The premise here is simple. Below you will find an assortment of Literature features from a selection of female deviants here on DeviantART, all of them suggested by you. In this article, you will also find a variety of other things of interest, including:
This article’s deviant spotlight: featuring the talented ~anapests-and-ink. She has offered to answer a few questions as well, to tell us a bit about what inspires her writing and which piece in particular she favors.
Additional information about our upcoming events, including a special critique Q and A session in our official TheLadiesofLit chatroom. And we also have a selection of other interesting Literature news links to share with you.
Our “meet our contributors” section. Be sure to note me if you would like to volunteer your services or offer additional suggestions as to how to improve this series.
We also have a new series format for this news article, due to DeviantART website changes. Deviants are still able to this journal, so please take a moment to do so, to continue to show your support for our devious writers.
Now – On With the Features!
love is coming home--i don't write about God.
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's
let me believe october--october, you roll in on warm summer breezes and leaves with tips painted brilliant gold. you sweep in on pumpkin-spice promises and dreams of perfect under warm evening rain and tuesdays made of afternoon gold from sunrise to sunset, dreams so breathtaking they steal every tear right off your lashes.
october, you're made of memories colored bittersweet by old time. you paint heartbreak right next to hope on the tattered canvas of my heart and whisper words that will pass the same lips only when i close my eyes and listen to your sickeningly soft winds that taunt with a smile.
october, you are the magic thirteenth month hidden between the i and e in believe. you lace the air with stardust and pull fairies from the abandoned chest of wishes hiding in the dustiest, lonliest corners of my mind and set them free in midnight blue skies of childish longing, where they can't be caught even by the brightest butterfly nets.
october, you turn rain into something magica
saltwater toes and breakups--i.
it took so much courage to write those words down for you,
like pulling ink from the very fabric of my soul
drop by drop
and painting it meticulously across the pristine white pages
for you to read,
for your heart to splinter and crack.
it took so much courage to give you everything i had
in seventy six lines and who knows how many words
and it took so much strength
to close my eyes and hand it to you with quivering fingers,
my heart and throat and stomach playing jigsaw pieces in all the wrong places,
to write out every feeling i couldn't even speak coherently
in two sentences or in twenty.
for hours of doubt and chewed fingernails and useless wishes,
it took you four and a half minutes to break my heart.
i don't like to dirty my tongue with your name
and i don't want to hold the anger in my heart that screams out
as i try not to listen.
you always ignored me when i tried to describe my most beautiful dreams to you
so here they are again,
every golden-spun spide
Suggested by: `SilverInkblot
“~straybutterflies writes some of the most beautiful prose-poetry I've ever come across on dA. Her imagery is magical and often heartwarming.”
tequilatequila, I had forgotten your
slow burn, silver tumble over tongue,
how you smolder a body from the inside.
Your guileless glissade down to the feet,
a liquored gypsy waltz, I sipped you straight,
Jalisco bottled under agave bloom.
tequila, you stole my breath in a
bar-room haze, falling fast into rhythm
and I couldn't keep up the pace, tequila,
you are just a lash of memories
I cannot quite remember,
soused with an emptiness I'd rather forget.
The trap has sprung.
We are in free-fall,
wordless between open hands.
I am caged by silence.
To not speak now
is to never speak again.
Our voices swell and falter.
Halfway to the bottom, we admit
there is a problem.
My body bends like the
spine of a book. Too much more
and I will crack.
You say there is still
time. We look to the light;
see only eclipse.
Suggested by: *beeinthebottle
“*scatteredwords writes in extraordinary images. Her poetry is both beautifully crafted and emotionally honest.”
You'll never know, dear."Rachel! I'm awful glad you're here." Mag quickly ushered her in. "I swear it's gettin' darker and darker out there."
Rachel shook her head, her hair thick with sweat and flattened with humidity. Mag's old Southern Gothic house was dark, candles lit in only a few rooms. "Dark as it ever is." She said.
"Right, right." Mag shut and locked the door. "I swear, lookin' up at the sky all black these days makes me as nervous in as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs." The windows at the end of the hall were boarded up. The room was thick with stuffy, humid air. A slight aroma was on the air. Rachel's empty stomach growled.
"There ain't been sun in these parts for years, you know that," Rachel said, stamping the mud off of her boots.
"Ain't been no sun ever," said a voice from the parlor. Rachel peered around the doorframe and saw Mag's big girl, Abigail, sitting on the once-plush couch, mending a worn dress shirt by the light of a burnt-down candle. Abigail was a few years older than Rache
BreadcrumbsOut of the forest
we were so hungry.
But inside, the growling
started in the pit
where we raise our butterflies.
Crumbs on the ground,
well I ate them up,
and still the ache
that grows in a foreign
she hated to carry us
when we cried
and houses where the walls
were pure sugar
because the witch stayed inside,
and never showed us her true face.
UndertakenI should have looked for snakes
when I went hunting for the dragon
And when they dragged me through the streets
I saw Saint Agnes holding her branch
I was not under it, but saw her eyes,
tears lingering, then
nothing but pools
deep in the earth
the roar of the earth swelling in my ears
blinking at the creatures,
Father Time's chest rose and fell,
and I into that hole,
deep in the ground,
where rabbits dwell,
at least until spring.
Suggested by: ~SadisticIceCream
“~KarlyNoelleAbreu has a talent for touching on the eerie and uncanny without making her writing gimmicky. Both her poetry and her prose are worth a look.”
Reflections of Self-LoathingI took apart my reflection and left the empty pieces in the bathroom sink, maybe a clensing is what I need.
Two weeks on, there is no more blood to wash away the fear and agony and the mirror I mean to break, remains untouched on the bathroom wall, perhaps as a reminder that I am still here, where else would I have been.
I know that not all of what I see is real but I think enough of it is to worry me senseless.
That is what I am afterall, senseless.
My senses are in the bathroom sink, waitng to be washed away.
Just like me.
ArcanaOur tower burned.
When it was coupled with the sun,
we exchanged broken hearts
and said our goodbyes.
Ten swords later
and my memories of you are
rain and snow and leaves,
I will tell the children not to be afraid
of the devil and death,
change is good.
The near future holds two cups.
I say I love you but we have a problem,
we never held the world
in either of our hands.
Painting ThunderstormsI will remember you in flowers, dead and never given.
We are broken promises and shattered glass.
In your traitorous arms,
I wish I'd never closed my eyes,
You are like all good headaches
in that, you will fade away,
In painkillers and flowers on a grave.
Suggested by: `jade-pandora
“*Shannon-Sweeney is a talented writer from Ireland. Perusing her gallery, I was able to appreciate how her writing style and expression has evolved, getting a sense of her direction. She has such potential even she may be unaware of it, but I've always had a soft spot for Irish artists; the music, and the writing.”
Sonnet XVII: The TreeA tree grows in our courtyard; let it bloom--
Let branches reach to curl around the sun
And cast their sooty boughs in shadowed gloom
Across the cobblestones. Let light still come
To blush a little, warm the cracking bark
'Neath draping leaves, trailed veils across the sky;
Let moonlight still imbue the waking dark
With dimming flame--until the morn arrives.
Then sun glows o'er our courtyard; yet it fades
As greenery embowers all the light
Entrapping rays within its quiet shade
'Till day and dawn become another night
And we can rest upon the stones below
And watch the tree, with all its darkness, grow.
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.
I did not save her from the sea.The pond was small, the cattails fair;
The algae drew a shining veil
Across the waters waiting there
For her to come while wandering
And stare beyond the dreary pale
Expanse of fog and starry glare
Upon the pond within the dale
Where she had ventured, pondering
The many dreams she'd had of late
Of sandy-shores and broken shells
Upon a beach along a strait
And of the ocean shimmering
She heard the wave's cathedral bells
Come crashing with a dreadful weight
'Till she, afraid of violent swells,
Could no more see the glimmering
Of pearly foam, nor shining seas
But only turbid tempest-doom;
No more the fragrant, salt-laced breeze
That over all was mingling.
Such were her dreamsnow through the gloom
She still heard gulls with throatful ease
Sing of the ocean, and the tune
Around her thoughts kept lingering.
I met her then, when stormy waves
Were breaking on her weary mind
And I was unafraid and brave
And as a child foolishly
Believed that if we left behind
The little pondth
Suggested by: =LadyofGaerdon
“~williamszm is an absolute master of traditional poetry forms. Her verse reads like that of the great poets of old, yet her style is fresh, never stilted, and always relevant. If writers like her are the modern face of fixed form poetry, them its fate is promising indeed.”
My Spotlight Deviant:
7am on a Roof in SeoulWe watched the sunrise turn
Namsan Towers pink-purple-orange.
The sour-warm smell
of pickling kimchi mingled
with our coffee. Carmine dragonflies
floated on the low rumble
of early traffic and the softly
strident notes of Für Elise
played on the piano, across the street.
Morning LightLove, I dreamt about Wyoming again. It was cold this time. We walked barefoot over a frozen field, frostbitten straw scratching the soles of our feet. The horizon was vast and never-ending and I missed you, even though you were holding my hand, even though our steps fell in sync and our breaths matched, twin plumes in the crisp air.
Do you know what that is, you asked. That's condensation. And we laughed, because I thought you'd said 'condescension' and wasn't that a more fitting word anyways?
Your lips were pale and blue and oh, so lucid.
Your laugh crinkled like the straw under our feet and because it was a dream, and dreams are never fair, my hands were empty again, my steps echoing alone, my breath a solemn cloud caught on a clear day.
I still miss you.
She has a flawless way of writing through honesty and beauty, and every single piece continues to take my breath away. Her writing never fails to prove to me again and again that the elegant journey is worth taking. (This amazing deviant was also suggested by *SCFrankles.)
She has also taken a few moments to share some of her own insights as a writer. I asked her a few questions:
Why do you write?
You have to start with the tough ones, don’t you? It’s really hard to say. Sometimes it’s because no one else has written the story I want to read. A lot on the time it’s because there’s this image stuck in my head and it’ll just keep gnawing at me until I can get it out. It’s kind of an impulse. I don’t think I could stop if I tried.
If you had one writing dream you could live out, what would it be and why?
I would always write at my highest standards. In October, I would have also said that I want to be able to write novel-length works, but I actually completed NaNoWriMo! What I wrote definitely doesn’t match up with my first wish, but it has to count for something, right?
I also have this fantasy where I write a novel that becomes such a big hit that I can live off of writing whatever I want from then on. I’m pretty sure most writers share that one.
Whenever you feel inspired to write, what are the first few things that come into your mind as you are writing?
There are two parts: the image or experience or whatever that suddenly makes me need to write and the opening line. They tend to come very far apart, though. So I guess it would depend on which half of the process you’re talking about.
What motivates you to share your writing on DeviantART?
Getting critique! There are so many talented writers here; I love getting their feedback. Whether it’s hearing what worked or what really didn’t, I try to build on it all. My writing has improved immeasurably since I started posting on DeviantART.
Which piece featured is your favorite and why?
Trip is the piece I have been working on the longest. I’ve grown very attached to the characters. I’ve also gotten some of my best critique on it!
~anapests-and-ink will also be joining us in the our TheLadiesofLit chatroom for a special critiquing session for her wonderful literary work. If there are any critiquing tips you would like to offer her toward any deviations that you have seen featured here today or others that interest you – this is the place to be on December 9th at 7pm EST! (What time is this for me?) And as an extra incentive: for those of who offer ~anapests-and-ink the best critiques, there will be a few extra goodies in store for you, so don’t miss out!
Meet Our Contributors:
I want to express my gratitude toward everyone for all of the ongoing support of this project. I duly hope to see even more suggestions in the future. Also – those of you who did not see your deviations selected and posted in this article, they may be featured on the next one. We will have plenty of upcoming deviants to spotlight in the future. If you would like to be one of those, or to suggest others, feel free to note me and be sure to tell me what you love most about them and why these writers appeals to you. Do not be shy – get involved! The more suggestions I receive, the more writers that get featured. For now, check out our volunteers who sent in their features and offered assistance, and don’t forget to thank them!
If this article interests you, be sure to check these out!
`LadyLincoln’s previous issues of The Ladies of Lit. I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII,IX,X,XI, XII, XIII, XIV,XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV and XXVI
`LadyLincoln’s 30 Writers You Should Discover: Volume XII
The Literature Community Volunteer’s November Literature DD’s
=DailyLitDeviations’ Daily Lit Deviations for December 6th
~wyldhoney’s Writers with a Promise: #15
=Sammur-amat’s Sundae Treat: Sunday Feature
*Mrs-Freestar-Bul’s A Heart of a Poet