Sean Taylor's Blog, page 14
January 25, 2015
Third Musical Act... Shannon Harney
Performing Feb 1st at Viracocha, 998 Valencia Street.
Great Music Video here
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qM0NsAcGhy8
and Bandcamp here
https://shannonharney.bandcamp.com/track/wait-by-the-sea
“We descend from the trees, dig our toes into the dark earth, we do as we please.” (You)
Shannon keeps us somewhere between her alarming eloquence and her melodic narrative. It is a warm and pressing place where piano keys react, break, and recede. She could be a mermaid playing the tide, if it crashed ins...
Great Music Video here
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qM0NsAcGhy8
and Bandcamp here
https://shannonharney.bandcamp.com/track/wait-by-the-sea
“We descend from the trees, dig our toes into the dark earth, we do as we please.” (You)
Shannon keeps us somewhere between her alarming eloquence and her melodic narrative. It is a warm and pressing place where piano keys react, break, and recede. She could be a mermaid playing the tide, if it crashed ins...
January 16, 2015
Second Musical Act... White White Wolf
Performing February 1st at Viracocha!
Second Musical Act…
White White Wolf
Before reading this check out the Debut EP “From The Cabin” here
https://soundcloud.com/whitewhitewolf/sets/from-the-cabin
You could say White White Wolf create the exuberance of a chill, they play those split seconds before a shiver. It is music that follows you, seemingly echoing off of itself.
“And I don’t want you to think, that I’ve done this kind of thing before, and If I have…”
“You don’t have to say… that you can’t… y...
Second Musical Act…
White White Wolf
Before reading this check out the Debut EP “From The Cabin” here
https://soundcloud.com/whitewhitewolf/sets/from-the-cabin
You could say White White Wolf create the exuberance of a chill, they play those split seconds before a shiver. It is music that follows you, seemingly echoing off of itself.
“And I don’t want you to think, that I’ve done this kind of thing before, and If I have…”
“You don’t have to say… that you can’t… y...
January 7, 2015
To fall apart, to stay the same.
SF Weekly had this to say about Your Smallest Bones in their Winter Arts Issue available now.
"Your Smallest Bones, by Sean Taylor
Feb. 1, Seven7h Tangent
Peculiar little things, like wanting to know how many teeth are in your zipper when you're a 9-year-old too afraid to jump, and surreal, impossible things, like pushing a grand piano into the center of a frozen lake, anchor the watching and waiting and wondering of introverts who often mistake random chance for omens as they reach out to touch...
"Your Smallest Bones, by Sean Taylor
Feb. 1, Seven7h Tangent
Peculiar little things, like wanting to know how many teeth are in your zipper when you're a 9-year-old too afraid to jump, and surreal, impossible things, like pushing a grand piano into the center of a frozen lake, anchor the watching and waiting and wondering of introverts who often mistake random chance for omens as they reach out to touch...
January 6, 2015
Submit to Quiet Lightning!
Have I ever told you I like your writing? Well it seems I have been trusted with the keys to curate the next round ofQuiet LightningwithEvan Karp...
So if you have any little poems, any epic flash fiction, any beautiful minimalism you've been dying to get off your chest, share it, throw it out here. However, heed this warning, if your piece is selected you're going to have to bear the fame and recognition of being part of the best Quiet Lightning show ever... You're going to have to carry the...
So if you have any little poems, any epic flash fiction, any beautiful minimalism you've been dying to get off your chest, share it, throw it out here. However, heed this warning, if your piece is selected you're going to have to bear the fame and recognition of being part of the best Quiet Lightning show ever... You're going to have to carry the...
January 5, 2015
First musical act... Syd McClune
Before reading this hit up the soundcloud page to these songs.
https://soundcloud.com/sparrow-bot
Let these songs begin, close your eyes and let them begin, ask them to walk and they will dance in whispers through wheat fields, calling out fireflies, softly. Once my eyes are closed her music sounds blinding beautiful down a very long hallway of bright light. Every melody, every word, every strum another step closer to who knows what, but, maybe this is what insects hear when they are drawn t...
https://soundcloud.com/sparrow-bot
Let these songs begin, close your eyes and let them begin, ask them to walk and they will dance in whispers through wheat fields, calling out fireflies, softly. Once my eyes are closed her music sounds blinding beautiful down a very long hallway of bright light. Every melody, every word, every strum another step closer to who knows what, but, maybe this is what insects hear when they are drawn t...
December 27, 2014
December 24, 2014
Wait for it...
There you go, I'd say it's my favorite Holidays song.
"let's cut down a tree, let's take all the trees and put 'em in your house"
Anyways I wanted to say thanks to all the kind people that published my stories this year.
Including:
Pantheon Magazine
Full of Crow Fiction
Coe Review
East Coast Literary Review
Petrichor Machine Magazine
Lots of news will be coming on the first of the year!
Let's release a book!
"let's cut down a tree, let's take all the trees and put 'em in your house"
Anyways I wanted to say thanks to all the kind people that published my stories this year.
Including:
Pantheon Magazine
Full of Crow Fiction
Coe Review
East Coast Literary Review
Petrichor Machine Magazine
Lots of news will be coming on the first of the year!
Let's release a book!
December 16, 2014
Nothing good will come of this.
This is an older piece I only just recently stumbled upon. I'm sorry blagh, I've been updating and marketing the book, I've left you asunder and dry. Now you're tossed last years dense attempts at significance.
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"Nothing good will come of this," your brother told you in regards to the short piece of fiction you left in the donation plate of the Methodist church.
They held mass just before their attempt to set a record attendance, which is when they prayed they would. Your overdressed awkward niece scratched at the inside of her knees. The first two pairs of tights always ripped in a package of three. Your fiction, It crossed over a continent of thought. You wrapped it safe in two two dollar bills. You found out an ocean of parishioners heads in a heat wave can be confused for a horizon line. At a funeral you can look over it, and on until mourning.
It had to be one of the top ten over used expressions in your extended family of twenty- three. "Nothing good will come of this."
Living in a land locked state one had to become creative in regards to leaving messages in bottles.
This fiction though, it was good. So good if you left it out in the sun it might come true. This is the danger in fiction, the possibility of it becoming true. Which is why so often books may very well wear jackets, if nothing else then to cover up, to get out of the sun.
You hoped it would reach the hands of the minister, the same hands that washed prayers from the breath of those in need of truth. You left it wrapped dirty in the arms of money, and found out soon enough Thomas Jefferson would became it's publishing agent. The ten point font amounted to triple checking the edits, the chosen origami enlisted five folds leading to the equivalent of your good fictions fetal position.
A message in a bottle, a baby down a river, a manuscript in a mailbox.
Her mascara elongated her eyelashes into scratching her brother’s reading glasses with every blink during her speech. It produced a sound faint enough to lead the family dog to moan. She forgot her white-rimmed glasses at home on purpose as they did not match her designated funeral dress of all black.
At fifteen you first felt like a writer when you let go. You let go in a church pew passing notes like school on Sunday with no class. The better half of you might have missed a comma enough to think to write back. Too old to know, still young enough to hope. You dreamt that night, you dreamt of the ministers collapsing fingers grip. His back arched almost in prayer, and the collection plate money aside. You dreamt of a man’s life spent searching for truth now arrested in your fiction’s lies. You dreamt of your fiction for the first time.
The next morning at the breakfast table your father read the obituary for yesterdays funeral aloud. You listened like your brother with your head down, and thought gravely, much like the rest of your family, of what was truly left behind.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Nothing good will come of this," your brother told you in regards to the short piece of fiction you left in the donation plate of the Methodist church.
They held mass just before their attempt to set a record attendance, which is when they prayed they would. Your overdressed awkward niece scratched at the inside of her knees. The first two pairs of tights always ripped in a package of three. Your fiction, It crossed over a continent of thought. You wrapped it safe in two two dollar bills. You found out an ocean of parishioners heads in a heat wave can be confused for a horizon line. At a funeral you can look over it, and on until mourning.
It had to be one of the top ten over used expressions in your extended family of twenty- three. "Nothing good will come of this."
Living in a land locked state one had to become creative in regards to leaving messages in bottles.
This fiction though, it was good. So good if you left it out in the sun it might come true. This is the danger in fiction, the possibility of it becoming true. Which is why so often books may very well wear jackets, if nothing else then to cover up, to get out of the sun.
You hoped it would reach the hands of the minister, the same hands that washed prayers from the breath of those in need of truth. You left it wrapped dirty in the arms of money, and found out soon enough Thomas Jefferson would became it's publishing agent. The ten point font amounted to triple checking the edits, the chosen origami enlisted five folds leading to the equivalent of your good fictions fetal position.
A message in a bottle, a baby down a river, a manuscript in a mailbox.
Her mascara elongated her eyelashes into scratching her brother’s reading glasses with every blink during her speech. It produced a sound faint enough to lead the family dog to moan. She forgot her white-rimmed glasses at home on purpose as they did not match her designated funeral dress of all black.
At fifteen you first felt like a writer when you let go. You let go in a church pew passing notes like school on Sunday with no class. The better half of you might have missed a comma enough to think to write back. Too old to know, still young enough to hope. You dreamt that night, you dreamt of the ministers collapsing fingers grip. His back arched almost in prayer, and the collection plate money aside. You dreamt of a man’s life spent searching for truth now arrested in your fiction’s lies. You dreamt of your fiction for the first time.
The next morning at the breakfast table your father read the obituary for yesterdays funeral aloud. You listened like your brother with your head down, and thought gravely, much like the rest of your family, of what was truly left behind.
December 6, 2014
Check out this music video I made...
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It is inspired by the short story Flight and Weightless by Sean Taylor
which was published and nominated for the pushcart prize in 2014 by Pantheon Magazine, and featured in the upcoming short story collection titled Your Smallest Bones.
If you wish to share it click here for the Youtube page
It is inspired by the short story Flight and Weightless by Sean Taylor
which was published and nominated for the pushcart prize in 2014 by Pantheon Magazine, and featured in the upcoming short story collection titled Your Smallest Bones.
If you wish to share it click here for the Youtube page
November 29, 2014
This idea copyright Sean Taylor 11/29/2014
Last night I had this idea, it’s one that I almost certainly will not follow through with due to lack of resources, time and the realization that not everyone in this world values what I do.
But it is something I wanted for me.
I was recently introduced to the Mobile App Tinder. I have little to no interest in the app but I was curious about this tool that brought online dating to the mainstream and actually pulled off making it cool.
Last night I had twenty minutes before my bartending shift and I was wishing after all that I did bring my backpack so that I did bring my book so I could read a little something before starting work.
Oh no, I thought, I have a phone, it has the internet, there has got to be some quick website where I can read something worthwhile.
Not really though, not at least that I knew about. I mean I found a couple but there were zero stories that grabbed me.
Then I thought about the addictive nature of Tinder and the selectivity of the user.
What if there was an app that presented short fiction and poetry (you could choose between the two at the main screen) that worked semi like Tinder semi like pandora semi like publisher?
Semi like tinder because you start reading a piece, as soon as you tire of it or just outright dislike it you swipe it into nope. Then you're presented with a new one right off. If you finish reading it which means you enjoyed it you swipe yes.
Semi like pandora because if you swipe nope you are pushed away from that author and/or authors like them. If swiped yes then that piece gets a point (gets pushed further to the front of the line) and if you want you can see other pieces by that author or in general it refines what you like to read.
Semi like publisher because these stories and poems are getting out there, into the hands of the masses. And I bet that publishers would be interested in what authors and what stories/poems were getting yes the most. That information could be sold which could provide money for the app.
I’ve never forgotten an Amy Hemple quote from an interview that went something like, “You owe your reader nothing, every single sentence has to win them, has to keep them, they are liable to stop reading at any moment.”
This app would surely prove that quote, especially in the short attention span of todays phone user.
This app would be perfect for people on the bus, people waiting for a friend, on the toilet, in the DMV, if you want to kill time but you want to do it with your literary brain.
It would be free because the user is helping develop it by sorting through the literature that is uploaded.
There would have to be an adjacent website where writers could make a quick profile and upload their stories. At the end of a month they could go online and see what pieces were swiped yes and which ones nope and how often. They would get tangible results from unbiased people. Which can be quite valuable to a writer.
There seems this disconnect between publishers and readers/writers that Literary Agents are meant to bridge. I sincerely believe good writers fall through the cracks of this system everyday.
Let the people be the agents that bring the solid work to the publishers.
At the end of it all I would have something interesting/worthwhile to read before the beginning of my bar tending shift.
We could call it LitFlip or SwipeLit…
But it is something I wanted for me.
I was recently introduced to the Mobile App Tinder. I have little to no interest in the app but I was curious about this tool that brought online dating to the mainstream and actually pulled off making it cool.
Last night I had twenty minutes before my bartending shift and I was wishing after all that I did bring my backpack so that I did bring my book so I could read a little something before starting work.
Oh no, I thought, I have a phone, it has the internet, there has got to be some quick website where I can read something worthwhile.
Not really though, not at least that I knew about. I mean I found a couple but there were zero stories that grabbed me.
Then I thought about the addictive nature of Tinder and the selectivity of the user.
What if there was an app that presented short fiction and poetry (you could choose between the two at the main screen) that worked semi like Tinder semi like pandora semi like publisher?
Semi like tinder because you start reading a piece, as soon as you tire of it or just outright dislike it you swipe it into nope. Then you're presented with a new one right off. If you finish reading it which means you enjoyed it you swipe yes.
Semi like pandora because if you swipe nope you are pushed away from that author and/or authors like them. If swiped yes then that piece gets a point (gets pushed further to the front of the line) and if you want you can see other pieces by that author or in general it refines what you like to read.
Semi like publisher because these stories and poems are getting out there, into the hands of the masses. And I bet that publishers would be interested in what authors and what stories/poems were getting yes the most. That information could be sold which could provide money for the app.
I’ve never forgotten an Amy Hemple quote from an interview that went something like, “You owe your reader nothing, every single sentence has to win them, has to keep them, they are liable to stop reading at any moment.”
This app would surely prove that quote, especially in the short attention span of todays phone user.
This app would be perfect for people on the bus, people waiting for a friend, on the toilet, in the DMV, if you want to kill time but you want to do it with your literary brain.
It would be free because the user is helping develop it by sorting through the literature that is uploaded.
There would have to be an adjacent website where writers could make a quick profile and upload their stories. At the end of a month they could go online and see what pieces were swiped yes and which ones nope and how often. They would get tangible results from unbiased people. Which can be quite valuable to a writer.
There seems this disconnect between publishers and readers/writers that Literary Agents are meant to bridge. I sincerely believe good writers fall through the cracks of this system everyday.
Let the people be the agents that bring the solid work to the publishers.
At the end of it all I would have something interesting/worthwhile to read before the beginning of my bar tending shift.
We could call it LitFlip or SwipeLit…
