First Night, of course.  $10.


What’s up with me?  Writing Moby-Dick poems.  Keeping these old bones warm.  Looking wistfully out the window for some real snow.  Creating sentence fragments.  Trying to fix my memoir image, as it keeps showing up backwards.  Eep.

Dropping the Mask (Hidden Charm Press, 2014)

Dropping the Mask Coming from Hidden Charm Press Artwork: copyright 2012 Patricia Wallace Jones

Artwork: Copyright 2012 Patricia Wallace Jones




November, 2014

My memoir is finished!  It took 14 years (1996-2010) to write a five-book, three-genre autobiography.  In the past 4 years, I’ve published 4/5.  So I won’t have the entire series published by the end of my 50th year (2014), but I’m feeling more elated about what’s done than that which has yet to be accomplished.

Three days into National Novel Writing Month, I’ve written a few pages of novella and six Moby-Dick poems.  After being sick for most of October, I feel a need to catch up a bit; fortunately my mind is cooperating.  Anyhow, here’s the Amazon link.  Click on the Copyright link to read the “Intro.” rather than “First Pages” (which aren’t helpful in representing the book taken out of context.  The book is about my life’s work, more  of a social commentary than one of those “please hug my inner child” memoirs :-)


August 2014

Writing fiction today by hand.  Not typing much of it though.  Finally found a neuropathy medicine that works, but it makes me foggy til about 3-5pm.  Then I get a big burst of pain-free energy and toss in a load of laundry while making dinner and maybe writing or typing.  Then I start winding down again.  I’m like a dusk-time vampire  :-)

July 22: Hot!

What can I say?  It’s July and my brain is melting; that’s why I forgot July’s Diary post.  I’m supposed to be writing  fiction, but I got stuck messing around with page numbers on my memoir.  Finally have most of the boring and really hard techno/formatting stuff figured out.  Now I just have to read it…yet again.  It’s a curious feeling.  Seeing the hard proof and skimming through while formatting made me really happy.  I think it’s a good book.  I’m really proud of it.  But, by all that’s holy, I do NOT want to read my own freakin’ memoir again.  I really, really don’t. – But I will at some point.  I swear it will be out this Autumn.

Otherwise, I’m working on 3 Tell-Tale Chapbooks multiple-author books and journals.  And my back and legs are better in summer, so at least I can get some walking in when it isn’t too hot.  Plenty to keep me busy til Christmas.  Be back in August to post updated covers.

June 2014: In Praise of Ink

I’ve been neglecting my blog again, but I have a good reason.  This entry was inspired by something my friend posted on FB.

This is especially apropos for me right now, awake since 4am with day two of yet another migraine hangover after I was wiped out from shortly after 2 on Sunday til sometime Monday morning.   I read a little instead of finishing my really good book.    And I couldn’t bear to look at the computer screen.

By Monday I had ideas churning in my writing-mode-now brain, but I still couldn’t type because of numb fingers and excruciating pain from not exercising for three days (having deliberately goofed off Saturday, unaware I’d be slammed for two days after and wishing I could get moving). Anyhow, I’m an old-fashioned pen and paper writer, scrawling out most first drafts of prose as well as still most of my poetry despite online prompts, etc.  Having just finished typing the book I wrote by hand last summer, I’ve been trying to kick the write-by-hand habit on my next novella “Ramshackled.”

I’m behind in “production” as a publishing artist because of the transcription from journal to Word doc.  But I managed to write three pages of novella yesterday – didn’t even remember having done so.  The link between my subconscious (a pure artistic impulse, if you will) and a pen in my hand from which uncensored ideas can flow is a deep and long-developed bond that I believe makes me a better (as in less-edited more natural) writer. So I will continue to jot down notes when they pop into my mind, knowing I can pick up on the ideas at another time, but when my hand reaches into the dark out of instinct, the way one reaches for her sleeping lover because his heartbeat suddenly speaks to her, no way I’m going to try to discourage it from “wasting time.”  I’d rather sacrifice time than creativity.