After two long arduous years my novel A Violet, Violent Spring has finally been released in paperback format.
Not many novels written during NaNoWriMo get past the editing stages, let alone the publication stage, so I feel a lot of pride in being able to say “I wrote this novel in one month” – though what was completed on November 30th 2015 was only a skeleton of what I have now released. I chose to self-publish this novel because it was written primarily as a work for me. I didn’t expect anyone to read it let alone like it, and I certainly didn’t think I’d publish in paperback – but here we are.
I won’t be disappointed if this book gets bad reviews, or if it fails to sell even a single copy, mostly because I wrote it for myself. What I will choose to traditionally publish (and you can expect that I certainly will), will be cut from an entirely different cloth that you will not even recognize that it is the same author who has written it.
Now that this journey is FINALLY over, I can put my mind to the next big task – MARKETING *shudders*
Until my next novel,
Those silly girls
Putting their hearts
Into other people’s mouths
Not expecting them to bite down.
Those silly girls
Pouring their love into
Chalices served on silver platters.
The sound the glass makes as it shatters
They don’t hear it.
They merely refill the glass
Now they have reached an impasse.
For the Heart
Eater will not drink,
And those silly girls will keep
Pouring and pouring until they fall asleep
In a puddle
Of their own tears.
I can’t understand those girls,
Giving away their polished pearls,
Nothing in return.
How do you love a demon
Who cuts you apart while you are screaming.
I never understood those silly girls
Until I met my own Heart Eater.
The way he smiled.
It was so much easier
So much sweeter
To put my heart in his mouth
To pour my love into a cup
And forget about his teeth
Biting down, draining the life out of me.
– i am a silly girl
The worst thing is
Not when you love
A loveless monster,
Bit when you love
A fire that glows
To warm everyone,
But to burn you.
– does that make me the monster?
Do not think it is easy to be someone’s punching bag.
The first bruises, you do not see so clearly.
They darken to a purple only after days of
Skin being ripped apart, fingers breaking,
Lungs inflating, exploding.
The healing is arduous.
Tears wash me like walking through rain.
Wounds turn to scabs.
Yet once the healing is done I am still brittle.
I will break again.
After the first punch.
– i wish i didn’t break so easily
You do not know the pain,
Of looking at yourself in
The next morning and
Why did I do that? I wish
Done that. And it hurts
Knew what I was doing.
– i wish i could blame it on the alcohol.
Giving you my secrets is
Giving you a noose to tie around my neck,
Giving you the sword with which to behead me,
Giving you the exact instructions with which to caress me.
(I wonder, what will you choose to do?)
When I give you the key to my heart
Do not expect to find something easy to understand,
And Love, and protect,
Like sunshine, gemstones, and flowers,
In the place of blood,
Lust, and rotted flesh,
Poisoned by memories
I would do anything to forget.
My true weakness is giving. I give,
And give, expecting nothing.
You take, and take, you
Drain me till I am
Empty. And I,
A naïve fool,
To know me
Is as simple as
Judging a book by its cover,
Reading the face of a clock for the time.
(Is it really a weakness
To expose myself
To the world?)
Look for truth in the letters I write,
For the pen and the pages
Give me courage to say
What my cowardly tongue
Keeps locked away.