Tag: workshop

Allow me to reintroduce myself:

I’m Mandy. I’m two weeks away from my last semester in my MFA program for Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. Right now, I’m prepping my manuscript for said last semester. In the next three months, I’m going to finalize that manuscript, design a book from cover to cover, publish it, and promote it ……. Geez.

so I’m going to try to chronicle this last semester here. Already on here are a lot of old drafts of poems. Some of them might even be in my book!

In two weeks, I’ll be working three jobs and starting Thesis, so I’ve been working hard at revising and writing and designing while I still have room to breathe. Thus far, I have 32 poems that I have tentatively separated into three sections and ordered. This might end up being fruitless work, but it kept me amused during two days of 15 degree weather spent without leaving the warmth of¬†apartment or changing out of pajama pants.

Pants are overrated.

so, Look forward to updates on my manuscript, possible designs, handmade elements, and how much I love my fellow poets that I have the pleasure of being in workshop with! I can’t wait to gush.

Mandy

I am not the years of stifled silence. I am not anything that mingled within his drunken breath, not any word that eeked out between his hollow smoke whispers. I am Mandy, not of Devin&Mandy–just Mandy. Writing those letters feels like blasphemy burning up the ridges of my throat. A slur. An indignant prophane slander against my blood. He is the scraping off–a hot brand soldering down a birthmark.
I come from a long line of strong women. A tall testament to stubbornness and vulgarity. We’ve been snuffed out candles but I still smoldered. I burned through the choking smoke–a sunburn mocking your skin through low fat clouds.
I am descendant of drunks, drugs, and degenerates on gilded platforms with diamonds on their lips. I tiptoe that line. In stilettos. On wine.
I am made of anxiously scrawled scrap paper but I am not the dog-eared paperback someone won’t take home. I’m the fucking gold-leaf cornered anthology. I am every volume, dusted regularly, displayed in an antique cameo cabinet with fancy feet. I deserve to be read. Every word.