estepheia: (Out for a walk. Bitch.)
But first, a brief update: Since my last post: daughter number 2 finally won a handful of medals (her dancing had inproved greatly, but she never won any competitions, so we were beginning to wonder if the adjudicators were blind); we visited an old LJ-friend in Munich (who has moved on to entirely different hobbies, but it was great to meet again); we drove to Italy for a week (we went to the Gardaland fun park twice!); watched Germany win against Argentina and lose against Spain (who, btw played lousy soccer, yesterday)... busy, busy, busy....

Can't say I like this heat. In Italy the heat was brutal, here it's not much better. Okay, okay, t's better than rain and cold, but it still makes me drowsy and stupid...

Now comes the whining:
In Munich I went to a poetry reading. I had submitted poems to a poetry competition and I was curious to hear the poems that had beaten mine. The Literaturbüro held a public reading of the 6 poets who had been found worthy to fight for a place in the finals (to be held at the end of this year). Some of the texts were better than the ones I had submitted, or at least okay, but some of the poetry was rubbish. *sigh*

I am beginning to think that my kind of poetry will never be successful. My poems are too short. They are snapshots, mostly descriptive, and supposed to be just a tiny weeny bit witty in the English sense, understated. But it seems that agonized navel gazing or long long boring poems that repeatedly tread over the same ground please juries more. *sigh* I can't do long - not in poetry. In fanfiction? No problem, all stories automatically end up longer than planned. But poetry? I can't inflate a poem, I can't just pump more words into it. The whole point is to condense thoughts and impressions into the shortest form possible.

Another disappointment: I submitted my first crime story to a competition. Didn't make it into the top 30. *sigh* I had been pleased with the story, hadn't expected to win, but had enjoyed writing it and had vaguely hoped against all hope that it might make it into the anthology... *sigh*

Final disappointment: I am currently reading the winning novel of a fantasy novel competition that I took part in last year (and never expected to win). It has a gay hero, interesting ideas and characters, and I desperately want it to blow me away, but in truth I have to say that I find it pretty dull. *sigh* I checked out the Amazon reviews. Most of the reviewers are positive but not enthusiastic; they are reluctant to dole out harsh criticism, but they agree that the book should have been a lot shorter. Honestly? I would have liked to be beaten by something really fantastic. :-)

I know that some of you guys on my flist are published authors. You submit manuscripts on a regular basis, or you take part in competitions. When you look at the winners or at published stories or novels, do you sometimes ask yourself: Who the hell made that decision?
estepheia: (Poetry Slam)
So, tonight was the public reading at the Thalia bookstore in Wolfsburg.
I read 5 poems and a short story. I think my delivery was fine. The audience laughed in all the right places. And two very sophisticated ladies in the front row looked impressed and kindly disposed. The press was there, too, so I might even get my picture into the local newspaper. Hope I don't look too ditzy.
Books sold: zero - but that may be due to the fact that I only had the expensive hardcovers. Maybe the paperback will do better. Oh well. Poetry never sells, not even on a good day. I heard that even famous German poets are veeery lucky if the sell 300 copies of a poetry collection.
Wanna have a look at mine?
Can't help it, I have to shamelessly pimp my book. :-)
I just hope it turns out okay, I haven't actually received my own copy yet....

Two poems

Feb. 28th, 2006 12:42 am
estepheia: (Poetry Slam)
In case anyone enjoys reading poetry, here are two snapshot-y poems based on two pre-kid vacations...

Sahara )

Edinburgh )

Not my finest poems ever, but I like them the way one likes photographs or souveniers - as a reminder of past holidays. *sigh* I'd love to see Edinburgh again. Scotland is my favorite country for vacations. Or Ireland. I definitely want to go to Ireland one day... Guess I have to win the lottery. Oh well, maybe in a few years. After all, our new digs are cheaper...
Right, I'm off to bed. Maybe I'll give myself half an hour for fanfic tomorrow... Toodles.
estepheia: (Tina and Toyah)
Shite! I feel crippled. The phone is broken, so far so bad. That will get fixed on July 6th. I still have my cell phone, thank god, but the way things are going I'm gonna get a frigging high bill for it. Also, for the past few days I was unable to send out emails. My client keeps telling me: error connecting to SMTP Sever. Whatever that means. Eeek.

Must remember to make doctor's appointments tomorrow. Must not use expensive cell phone rates as excuse not to call.

Wrote a poem today while watching Tina's Irish Dance class. Not fabulous, but I think it captures the whole thing well:Read more... )
estepheia: (Default)
I suppose it is only fitting that my first entry should consist of a poem about writing. I don't normally write poetry (haven't done so in about 20 years, and never in English), but since my LJ will deal with all kinds of blah blah about creative writing and Buffy fanfiction, it seems appropriate.

Waking up – Going to bed

A mug of coffee gives support.
Pen and notepad, next to my plate, as always.

They cut through drowsiness:
Two girls chock full of noise and chatter, I smile

Until industrious hands
jump forward twenty minutes.
Causing me to rush through the routine
While blank screen waits
To suck me in.

Sand-filled trainers, knotted laces,
Around the neck a purple scarf
They set out into the morning freshness
To pick up chestnuts that the autumn scattered
And feel their roundness in their hands.

The taste of coffee, cold already
clickety-clackety until four.

Afternoon. I bring them milk and kisses
And soon it’s bedtime ”Off you go!”
Then back to
Cutting, slicing, trimming
Backspace backspace
Closer, closer
to the phrase that fits, until

The cursor blinks
I’ve no more words to spill tonight.

Toothbrush and a glass of water.
Daughters, husband, pillow, sleep -
Pen and notepad, next to me.

(Written during a poetry workshop, loosely based on "Digging" by Seamus Heany)


estepheia: (Default)

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