Literosexual Closet

New review of The Labyrinth over here–haven’t had one of those for awhile.

Also, in case you were wondering, the layout issues with Apocrypha seem to be fixed, and the clean edition is available. Go forth, and get devoured!

It’s funny, people seem to seize on the fact that I’m a poet so much
more readily than that I’m a novelist–at a lovely little birthday
dinner we all went to last night someone made mention of me as an
“established” poet, yet had no idea I wrote any fiction at all. My
husband introduces me as a poet, and rarely makes mention of the
novelist part of poet/novelist. Yet, despite youthful intentions, fiction is probably 85% of
what I write these days. The idea of a poet is so much more romantic,
even though I would wager the average person knows far more people who
write poetry (even in secret) than who write novels.

On the other hand,
the mention of my poetry barely causes a pause in the conversation,
while my explaining where and how and by whom my novels are published,
and will be published, and what they are about causes total and
attentive silence, followed by slight discomfort because no one really
knows how to respond to that except with a “Hey, go you!” So who knows, really?

I remember when my expected artistic output was one macaroni painting
and one clay “elephant” per week, and Big Bird told me that was just swell.

Ah well, back to the Shinto trickster-mines. All my canaries are
hopping widdershins on one claw and reciting Trimalchio’s speeches.

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