Prompt #6: A Room of Your Own

You may email your responses directly to me at, or leave your efforts in the comment section below each day’s prompt.  I would be happy to share work and links back to bloggers and poets that have decided to participate.
Many of you may already have a poem or piece that fits the prompt, but try to write and share something new.  Flex muscles.  Write.  You can always revise later.

Prompt #6: A Room of Your Own

bathroomWhat is your favorite room in your home?  For me, it is definitely the bathroom. I know, you’re thinking that’s bizarre, but it’s private and relaxing.  I’ve even been known to read books in the bathtub.  Thankfully, friends suggested that I put my Kindle in a Ziploc bag in case I slipped up.  Try to describe your favorite room, either from your childhood home or in the place you are currently living.  What is it about that space that makes it so special?

PS: That is totally NOT my actual bathroom.  If it was, I would live there.


Taking my own advice and Eating it…

It’s about time I took my own advice.  I love that Natalie Goldberg talks about Writing Practice in the same way as Yogis.  And while I love to read about ‘practice,’ and I make lovely plans to practice, I often neglect the actual “DO” part of the equation.

This February, in a tiny love-letter to self, I’m following the Writers Regimen sponsored by the Southeast Review.  The thirty-day effort is an awesome way to stretch my very lax muscles, but I don’t want to give their prompts away.  For a $15 subscription fee, they send me an email once a day that includes all kinds of neat writing inspiration… here–you can visit yourself:

But I would like to share some works in progress without revealing too much behind the various prompts.  If you, too, are a participant, I’d love to hear from you and see other items inspired by the program.  In the meantime, I have some short goals for the month:

1. Write Everyday

2. Blog Once a Week

So Here’s a poem

The Bookshelf

The worn and warped shelves
have borne witness to the heavy gestalts
of my life.  The sagging planks
force tombs shoulder to shoulder,
carrion crows of my tragedies,
chotkes of the day-to-day detritus.
dust conceals the filigree tracery
of my dragging finger along the edges,
as I contemplate my next choice.
The shelves are too narrow to house all
the questions of my heart.