RoadWriter

Heart, Soul, and Rough Edges — A Gypsy Journey of Words and Wonder

Archive for the month “October, 2013”

Muse Con Learning: Facebook Fan Page

facebook engancha

One of the things I took from Muse Con this year was how to make use of an Author Page on Facebook, presented by C.J. Ellisson. I had always thought it wasn’t worth having an author page until I had a book to promote. C.J. pointed out that she created her page 16 months before her book came out, and already had 1600 followers by the time her first book released. That is amazing. And it does make sense, to create a reader base before I have something to sell.

An Author Page isn’t all about selling a book, it’s about sharing an interest, growing a reader community. I can share not only about my book, but fun memes for the genre, questions for discussion. Currently I’m building up to Halloween by talking about different paranormal creatures. I’ve also started Fairy Fridays, something for my followers to expect on a weekly basis.

Another important thing I learned was that your friends list, your family and peers, is not your target audience. That’s another reason to have a separate author or fan page. Send out an initial invite or notice, and let them make that choice to follow or not. Don’t keep spamming them with invites or book news.

My goal for this next month is to find some fantasy groups to join, where I can interact as my Author persona. Start contributing, get people familiar with my name. I’m not ready to promote through Facebook ads, which would take money, so I get to take full advantage of other organic ways to connect with readers.

If you’d like to join me on my journey, you can follow me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/MaryWJensenFanPage

Mary Butterfly Signature

Enhanced by Zemanta
Advertisements

Make Visible: The Feminine

I’m a poet with a particular point of view. In these next blog posts I’ll post poems on different subjects from my point of view. Each poem is an expression, through me, of inspiration or Spirit or emotion. What you see in this light is what you bring to the poem.

“The Feminine” is often expressed in writing by men. I offer you this poem, by a woman about femininity and what it means to be a woman. To me, just to me.

No Woman is an Island

More like vast continents
covered in dark forests,
hidden lakes and tributaries,
golden cities.

This land, dotted with small towns,
broad highways and dirt roads
is easy to get lost in.

There are no maps,
no signposts.

It’s not my fault,
if you lose your way…

© Anne Westlund

Boreal Forest

“Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.”~Robert Bresson, French Film Director

Going Deep

DC79

Eyeing Einstein (Washington DC, Len Graf 2006)

Today I wrestled and won a round with the mind-messing monkey that clings to me, snickering about all the things I should do, know I should do, intend to do, but never quite get around to doing.

You know the one — we all have them. Usually nags with “someone’s voice of reason”, at a time we’re feeling vulnerable. I hate this voice because it sings off-key, with nasty words that are too true.

In just over a week, I’m going semi-bionic, as I literally leap for that moment when my new left knee replaces the constant pain I’ve been in for a long time. Rehab will hurt like hell, I know, but, at the other side . . .

. . . assuming I make it to the other side. What if I don’t? What if something goes wacky? Expert worriers like me have long lists in our heads, and perhaps on paper. I trust my doctor, rehab team, hubby, hospital, and my own desire to experience some of the good life I’ve eliminated as pain and meds have limited me.

Enough of this! Today, I finally attacked and updated our wills. Nothing fancy, but they now reflect our intentions when it’s “time”. I raged at my mother for several years prior to her last illness and subsequent death, fifteen months later.

“Please!” I begged her. “I don’t care who you leave anything to, but DO SOMETHING. Don’t leave me with a mess to handle when you’re gone.”

“I’m taking care of it,” she kept reassuring me. “I’ll get it done when I’m ready. Dammit, Michele, stop bugging me!”

So she died at 2:00 a.m., on a Sunday morning, in a nursing facility, nothing updated, never told me her wishes, or anything of consequence. The result, as I probated an almost-twenty year old will, fractured the family almost beyond repair.

Fast forward a dozen or so years. Our lives are radically different than even three years ago, when I last updated our wills. Major changes to make so we don’t repeat our dysfunctional history. By the end of Monday, the new wills “should be” witnessed and complete. Then I can breathe, sleep, stop stuffing my face with ice cream (my drug of choice when stressed), and prepare for surgery with a clear and healthy mind.

In honor of my big step, I’m sharing one of my poems from LIFFELINES. May all of this help you make a good choice to finish something very important for your peace of mind.

Restless Peace

I remember…

…How excited you were
to start college at fifty-three,
wanted me to be part of it,
but how nervous I made you.

…Your camel ride,
and how you danced the Hora
without your cane
the last night in Israel.

…Your glitter days of decorating,
the treasures you collected
— herd of elephants,
music boxes, clowns,
gypsy violins,
Lladro figurines.
And flowers—
velvet red roses, especially.

Raw, returning reminder
of sorrow’s bloom.

…You were loyal to your friends,
ecstatic with their triumphs,
anguished in their agony,
fiercely protective of those in need.

…You felt whole when you gave
beyond your limits
of time and energy and hope
then crashed. Again.

And I remember…

…All the times we dealt
in guilt and blame,
held onto hurts and slights,
refused to let them heal.

…Your choices tore us apart,
those left behind.
Impossible to make peace
with your unfinished business.

…You told me, even at the end,
we were supposed to keep arguing.
When you stopped fighting,
I’d know you’d given up.

…We swapped mother-daughter roles
several lifetimes earlier.
I couldn’t parent you any better
than you tried to do with me.

…You had the last word
when you died.
Why do I
keep arguing with you still?

Michele M. Graf

Post Navigation