S.E. Reichert's Blog, page 2

The Beautiful Writers Workshop: Hear Me Out

Tomorrow I’m hosting an in person writing event at The Gilded Goat in Fort Collins. If you’re in the area, you can register for it at Writing Heights. It’s free, but it will cost you two hours of your otherwise worrisome Friday night, and give you back a lightness in your heart. For a couple of hours we’ll enjoy playing around with ridiculous prompts, and find a flow, hopefully working on things we couldn’t during the week and all in a supportive and loving space. Even if you can’t join us, I hope that you can try the practice out yourself (write ten of the weirdest sentences you can think of: i.e. “A family’s toilet goes on strike” and follow it with abandon). I hope you can find out something fun, disturbing, and original in your own brain and spark some new projects. You clever writer, I bet they will be fabulous.

This week, in order to give your creative noodle a break, I thought I’d switch more to the editorial aspect of writing. Specifically, the sound of our writing and what it means for our readers.

Whether it’s poetry meant to be read aloud, stumbling through your first chapter at a promotional event, or having your book read by a parent to their child, the flow and sound of your “writing voice” matters and reading it out loud changes a lot about what you can only see on the page.

So, let’s talk about the benefits of using oral…

Okay. Sorry, that was the fifteen-year-old boy part of my brain thinking he’s clever.

Ahem.

Apologies.

This exercise doesn’t take much effort and is an easy way to edit a work in progress that may be in its final stages of completion. Or, if you’re a poet, this is by far the best way to gauge the power and purpose of your work.

Print out a chapter of your novel, a poem, or a short story (I suppose you can use your device or laptop—the girl who loves the feeling of paper between her fingers sighs to the encroaching dominance of technology).

Then read that piece out loud either to yourself or to your unwilling cat.

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If you don’t have an audience, I encourage you to use a mirror.

Read vibrantly, read purposefully, read with intonation and depth. Meet your eyes in that mirror and feel the story, the dialogue; that stanza of hard cutting thought.

You will start to hear your particular voice emerge and you will also find editorial errors that are invisible during the brash sweep of only eyes without the mouth getting involved.

So, get your mouth involved (*snicker* *snort*)

Oh man… come on!

I think I’ll stop there for the week.

Go read your stuff out loud. Make marks on the paper (or device) where you notice inconsistencies, mistakes, or ‘not right’ words.

Change them, adapt them, smooth them out. It’s already good, just make it a little better.

Reincarnate

This week, an incredible poet, humanitarian, human being, and open hearted warrior, was called away. I have long held that some stardust burns too brightly, and the universe becomes jealous…takes it too soon. Perhaps we do not deserve them. We have not become enough of love. We are still too full of hate. We have not learned enough yet, to have deserved them.

Andrea Gibson was an inspiration for kindness. For loving one another, in a world that did not always love them. I hope they are at peace. I will think of them, in quiet mornings. In bird songs. When I sit next to someone touting beliefs meant to divide… I will keep writing poems. I will light up the dark, and do it all, over and over again.

Reincarnate

the patter of rain,

softness of baby cheek,

and the feeling

that we’ve done it all before

cyclical sway of life,

birth to death,

and over again.

rain to ground,

grass rising,

breathing out,

clouds to earth

how quickly we forget our place

soul to body,

body to soul,

and over and over again

recycled lives going

round and round

until we get it right

until we find the answer

punch the ticket

off this spinning ride

i hope i get to love first

i hope i get to love last

i hope i get to love

to love

to love

until all my particles are spent

so it goes

On Getting Un-Stuck

Argh… I have to tell you, there’s nothing more frustrating than staring at that blinking cursor with no words to keep it moving. I know I’ve long been a denier of the “writer’s block” theory. That we are only blocked when we stop moving and that every word out is a word that counts. But I’ve never felt this severe shortage of words before.

I’m a voracious writer when I get in my zone. To be clear, they aren’t the best chunks of writing every time and there’s often a lot of editing that needs to follow. But when it comes to the count, I’m kind of a rock star. Until this book. This final in a series of three. This book with a deadline. This book that should be no problem to write, because it has four of my favorite characters, and a fun premise, and all the adventure and romance available to it. This book that has stalled out on the sandy streets of 1920’s Cairo and I can’t seem to get it started again. It’s like I ran my character’s path straight into the side of a pyramid and there’s no where else to go.

So what does a writer do? When they’re boxed in? When they’ have 30,000 more words to get write in the span of a month? And the story is finished?

Well, we pivot. The book must go on. The story is not over, it’s threads are just hidden away. I’ve lost the path, perhaps even took an unintended side street that was not meant to be their final course. So, I’m struggling this week with some of my tried and true practices for ending the block and finding my way back into the flow. Normally, it would include taking a break and a step back to write something else, but I’ve been doing that. My brain has had plenty of breaks…I’m not gentle parenting her anymore. It’s time for tough love. Behold the bullet list.

I will write my major characters into a different scene, in a different place/time and see what happensI will write three different endings to the story and work my way backwards from my favorite.I will work my way backwards from my least favorite.I will go back through and re-read the first three chapters, writing 1000 words as a continuation from those initial, more inspired thoughts. I will look back through my synopsis of the series, see what was promised, and find two scenes to complete (out of order)I will write at least three heated and NSFW scenes between characters that may or may not make it into the book to reestablish their passion and their dynamic so I can re inject some of that into the story-line that’s grown cold.I will write my publisher, admit to my struggles, and ask for a respectable extension. Then I will give myself reasonable word count goals to get to that date, with room to spare for editing.

Okay, well, now that my plan is public I have no other choice to follow it. Sometimes the accountability of admitting to our failings and planning out what we intend to do, helps to keep the urge alive. Thanks for being my sponsors. Happy writing this week. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Poetry 7-3-25

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.

Remember Your Lines

What does depression feel like?

Like I want to sleep forever

but every time I fall into that

blissful unconsciousness,

I hope I never come back out

that it’s just a peaceful send off

So long…have a good flight

Don’t call when you get there.

Because…that would be weird

And freak everyone out…

It feels like…

I can’t feel

sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope

I’m a slab of granite,

wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone

stuck in quicksand and sinking

and I don’t care if I go under

in fact, I welcome it and hope

it suffocates me

with calm commands,

breathe in…breath out…and hold

like an MRI of your final moment

but it never tells you

to breath in again

Depression feels like

I have no energy in my synapses

and even if I did, nothing I could do with it

would be worth anything to anyone

least of all myself

Depression is a gray, weighted blanket

only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load

that life gives you to carry

and you just can’t find a good enough reason

to carry it anymore;

but you can’t find your way out

from underneath it either

Depression is seeing through eyes

that are a movie screen

to an audience that lost its will to care

lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize

Art

or love

or fleeting time

or beauty

Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,

fake platitudes

in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me

I’m fine!

You’re fine,

you’re fine, baby girl

you’re fine…

I love you

it’ll be okay

It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin

so that I don’t forget these

lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,

back to the world that asks

Are you?

Okay?

I look down to the scars I once cut

but can’t cut again; they’ll see

Children learn from watching

so I don’t show,

I tell…

I tell lines

I tell them the lines I need to tell

I tell them,

Though the world is burning around us

and women will never be safe

and human lives don’t matter

cattle for the breeding grounds or

simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism

Stop!

don’t say that…

don’t project the hopeless…

Read the line

Read the provided line

not the truthful line

of scars….

It’ll be okay

I’m

Okay

You’ll be…

… will you be?

Okay?

Depression is lying to loved ones

so you never have to worry that you’ll be

their downward spiral,

the same scythe of your mother’s loss

that cut you down

Cause we’re all Ok

we just need to…

I just need to

Remember my lines

Poetry 6-27-25

I am a day late. Well a day for me. For you it’s 11pm but I’m just getting in from a morning run in Stockholm and realized I didn’t set up my blogs for while I was away. I don’t have much, as my trip has a rather demanding schedule and I’m trying to soak in these last few moments with my baby before she flys the nest. So here’s a poem. Next week I will try to do a little better.

Anticipation

Was there ever such sweet anticipation
as a cherry in June?
Held, eager between teeth
where cold water droplets
tease the tongue
before the crisp breaking
of delicate skin
the flush of sun-warmed tartness
carrying along the sugary bite
but tender must teeth sink
to gently toy with the unyeilding stone
sucking it free of bright red pulp
til pristine pebble
is all that's left

Living in Abundance

I love this word. Abundance. Say it to yourself. Abundance. It feels full and heavy, it feels like satiation and potential. I love when my yoga teacher tells me to widen my stance, when bending forward to make space for my Abundance. It feels like a loving way to approach what we have, and to be content in our space.

As a creative, abundance is not something we may consider. In fact, if there’s anything a writer is good at, it’s practicing the fear of Abundances counter point; scarcity. Scarcity says that there won’t be a next idea. There won’t be a next poem or painting or song. Scarcity says you better hang on to this project and keep working on it, because it’s the only one you have. Scarcity will tell you lies of the well inside you, drying up. That once you expend so many words, there will be no more. Once you complete this idea, that will be the end of your road and maybe your career. So hang on, greedily to that idea, to that brilliant book proposal, that one perfect poem. It could be stolen or critiqued apart, or lost. Best to hold it close to you, where it maintains a certain pristine quality. Your precious.

The funny thing about scarcity, and abundance, is that they are both self- fulfilling states of being. When we hold on to one idea, one book, one poem…our hands are useless to catch more, to reach for more, to hold more. I know, its scary. To think that this might be your last, great idea. To let it go, either out into the world, or back into the drawer for a later date. It might feel (especially when you have been working on the same novel or project for years) that this is it. All you will ever be. All you will ever write. The great American novel, never to be surpassed. Perhaps you worry you’ll never write anything as good again ( I feel that, acutely friends) But I’m here to tell you from experience, that its a good time to look at it from a different perspective.

You see, your creativity and your potential to make more art, pursue different stories, write more…it’s endless. It is a bottomless well of energy. And even after we’re gone, the things that we put into the world spark more ideas, and more stories, so really…think of your writing and creativity as a river, not a stagnant pool. When you dam it up, from fear, from worry (I’ll never write another poem this good, my novel isn’t ‘ready’) stagnation will occur. It is the only idea (ie water) in your pond. Letting it go, releasing that barrier, putting it out, submitting it, allows the water to flow freely again.

Creativity, in this way, is abundant. It is a river that we dip our hands into and grasp the ideas that come our way, play with them, run with them, drink them in (don’t drink river water, please, giardia–Beaver Fever–is real) and then when its time, let them go down stream and sit along the banks for the next one to come along. And it will come.

How do we let go? We let others see it, we make the best changes we can and throw it out into the world. Be conscious that once you let it go, its a bird flown from the nest. It might come back to visit, but you are no longer it’s home, it belongs to the world now and you have a big beautiful space (time and mental playground) for the next hatchling.

I’ve used so many metaphors in this thing, I think I got lost myself. Rivers, birds, abundance. Always abundance. You have it. You have room for all the beautiful things in your brain and those that haven’t been found yet. So let go of the fear that you’ll dry up. Loosen your hands around your one great idea so you can embrace the potential of you.

Happy and Safe Pride

In honor of Pride Month and celebrating all of the amazing human beings, in their struggled to be themselves, live fully, and be safe from violence and oppression, I’m doing all I can to support LGBTQ+ writers and poets. Listed below are a group of wonderful authors and their work that you should check out. If you can buy from them directly do, and leave positive reviews if you have some to give. Each one is an opportunity to learn, to grow, to understand and to find connection. Not just this month, but every month. Enjoy and be the loving force for change you want to see in the world.

One Day I Will Write About This Place: A Memoir by Binyavanga WainainaAs Beautiful as Any Other: A Memoir of My Body by Kaya WilsonOne Day I Will Write About This Place: A Memoir by Binyavanga WainainaAs Beautiful as Any Other: A Memoir of My Body by Kaya WilsonLa Bâtarde by Violette Leduc, translated by Derek ColtmanThe Truth About Me: a Hijra Life Story by A. Revathi, translated by V GeethaThe Sex Lives of African Women: Self-Discovery, Freedom, and Healing by Nana Darkoa SekyiamahThe Pink Line: Journeys Across the World’s Queer Frontiers by Mark GevisserModern Nature by Derek JarmanMy Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi, translated by Jocelyne AllenPeople Change by Vivek ShrayaAsylum: A Memoir & Manifesto by Edafe OkporoWelcome to St. Hell: My Trans Teen Misadventure by Lewis HancoxWe Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir by Samra HabibDear Senthuran: A Black Spirit Memoir by Akwaeke EmeziThe Other Side of Paradise by Staceyann ChinRed Azalea by Anchee MinMe Hijra, Me Laxmi by Laxminarayan Tripathi, translated by PG Joshi and R. Raj RaoThey Called Me Queer compiled by Kim Windvogel and Kelly-Eve KoopmanUnicorn: The Memoir of a Muslim Drag Queen by Amrou Al-KadhiAngry Queer Somali Boy: A Complicated Memoir by Mohamed Abdulkarim AliThérèse and Isabelle by Violette Leduc, translated by Sophie Lewis (1966)Maurice by EM Forster (1971)Orlando: A Biography by Virginia Woolf (1928)America is Not the Heart by Elaine CastilloHotel World by Ali SmithLess by Sean Andrew GreerThe Price of Salt aka Carol by Patricia HighsmithValencia by Michelle TeaUnder the Udala Trees by Chinelo OkparantaPaper is White by Hilary ZaidStone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg.Orlando by Virginia WoolfGiovanni’s Room by James BaldwinSodom Road Exit by Amber DawnAngels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes by Tony KushnerFried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie FlaggThe Book of Salt by Monique TruongTea by Stacey D’ErasmoTipping the Velvet by Sarah WatersAlice Isn’t Dead by Joseph FinkOranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette WintersonMarriage of A Thousand Lies by SJ SinduNightwood by Djuna BarnesTales of the City by Armistead MaupinClose to Spider Man by Ivan E. CoyoteJack Holmes and His Friend by Edmund WhiteA Single Man by Christopher IsherwoodFruit by Brian FrancisSalt Fish Girl by Larissa LaiMorrow Island by Alexis M. SmithPages for You by Sylvia BrownriggConfucius Jane by Katie LynchLittle Fish by Casey PlettSuch a Lonely, Lovely Road by Kagiso Lesego MolopeShe of the Mountains by Vivek ShrayaFor Today I Am A Boy by Kim FuThe Color Purple by Alice WalkerRubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae BrownDisoriental by Négar DjavadiSpeak No Evil by Uzodinma IwealaThe Life and Death of Sophie Stark by Anna NorthNever Anyone But You by Rupert ThomsonHood by Emma DonoghueBlue Boy By Rakesh SatyalMy Education by Susan ChoiHere Comes The Sun by Nicole Dennis-BennAristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire SáenzWe Are Okay by Nina LaCourSummer of Salt by Katrina Leno48 Shades Of Brown by Nick EarlsCall Me by Your Name by André Aciman (2007)The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak by Grace LauButcher by Natasha T. MillerWater I Won’t Touch by Kayleb Rae CandrilliThe Renunciations by Donika KellyBestiary by Donika KellyPaul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea LawlorYou Better Be Lightning by Andrea GibsonLord of the Butterflies by Andrea GibsonBlack Girl, Call Home by Jasmine MansBlack Queer Hoe by Britteney Black Rose KapriIf They Come for Us by Fatimah AsgharNothing is Okay by Rachel WileyCenzontle by Marcelo Hernández CastilloThe Tradition by Jericho BrownSoft Science by Franny ChoiBodymap by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-SamarasinhaNight Sky With Exit Wounds by Ocean VuongWhen the Chant Comes by Kay Ulanday BarrettMore Than Organs by Kay Ulanday BarrettDon’t Call Us Dead by Danez SmithThings You Left Behind by Keondra Bills FreemynFemme in Public by Alok Vaid-MenonWild Embers by Nikita GillChelsea Girls by Eileen Myles (1994)

BOOKS: POETRY

Honoring Your Quirk

Hello writers. How are you fairing in this strange, unhinged, cacophony of terror? Despite the political, cultural, and technological mess that we’re in, I hope that you’re shutting out distractions for at least a couple of hours a day to find some peace, and your own voice again.

Today, I wanted to talk about writing style. Not so much our voices as writers (though I’ll be covering that in a later post) but the way at which we approach the art, and the process of engaging in it. I’m in a busy season after signing on with my publishing company for another three-book series. It wouldn’t be so bad, but this is the first time I’ve proposed a series that was not yet complete. Which means, I now have a very real, somewhat daunting deadline of trying to write a novel (and polish it as well as I can) by the end of August. The first two books are done (mostly) so they will both be in editing by the end of this week. But the last book…

Let me start by explaining my process. I’ve written three trilogies. Two have been published, one is complete but won’t come out until 2026-2027. This newest one (my 4th) began with a Vella novel on Amazon (remember that flash in the pan?) and grew to a two book project that includes my first male-male romance as the second book. Both are fun, time-traveling fantasy romances, set in one of my favorite eras. All very exciting, and I had no trouble at all banging through the first drafts of them. Because I wrote them, as I always do, by puttering through whatever scene I was in the mood for at the time. Then I hodgepodged them together, as I always do, and fill in the gaps where needed.

Now that you have a little insight to my style (non-chronological, emotionally driven panster) I must tell you what a struggle this last, unwritten novel in the series is becoming. Because I had to write a proposal, I outlined it for my publisher. I never outline anything. I let the characters lead along a generalized path where there are key scenes I know I want to include. I had no key scenes starting out. I just knew a general path. It was all going along pretty well, for the first 20,000 words. And now…I’m stuck. I’ve pretty much written along the lines of my outline and I think the book won’t even make the 60,000 mark. In addition to that, when I’ve gone back to read, it all feels very flat. Like a Marvel movie. Like a dime-a-dozen romance. There’s no quirk. There’s no character depth. Even though it contains the same characters that I loved and developed for two books. So…what’s the deal?

Last night, after being stuck all week at that 20,000 word mark, I just let myself write a scene between the protagonist and the antagonist, a pivotal scene concerning the loss of someone very important. The concept was not in my outline. The scene was not planned, but just something my brain had been toying with in the shower after edits to the first novel started kicking in. I knew before starting this new scene, that it probably wouldn’t end up in the final version. It was just play.

But then…Suddenly there was passion. I saw true character coming out from underneath the gray and basic facade. I wrote over two thousand words in a matter of 20 minutes. That’s the kind of writing I’m used to. That’s my sweet spot. That’s my quirk. And I realized then, that for the last month I’ve been trying to write like other authors I know on deadlines. Straight through and stick to your outline. Keep it clean, time’s too limited to be able to waste it on multiple rounds of editing. The trouble is, there won’t be a book by the end of that limited time to edit, if I don’t write like my brain likes to write. I am not like any other writer. I’m quirky and I need to respect that.

So, that’s my lesson for you today. Yes, it’s important to try new methods and fart around with writing in different ways as a means to experiment and freshen up your routine, but I encourage you to find your quirk and respect it. What works for you, works. And when you’re on a deadline, do what works.

Happy writing. Now back to the grindstone.

Poetry 5-22-25

I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking.

Sweater

I put your memory on
like an old sweater
in all the little winters
of my despair

Here the arms pull through
to hide the stinging cuts
Here, ribbed neck fraying
to protect from the noose of loss

Here the cabled warmth
falling over my eviscerated belly
Here your memory tucks my vital pieces
back together, safe and warm

The woolen comfort of words
I will never hear again
from nights you probably don't remember
a softness in the dark, held briefly

I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder
but you are my favorite sweater
the one I cannot sleep without
the only thing that offers relief

Purpose and hope exist
in the scratchy bulk
of a garment I once borrowed
but was never mine to wear

I put your memory on
like my favorite sweater
in all these winters
of self-imposed despair.

Retreats, Writers, and the Greater Sum

I’m at the last day of Writing Heights yearly Spring Workshop and Retreat. It’s been a wonderful two days filled with classes, writing time, collaborations, critiques, and conversation. Normally, I don’t do much talking or reaching outside of my happy little home-body shell, so these types of events are rare and sometimes anxiety fueled.

But when you agree to take leadership of something, you don’t really have the option to sit back and let someone more extroverted take over. I believe that living a decent life has more to do with stepping outside of your comfort than constantly seeking it. And the beauty of it is that the uncomfortable and large becomes like a warm sweater and an intimate evening. I’ve been to a lot of conferences and retreats, but somehow its this group that always feels like coming back home.

If this retreat has taught me anything, its that there are so many beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful and worthy voices in this world that need to be heard. It has taught me that art is not dead, that hope is not lost, and that we are all standing on the edge of something extraordinary. To know we are not alone in the struggle, to know that someone is rooting for us to continue on, and that words still matter maybe even more than ever is enough to lift any downtrodden heart out of the mud. Separate, we are all each a powerful story waiting to be told. Together we are an ocean of love, a battlefield of strength, a universe of humanity, and the unshakeable faith that something greater will be found in the connection to this beautiful tapestry of human consciousness.

My advice to you is this. Live your life with a sense of urgency (not anxiety) and purpose. Live as if you knew you didn’t have forever to waste. Do the thing. Today. Write the words, finish the poem, read it out loud. The love of writing, of learning, and seeing new perspectives is a rising tide against ignorance and hate. The world needs you now. We must not falter.

Thank you to my amazing writers (yes I’ve claimed you as mine, like a momma duck keeps all her littles safely close) to the teachers who helped me by offering their knowledge and expertise, their warm hearts and belly laughs. I hope if you’re a writer, reading this, then you find a way to meet us in the mountains next time. Bring your heart and all your words.

Next retreat is October 16-19th in Winter Park, CO. Find out more HERE