Thanks everyone for following me on here through two years of intensity, and unbreaking of the block that was bringing down my work.
Keep an eye out for all things new, perhaps you may want to start here: www.indiereader.com
Peace and Love,
Keri
I just wanted to take a minute from my (insane) schedule to drop by good old Blogspot and say hello...helllloooooo!
Since I am working on a book, teaching full time and writing a weekly column, I may not be posting here for a while.
Thanks everyone for following me on here through two years of intensity, and unbreaking of the block that was bringing down my work.
Keep an eye out for all things new, perhaps you may want to start here: www.indiereader.com
Peace and Love,
Keri
13 December 2011
Paper Weights (New column on Indie Reader)
By Nook or by Book: A Bookworm’s Tale - IndieReader
Check out the first entry of my new column "Paper Weights" on www.indiereader.com
Check out the first entry of my new column "Paper Weights" on www.indiereader.com
20 October 2011
My Voice Is...
My voice is my soul peering out from between the trees.
It is a child gazing in wonder at it's mother as the world turns grey.
My voice looks in adoration at three tombstones and shouts their stories onto the page.
It is something I can always call my own and will never lose.
My voice is my own. It is my eyes and ears and mouth and heart.
My voice is my love and my anger and my hate and my truth.
My voice is loud and full of hope and clarity and pain.
My voice is my own.
It belongs to no other.
Not a bee nor a bear may ever pilfer this treasure from me.
My voice is a jewel, a treasure, a weight and a burden.
I love my voice as much as i hate it and more.
My voice is my downfall and ressurects me daily.
My voice is not yours.
My voice is the world.
As am I.
It is a child gazing in wonder at it's mother as the world turns grey.
My voice looks in adoration at three tombstones and shouts their stories onto the page.
It is something I can always call my own and will never lose.
My voice is my own. It is my eyes and ears and mouth and heart.
My voice is my love and my anger and my hate and my truth.
My voice is loud and full of hope and clarity and pain.
My voice is my own.
It belongs to no other.
Not a bee nor a bear may ever pilfer this treasure from me.
My voice is a jewel, a treasure, a weight and a burden.
I love my voice as much as i hate it and more.
My voice is my downfall and ressurects me daily.
My voice is not yours.
My voice is the world.
As am I.
13 August 2011
Boardwalk
I never challenge the medium of ink to a page,
Pens to the street,
Kicks up on ya seats,
Seeing painted palm trees gingerly planted,
Inserted in dirt from the Depot,
There’s no sand on this beach,
Not anymore,
No brownish white
No soft,
Not like it was
Not like we knew.
Russian-Polish dialects flood the air
Around broken planks
Paint yellowed, white, and parched
From salty breezes of sea air,
Surrounded by seagulls, and pigeon shit covered lamp posts.
A drizzle sets in and my coffee gets cold,
Ducking under painted pavilion tops where there used to be free sky.
It’s all brand new,
Sculpted and blue,
Rain on the beach doesn’t mean going home anymore.
Recalling days we sat by the water,
Relaxing with 22 ounces of brew,
Or a can of coke and my Dutch friend from Philly,
A smile flits across my lips thinking of pre-games,
And getting ready songs before we hit our P.T. destinations.
Adidas to the planks-
My laces are thinner now,
Passing bocce courts and horseshoes,
Playgrounds abound with slides, swings, and giant silver screws.
I remember leaning down 17 years ago to brush gravel dust off my Etnies,
Swinging legs up onto broken benches,
Passing stories,
Smoking truth and collapsing into laughing fits.
Now I watch a yellow contraption comb the sand,
Leaving tire tracks and skinny lines,
Docks jut out just half the length they were,
Jettys just rocks where we used to walk out.
Watching them crumble under rebel feet,
Disregarding danger signs taking mossy steps,
And jumping into the icy black sea.
Green moss covered stones,
Scrub brush and grass grow
Over what used to be pure,
We used to be pure.
The sand is dirt now.
No brownish white,
No soft.
Ill fitted screws and
Bolts in the deck
Wobble as joggers amble by
But the playground sparkles with corporate glee.
Refurbished boardwalk,
Tables to gut fish beside a reception hall,
Where a beer is 8 dollars and a steak is 35.
It feels cleaner to be here but less like home,
Under the cover of summer with
2 feet firmly down,
Pounding avenues I knew so well,
Feels like meeting for the first time.
Heads held high,
Watching skywriters advertise on a banner,
We were young
And the boardwalk was home.
Pens to the street,
Kicks up on ya seats,
Seeing painted palm trees gingerly planted,
Inserted in dirt from the Depot,
There’s no sand on this beach,
Not anymore,
No brownish white
No soft,
Not like it was
Not like we knew.
Russian-Polish dialects flood the air
Around broken planks
Paint yellowed, white, and parched
From salty breezes of sea air,
Surrounded by seagulls, and pigeon shit covered lamp posts.
A drizzle sets in and my coffee gets cold,
Ducking under painted pavilion tops where there used to be free sky.
It’s all brand new,
Sculpted and blue,
Rain on the beach doesn’t mean going home anymore.
Recalling days we sat by the water,
Relaxing with 22 ounces of brew,
Or a can of coke and my Dutch friend from Philly,
A smile flits across my lips thinking of pre-games,
And getting ready songs before we hit our P.T. destinations.
Adidas to the planks-
My laces are thinner now,
Passing bocce courts and horseshoes,
Playgrounds abound with slides, swings, and giant silver screws.
I remember leaning down 17 years ago to brush gravel dust off my Etnies,
Swinging legs up onto broken benches,
Passing stories,
Smoking truth and collapsing into laughing fits.
Now I watch a yellow contraption comb the sand,
Leaving tire tracks and skinny lines,
Docks jut out just half the length they were,
Jettys just rocks where we used to walk out.
Watching them crumble under rebel feet,
Disregarding danger signs taking mossy steps,
And jumping into the icy black sea.
Green moss covered stones,
Scrub brush and grass grow
Over what used to be pure,
We used to be pure.
The sand is dirt now.
No brownish white,
No soft.
Ill fitted screws and
Bolts in the deck
Wobble as joggers amble by
But the playground sparkles with corporate glee.
Refurbished boardwalk,
Tables to gut fish beside a reception hall,
Where a beer is 8 dollars and a steak is 35.
It feels cleaner to be here but less like home,
Under the cover of summer with
2 feet firmly down,
Pounding avenues I knew so well,
Feels like meeting for the first time.
Heads held high,
Watching skywriters advertise on a banner,
We were young
And the boardwalk was home.
Ode to the Codes (2011)
10306 you grew me up,
taught me how to toast,
smoke, rave,
drive and flip cups.
10304 you taught me solidarity,
how to be alone and strong,
be myself—no one else,
and then move the hell on.
10013 gave a glimpse of how things might be,
to a girl living in the big city,
testing boundaries often but not pressing hard enough,
losing sight of everything, blindness, and home again.
10306 a brief re-visit,
I relish all additional damage you did.
Some say one should never go back,
but my hometown zip always reeled in my slack.
10314 spawned a five-year party,
conflagration of company just like it used to be,
a smart move: back to school,
finally a real job!
10314 again was another first,
a house became a home,
first real one in years,
but no more living alone.
07044 well you know,
I am never sure where that story will go.
I've managed to try and for years made it stick,
But not without gallons and gallons of ick.
10301 returning once more,
A year ran rapidly by triple locking my door,
On a hill just up the street,
Will I ever have a permanent code in which to rest my weary feet?
With brief batches of 718, 917 and 646,
One can almost be fooled that a 973 might stick.
The one thing I've learned from all these first few,
Is to never let a zip code-ever define you.
taught me how to toast,
smoke, rave,
drive and flip cups.
10304 you taught me solidarity,
how to be alone and strong,
be myself—no one else,
and then move the hell on.
10013 gave a glimpse of how things might be,
to a girl living in the big city,
testing boundaries often but not pressing hard enough,
losing sight of everything, blindness, and home again.
10306 a brief re-visit,
I relish all additional damage you did.
Some say one should never go back,
but my hometown zip always reeled in my slack.
10314 spawned a five-year party,
conflagration of company just like it used to be,
a smart move: back to school,
finally a real job!
10314 again was another first,
a house became a home,
first real one in years,
but no more living alone.
07044 well you know,
I am never sure where that story will go.
I've managed to try and for years made it stick,
But not without gallons and gallons of ick.
10301 returning once more,
A year ran rapidly by triple locking my door,
On a hill just up the street,
Will I ever have a permanent code in which to rest my weary feet?
With brief batches of 718, 917 and 646,
One can almost be fooled that a 973 might stick.
The one thing I've learned from all these first few,
Is to never let a zip code-ever define you.
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